Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was no furniture save a

little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful of linen. The skylight above

was open, and the prisoner gone.


“There has been some villainy here,” said Holmes; “this

beauty has guessed Miss Hunter’s intentions and has carried his victim

off.”


“But how?”


“Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it.” He

swung himself up onto the roof. “Ah, yes,” he cried,

“here’s the end of a long light ladder against the eaves. That is

how he did it.”


“But it is impossible,” said Miss Hunter; “the ladder was not

there when the Rucastles went away.”


“He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and

dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he whose step I

hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be as well for you to

have your pistol ready.”


The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the door of the

room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his hand. Miss Hunter

screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight of him, but Sherlock Holmes

sprang forward and confronted him.


“You villain!” said he, “where’s your daughter?”


The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight.


“It is for me to ask you that,” he shrieked, “you thieves!

Spies and thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I’ll

serve you!” He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could

go.


“He’s gone for the dog!” cried Miss Hunter.


“I have my revolver,” said I.


“Better close the front door,” cried Holmes, and we all rushed down

the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the baying of

a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying sound which it

was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man with a red face and shaking limbs

came staggering out at a side door.