he derives this from his smiling father, as I should suspect, or from his

mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in their power.”


“I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes,” cried our client.

“A thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have

hit it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor

creature.”


“We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man. We

can do nothing until seven o’clock. At that hour we shall be with you,

and it will not be long before we solve the mystery.”


We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached the Copper

Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house. The group of trees,

with their dark leaves shining like burnished metal in the light of the setting

sun, were sufficient to mark the house even had Miss Hunter not been standing

smiling on the door-step.


“Have you managed it?” asked Holmes.


A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. “That is Mrs.

Toller in the cellar,” said she. “Her husband lies snoring on the

kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr.

Rucastle’s.”


“You have done well indeed!” cried Holmes with enthusiasm.

“Now lead the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black

business.”


We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a passage, and

found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss Hunter had described.

Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse bar. Then he tried the various

keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came from within, and at the

silence Holmes’ face clouded over.


“I trust that we are not too late,” said he. “I think, Miss

Hunter, that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to

it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in.”


It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength.