“I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,” said

Holmes. “Have you an order to see him in prison?”


“Yes, but only for you and me.”


“Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still

time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?”


“Ample.”


“Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I

shall only be away a couple of hours.”


I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets

of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa

and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the

story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we

were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the action to

the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely

to a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young

man’s story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what

absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between

the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by his

screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and deadly. What

could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my

medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper,

which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon’s

deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and

the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a

blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have

been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as

when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go

for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow