“Why did you come to me?” he said, “and, above all, why did

you not come at once?”


“I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast

about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you.”


“It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted

before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have

placed before us—no suggestive detail which might help us?”


“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat

pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it

out upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he, “that

on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small, unburned

margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular colour. I found this

single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may

be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others,

and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not

see that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some private

diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.”


Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which showed

by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was headed,

“March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical notices:


“4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.


“7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain of St.

Augustine.


“9th. McCauley cleared.


“10th. John Swain cleared.


“12th. Visited Paramore. All well.”


“Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to

our visitor. “And now you must on no account lose another instant. We

cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get home

instantly and act.”


“What shall I do?”


“There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put this