sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as

he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre

thinker of the previous night.


As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring.

It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes

returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse.


“I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his

boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one

of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to

Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.”


“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.


“In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not

joking,” he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just

been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag.

Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.”


We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright

morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad

stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the

London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the

metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless

as some city in a dream.


“It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking

the horse on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a

mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at

all.”


In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their

windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the

Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington

Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock