“No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid will

bring up your coffee.”


As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye

over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart.


“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”


“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How

was it done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.


“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near

Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account:


“‘Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of

the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash

in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in

spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a

rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the

body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose

name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John

Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may

have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that

in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the

edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body

exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased

had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of

calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside

landing-stages.’”


We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken than I had

ever seen him.


“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a

petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter

with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang.