fell. Still, it might be worth while to call Holmes’ attention to it.

Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It

could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become

delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his

fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find some possible

explanation. And then the incident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If

that were true the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress,

presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to

return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his

back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and

improbabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade’s

opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes’ insight that I

could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his

conviction of young McCarthy’s innocence.


It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for Lestrade

was staying in lodgings in the town.


“The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as he sat down.

“It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go

over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and

keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by

a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy.”


“And what did you learn from him?”


“Nothing.”


“Could he throw no light?”


“None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had

done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is as

puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to

look at and, I should think, sound at heart.”


“I cannot admire his taste,” I remarked, “if it is indeed a

fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this