left him then, still sitting with his black clay pipe, with the sense that when I came again on the next evening I would find that he got all the clues which would lead to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.
I spent the next day beside the bed of my patient, whose suffering was great. It was about six o'clock that I found myself free and could drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the solving of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep in his armchair. A huge set of bottles and test-tubes, with the strong cleanly smell of chemichals, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.
“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.
“Yes. A chemical substance it was.”
“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.
“Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some details are interesting. The only problem is that there is no law, that can touch that awful man.”
“Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland?”
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall and a tap at the door.
“This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!”
The man who entered was a strong, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, with yellow skin, with a gently, polite manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and sat down into the nearest chair.
“Good evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o'clock?”
“Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to discuss it with anyone. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
Mr. Windibank was quite surprised and dropped his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said.
“It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. I think of writing another little monograph on the typewriter and its relation to crime. Unless they are quite new, there is always a difference between them. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some little slurring over of the e, and a slight defect in the tail of the r. There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious.”
“We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no doubt it has got some defects,” our visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.
“And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr. Windibank,” Holmes continued. “I have here four letters from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case
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