holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean

one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife.”


“Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round this man from

which he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as

if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in which all

this points. The culprit is—”


“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our

sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.


The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step

and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard,

deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was

possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard,

grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of

dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while

his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It

was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic

disease.


“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You had my

note?”


“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me

here to avoid scandal.”


“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”


“And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my companion

with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.


“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words.

“It is so. I know all about McCarthy.”


The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried.

“But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word

that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.”


“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes gravely.


“I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would break