Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted

him. One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in.


“Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.


“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”


“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down

the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to

have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.”


“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.”


It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a

telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.


“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”


“I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was charged with

being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”


“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”


“So I heard. You have him here?”


“In the cells.”


“Is he quiet?”


“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.”


“Dirty?”


“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as

black as a tinker’s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he will

have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with

me that he needed it.”


“I should like to see him very much.”


“Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your

bag.”


“No, I think that I’ll take it.”


“Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a

passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a

whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.


“The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it

is!” He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and

glanced through.


“He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.”


We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us,

in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man,