noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer side of

his right little finger,” remarked Holmes as he folded up the epistle.


“He says four o’clock. It is three now. He will be here in an

hour.”


“Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the

subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order of

time, while I take a glance as to who our client is.” He picked a

red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside the mantelpiece.

“Here he is,” said he, sitting down and flattening it out upon his

knee. “‘Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son

of the Duke of Balmoral.’ Hum! ‘Arms: Azure, three caltrops in

chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.’ He’s forty-one years of

age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a

late administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for

Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on

the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this. I

think that I must turn to you Watson, for something more solid.”


“I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,” said I,

“for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable.

I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry on

hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters.”


“Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van.

That is quite cleared up now—though, indeed, it was obvious from the

first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections.”


“Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal column

of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks back: ‘A

marriage has been arranged,’ it says, ‘and will, if rumour is

correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second son of