style="font-size:15px;"> “Smart fellow,” observed Holmes, as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London. I have known something of him before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant played his role in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear Doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. Let us now explore the area.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner, was one of the main arteries which convey the traffic of the City to the north and west. There was the line of beautiful shops and stately business premises.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner, and glancing along the line, “I want to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work. A sandwich, and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness, and delicacy, and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us.”
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, not only a very capable performer, but a composer.
“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked, as the concert was over.
“Yes.”
“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. And I shall want your help tonight.”
“At what time?”
“At ten.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor! There may be some little danger, so kindly put your revolver in your pocket.”
He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.
As I drove home to my house I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the “Encyclopaedia” down to the visit to Coburg Square. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair.
It was a quarter past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. As I entered the passage, I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes talking to two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official police agent; while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.”
I looked at the men.
“I think, you will play for a higher stake tonight than you have ever done yet,” said Sherlock Holmes, “and the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some thirty thousand pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the man you want to catch.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher and forger. He’s a remarkable man, that young John Clay. His grandfather was a Royal Duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. I’ve been on his track for years, and have never seen him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you tonight. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first cab, Watson and I will follow in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive. We went through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. Jones is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog, and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”
We had reached the same crowded street in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage, and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.
Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor, and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again, and put his glass in his pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked. “We are at present, Doctor, in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the director.
“Your French gold?”
“Yes. Some months ago we borrowed thirty thousand napoleons from the Bank of France. They are still lying in our cellar.”
“Mr. Merryweather,” observed Holmes, “we must put the screen over that dark lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. I shall stand behind this crate, and you will conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon the criminals, catch them. If they fire, Watson, shoot them down.”
I placed my revolver upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”
“So now we must be silent and wait.”
Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light. At first it was a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly
