The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in

possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the

shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”


“Which surely he restored to their owner?”


“My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs.

Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to the

bird’s left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H.

B.’ are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some

thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it

is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them.”


“What, then, did Peterson do?”


“He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing

that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained

until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost,

it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder

has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while

I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas

dinner.”


“Did he not advertise?”


“No.”


“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”


“Only as much as we can deduce.”


“From his hat?”


“Precisely.”


“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered

felt?”


“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to

the individuality of the man who has worn this article?”


I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It

was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse

for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured.

There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials

“H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for