above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with two

men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while

the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and

oppressively respectable frock-coat.


“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his

pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I

think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.

Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.”


“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones

in his consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for

starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running

down.”


“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,”

observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.


“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said

the police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if

he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic,

but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that

once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure,

he has been more nearly correct than the official force.”


“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger

with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first

Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber.”


“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will

play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play

will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some £

30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your

hands.”


“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young

man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would