rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a

remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he

himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers,

and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the

man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising

money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track

for years and have never set eyes on him yet.”


“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.

I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree

with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and

quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I

will follow in the second.”


Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back

in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled

through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into

Farrington Street.


“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow

Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I

thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though

an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as

brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon

anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”


We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in

the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr.

Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he

opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive

iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps,

which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light