“‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.


“‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’


“‘Which dealer’s?’


“‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’


“‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked,

‘the same as the one I chose?’


“‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could

never tell them apart.’


“Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet

would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and

not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him

yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister

thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And

now—and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the

wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help me!” He burst

into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.


There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the

measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the

table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.


“Get out!” said he.


“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”


“No more words. Get out!”


And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the

bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.


“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay

pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If

Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not

appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a

felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not

go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and you

make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance

has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is