sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she comes she

may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his

Majesty to regain it with his own hands.”


“And when will you call?”


“At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a

clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete

change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without delay.”


We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was searching his

pockets for the key when someone passing said:


“Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”


There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting

appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by.


“I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the

dimly lit street. “Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have

been.”


III.


I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and

coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room.


“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by

either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.


“Not yet.”


“But you have hopes?”


“I have hopes.”


“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”


“We must have a cab.”


“No, my brougham is waiting.”


“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off

once more for Briony Lodge.


“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.


“Married! When?”


“Yesterday.”


“But to whom?”


“To an English lawyer named Norton.”


“But she could not love him.”


“I am in hopes that she does.”


“And why in hopes?”


“Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the

lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love

your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your

Majesty’s plan.”