The Return of Sherlock Holmes

undoubtedly forcing the pace? There can be no doubt of it.

  Look at this impression, where you get both tyres clear.

  The one is as deep as the other. That can only mean that

  the rider is throwing his weight on to the handle-bar,

  as a man does when he is sprinting. By Jove! he has had

  a fall."

  There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of

  the track. Then there were a few footmarks, and the tyre

  reappeared once more.

  "A side-slip," I suggested.

  Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse.

  To my horror I perceived that the yellow blossoms were all

  dabbled with crimson. On the path, too, and among the

  heather were dark stains of clotted blood.

  "Bad!" said Holmes. "Bad! Stand clear, Watson!

  Not an unnecessary footstep! What do I read here?

  He fell wounded, he stood up, he remounted, he proceeded.

  But there is no other track. Cattle on this side path.

  He was surely not gored by a bull? Impossible! But I see

  no traces of anyone else. We must push on, Watson.

  Surely with stains as well as the track to guide us he

  cannot escape us now."

  Our search was not a very long one. The tracks of the tyre

  began to curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path.

  Suddenly, as I looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my

  eye from amid the thick gorse bushes. Out of them we

  dragged a bicycle, Palmer-tyred, one pedal bent, and the

  whole front of it horribly smeared and slobbered with

  blood. On the other side of the bushes a shoe was

  projecting. We ran round, and there lay the unfortunate

  rider. He was a tall man, full bearded, with spectacles,

  one glass of which had been knocked out. The cause of his

  death was a frightful blow upon the head, which had crushed

  in part of his skull. That he could have gone on after

  receiving such an injury said much for the vitality and

  courage of the man. He wore shoes, but no socks, and his

  open coat disclosed a night-shirt beneath it. It was

  undoubtedly the German master.

  Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it

  with great attention. He then sat in deep thought for a

  time, and I could see by his ruffled brow that this grim

  discovery had not, in his opinion, advanced us much in our

  inquiry.

  "It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson," said he,

  at last. "My own inclinations are to push this inquiry

  on, for we have already lost so much time that we cannot

  afford to waste another hour. On the other hand, we are

  bound to inform the police of the discovery, and to see

  that this poor fellow's body is looked after."

  "I could take a note back."

  "But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit!

  There is a fellow cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over

  here, and he will guide the police."

  I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the

  frightened man with a note to Dr. Huxtable.

  "Now, Watson," said he, "we have picked up two clues this

  morning. One is the bicycle with the Palmer tyre, and we

  see what that has led to. The other is the bicycle with

  the patched Dunlop. Before we start to investigate that,

  let us try to realize what we _do_ know so as to make the

  most of it, and to separate the essential from the

  accidental."

  "First of all I wish to impress upon you that the boy

  certainly left of his own free will. He got down from

  his window and he went off, either alone or with someone.

  That is sure."

  I assented.

  "Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master.

  The boy was fully dressed when he fled. Therefore,

  he foresaw what he would do. But the German went without

  his socks. He certainly acted on very short notice."

  "Undoubtedly."

  "Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw

  the flight of the boy. Because he wished to overtake him

  and bring him back. He seized his bicycle, pursued the

  lad, and in pursuing him met his death."

  "So it would seem."

  "Now I come to the critical part of my argument.

  The natural action of a man in pursuing a little boy would be

  to run after him. He would know that he could overtake him.

  But the German does not do so. He turns to his bicycle.

  I am told that he was an excellent cyclist.

  He would not do this if he did not see that the boy had some

  swift means of escape."

  "The other bicycle."

  "Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death

  five miles from the school -- not by a bullet, mark you,

  which even a lad might conceivably discharge, but by a

  savage blow dealt by a vigorous arm. The lad, then, _had_

  a companion in his flight. And the flight was a swift one,

  since it took five miles before an expert cyclist could

  overtake them. Yet we survey the ground round the scene

  of the tragedy. What do we find? A few cattle tracks,

  nothing more. I took a wide sweep round, and there is no

  path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have had

  nothing to do with the actual murder. Nor were there any

  human footmarks."

  "Holmes," I cried, "this is impossible."

  "Admirable!" he said. "A most illuminating remark.

  It _is_ impossible as I state it, and therefore I must in some

  respect have stated it wrong. Yet you saw for yourself.

  Can you suggest any fallacy?"

  "He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?"

  "In a morass, Watson?"

  "I am at my wit's end."

  "Tut, tut; we have solved some worse problems.

  At least we have plenty of material, if we can only use it.

  Come, then, and, having exhausted the Palmer, let us see what

  the Dunlop with the patched cover has to offer us."

  We picked up the track and followed it onwards for some

  distance; but soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted

  curve, and we left the watercourse behind us. No further

  help from tracks could be hoped for. At the spot where

  we saw the last of the Dunlop tyre it might equally have led

  to Holdernesse Hall, the stately towers of which rose some

  miles to our left, or to a low, grey village which lay in front

  of us, and marked the position of the Chesterfield high road.

  As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the

  sign of a game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden

  groan and clutched me by the shoulder to save himself from

  falling. He had had one of those violent strains of the

  ankle which leave a man helpless. With difficulty he

  limped up to the door, where a squat, dark, elderly man was

  smoking a black clay pipe.

  "How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?" said Holmes.

  "Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?" the

  countryman answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of

  cunning eyes.

  "Well, it's
printed on the board above your head.

  It's easy to see a man who is master of his own house.

  I suppose you haven't such a thing as a carriage in your

  stables?"

  "No; I have not."

  "I can hardly put my foot to the ground."

  "Don't put it to the ground."

  "But I can't walk."

  "Well, then, hop."

  Mr. Reuben Hayes's manner was far from gracious, but Holmes

  took it with admirable good-humour.

  "Look here, my man," said he. "This is really rather an

  awkward fix for me. I don't mind how I get on."

  "Neither do I," said the morose landlord.

  "The matter is very important. I would offer you a

  sovereign for the use of a bicycle."

  The landlord pricked up his ears.

  "Where do you want to go?"

  "To Holdernesse Hall."

  "Pals of the Dook, I suppose?" said the landlord, surveying

  our mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.

  Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

  "He'll be glad to see us, anyhow."

  "Why?"

  "Because we bring him news of his lost son."

  The landlord gave a very visible start.

  "What, you're on his track?"

  "He has been heard of in Liverpool. They expect to get him

  every hour."

  Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face.

  His manner was suddenly genial.

  "I've less reason to wish the Dook well than most men,"

  said he, "for I was his head coachman once, and cruel bad

  he treated me. It was him that sacked me without a

  character on the word of a lying corn-chandler. But I'm

  glad to hear that the young lord was heard of in Liverpool,

  and I'll help you to take the news to the Hall."

  "Thank you," said Holmes. "We'll have some food first.

  Then you can bring round the bicycle."

  "I haven't got a bicycle."

  Holmes held up a sovereign.

  "I tell you, man, that I haven't got one. I'll let you

  have two horses as far as the Hall."

  "Well, well," said Holmes, "we'll talk about it when we've

  had something to eat."

  When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen it was

  astonishing how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered.

  It was nearly nightfall, and we had eaten nothing since

  early morning, so that we spent some time over our meal.

  Holmes was lost in thought, and once or twice he walked over

  to the window and stared earnestly out. It opened on to a

  squalid courtyard. In the far corner was a smithy, where a

  grimy lad was at work. On the other side were the stables.

  Holmes had sat down again after one of these excursions,

  when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with a loud

  exclamation.

  "By Heaven, Watson, I believe that I've got it!" he cried.

  "Yes, yes, it must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing

  any cow-tracks to-day?"

  "Yes, several."

  "Where?"

  "Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on

  the path, and again near where poor Heidegger met his death."

  "Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see on

  the moor?"

  "I don't remember seeing any."

  "Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our

  line, but never a cow on the whole moor; very strange,

  Watson, eh?"

  "Yes, it is strange."

  "Now, Watson, make an effort; throw your mind back! Can

  you see those tracks upon the path?"

  "Yes, I can."

  "Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that, Watson"

  -- he arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion --

  : : : : : -- "and sometimes like this" -- : ' : ' : ' : ' --

  "and occasionally like this" -- . ' . ' . ' . "Can you remember

  that?" {2}

  "No, I cannot."

  "But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back

  at our leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have

  been not to draw my conclusion!"

  "And what is your conclusion?"

  "Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters,

  and gallops. By George, Watson, it was no brain of a country

  publican that thought out such a blind as that!

  The coast seems to be clear, save for that lad in the smithy.

  Let us slip out and see what we can see."

  There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the

  tumble-down stable. Holmes raised the hind leg of one of

  them and laughed aloud.

  "Old shoes, but newly shod -- old shoes, but new nails.

  This case deserves to be a classic. Let us go across

  to the smithy."

  The lad continued his work without regarding us.

  I saw Holmes's eye darting to right and left among the

  litter of iron and wood which was scattered about the floor.

  Suddenly, however, we heard a step behind us, and there was

  the landlord, his heavy eyebrows drawn over his savage eyes,

  his swarthy features convulsed with passion. He held a short,

  metal-headed stick in his hand, and he advanced in

  so menacing a fashion that I was right glad to feel the

  revolver in my pocket.

  "You infernal spies!" the man cried. "What are you doing

  there?"

  "Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes," said Holmes, coolly, "one might

  think that you were afraid of our finding something out."

  The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his

  grim mouth loosened into a false laugh, which was more

  menacing than his frown.

  "You're welcome to all you can find out in my smithy," said he.

  "But look here, mister, I don't care for folk poking about my

  place without my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and

  get out of this the better I shall be pleased."

  "All right, Mr. Hayes -- no harm meant," said Holmes.

  "We have been having a look at your horses, but I think I'll

  walk after all. It's not far, I believe."

  "Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That's the

  road to the left." He watched us with sullen eyes until we

  had left his premises.

  We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped

  the instant that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.

  "We were warm, as the children say, at that inn," said he.

  "I seem to grow colder every step that I take away from it.

  No, no; I can't possibly leave it."

  "I am convinced," said I, "that this Reuben Hayes knows all

  about it. A more self-evident villain I never saw."

  "Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the

  horses, there is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting

  place, this Fighting Cock. I think we shall have another

  look at it in an unobtrusive way."

  A long, sloping hillside, dotted with grey limestone

  boulders, stretched behind us. We had turned off the road,

  and were making our way up the hill, when, looking in the

  direction of Holdernesse Hall, I saw a cyclist coming

  swiftly along.

  "Get down, Watson!" cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon my

  shoulder. We had hardly sunk from view w
hen the man flew

  past us on the road. Amid a rolling cloud of dust I caught

  a glimpse of a pale, agitated face -- a face with horror in

  every lineament, the mouth open, the eyes staring wildly in

  front. It was like some strange caricature of the dapper

  James Wilder whom we had seen the night before.

  "The Duke's secretary!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson,

  let us see what he does."

  We scrambled from rock to rock until in a few moments we

  had made our way to a point from which we could see the

  front door of the inn. Wilder's bicycle was leaning

  against the wall beside it. No one was moving about the

  house, nor could we catch a glimpse of any faces at the

  windows. Slowly the twilight crept down as the sun sank

  behind the high towers of Holdernesse Hall. Then in the

  gloom we saw the two side-lamps of a trap light up in the

  stable yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards heard the

  rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore

  off at a furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.

  "What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes whispered.

  "It looks like a flight."

  "A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well,

  it certainly was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at

  the door."

  A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness.

  In the middle of it was the black figure of the secretary,

  his head advanced, peering out into the night. It was evident

  that he was expecting someone. Then at last there were

  steps in the road, a second figure was visible for an

  instant against the light, the door shut, and all was black

  once more. Five minutes later a lamp was lit in a room

  upon the first floor.

  "It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by

  the Fighting Cock," said Holmes.

  "The bar is on the other side."

  "Quite so. These are what one may call the private guests.

  Now, what in the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that

  den at this hour of night, and who is the companion who

  comes to meet him there? Come, Watson, we must really take

  a risk and try to investigate this a little more closely."

  Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the

  door of the inn. The bicycle still leaned against the

  wall. Holmes struck a match and held it to the back wheel,

  and I heard him chuckle as the light fell upon a patched

  Dunlop tyre. Up above us was the lighted window.

  "I must have a peep through that, Watson. If you bend your back

  and support yourself upon the wall, I think that I can manage."

  An instant later his feet were on my shoulders. But he was

  hardly up before he was down again.

  "Come, my friend," said he, "our day's work has been quite

  long enough. I think that we have gathered all that we

  can. It's a long walk to the school, and the sooner we get

  started the better."

  He hardly opened his lips during that weary trudge across

  the moor, nor would he enter the school when he reached it,

  but went on to Mackleton Station, whence he could send some

  telegrams. Late at night I heard him consoling Dr. Huxtable,

  prostrated by the tragedy of his master's death,

  and later still he entered my room as alert and vigorous as

  he had been when he started in the morning. "All goes

  well, my friend," said he. "I promise that before to-morrow

  evening we shall have reached the solution of the mystery."

  At eleven o'clock next morning my friend and I were walking

  up the famous yew avenue of Holdernesse Hall. We were

  ushered through the magnificent Elizabethan doorway and

  into his Grace's study. There we found Mr. James Wilder,

  demure and courtly, but with some trace of that wild terror

  of the night before still lurking in his furtive eyes and

  in his twitching features.

  "You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry; but the fact

  is that the Duke is far from well. He has been very much