I observed that as he stepped out he gave a most searching

  glance to right and left, and at every subsequent street

  corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he was not

  followed. Our route was certainly a singular one.

  Holmes's knowledge of the byways of London was

  extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly, and

  with an assured step, through a network of mews and stables

  the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged

  at last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses,

  which led us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford

  Street. Here he turned swiftly down a narrow passage,

  passed through a wooden gate into a deserted yard, and then

  opened with a key the back door of a house. We entered

  together and he closed it behind us.

  The place was pitch-dark, but it was evident to me that it

  was an empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the

  bare planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from

  which the paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes's cold,

  thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me forwards down

  a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the

  door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right, and we

  found ourselves in a large, square, empty room, heavily

  shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the centre from

  the lights of the street beyond. There was no lamp near

  and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only

  just discern each other's figures within. My companion put

  his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

  "Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

  "Surely that is Baker Street," I answered, staring through

  the dim window.

  "Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to

  our own old quarters."

  "But why are we here?"

  "Because it commands so excellent a view of that

  picturesque pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to

  draw a little nearer to the window, taking every precaution

  not to show yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms

  -- the starting-point of so many of our little adventures?

  {1} We will see if my three years of absence have entirely

  taken away my power to surprise you."

  I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window.

  As my eyes fell upon it I gave a gasp and a cry of

  amazement. The blind was down and a strong light was

  burning in the room. The shadow of a man who was seated in

  a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the

  luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the

  poise of the head, the squareness of the shoulders, the

  sharpness of the features. The face was turned half-round,

  and the effect was that of one of those black silhouettes

  which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a perfect

  reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out

  my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing

  beside me. He was quivering with silent laughter.

  "Well?" said he.

  "Good heavens!" I cried. "It is marvellous."

  "I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my

  infinite variety,'" said he, and I recognised in his voice

  the joy and pride which the artist takes in his own creation.

  "It really is rather like me, is it not?"

  "I should be prepared to swear that it was you."

  "The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar

  Meunier, of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the

  moulding. It is a bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself

  during my visit to Baker Street this afternoon."

  "But why?"

  "Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible

  reason for wishing certain people to think that I was there

  when I was really elsewhere."

  "And you thought the rooms were watched?"

  "I _knew_ that they were watched."

  "By whom?"

  "By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose

  leader lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember

  that they knew, and only they knew, that I was still alive.

  Sooner or later they believed that I should come back to my

  rooms. They watched them continuously, and this morning

  they saw me arrive."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I recognised their sentinel when I glanced out of

  my window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name,

  a garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the

  Jew's harp. I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great

  deal for the much more formidable person who was behind

  him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the

  rocks over the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous

  criminal in London. That is the man who is after me to-night,

  Watson, and that is the man who is quite unaware that we are

  after _him_."

  My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselves.

  From this convenient retreat the watchers were being

  watched and the trackers tracked. That angular shadow up

  yonder was the bait and we were the hunters. In silence we

  stood together in the darkness and watched the hurrying

  figures who passed and repassed in front of us. Holmes was

  silent and motionless; but I could tell that he was keenly

  alert, and that his eyes were fixed intently upon the

  stream of passers-by. It was a bleak and boisterous night,

  and the wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Many

  people were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in

  their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me

  that I had seen the same figure before, and I especially

  noticed two men who appeared to be sheltering themselves

  from the wind in the doorway of a house some distance up

  the street. I tried to draw my companion's attention to

  them, but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience and

  continued to stare into the street. More than once he

  fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with his fingers

  upon the wall. It was evident to me that he was becoming

  uneasy and that his plans were not working out altogether

  as he had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and the

  street gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in

  uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark

  to him when I raised my eyes to the lighted window and

  again experienced almost as great a surprise as before.

  I clutched Holmes's arm and pointed upwards.

  "The shadow has moved!" I cried.

  It was, indeed, no longer the profile, but the back, which

  was turned towards us.

  Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of

  his temper or his impatience with a less active

  intelligence than his own.

  "Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such a farcical

  bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy and

  expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be

  deceived by it? We have been in this room two hours,
and

  Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that figure eight

  times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it

  from the front so that her shadow may never be seen. Ah!"

  He drew in his breath with a shrill, excited intake.

  In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole

  attitude rigid with attention. Outside, the street was

  absolutely deserted. Those two men might still be

  crouching in the doorway, but I could no longer see them.

  All was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow

  screen in front of us with the black figure outlined upon

  its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that thin,

  sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.

  An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner

  of the room, and I felt his warning hand upon my lips. The

  fingers which clutched me were quivering. Never had I

  known my friend more moved, and yet the dark street still

  stretched lonely and motionless before us.

  But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses

  had already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to

  my ears, not from the direction of Baker Street, but from

  the back of the very house in which we lay concealed. A

  door opened and shut. An instant later steps crept down

  the passage -- steps which were meant to be silent, but

  which reverberated harshly through the empty house. Holmes

  crouched back against the wall and I did the same, my hand

  closing upon the handle of my revolver. Peering through

  the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade

  blacker than the blackness of the open door. He stood for

  an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing,

  into the room. He was within three yards of us, this

  sinister figure, and I had braced myself to meet his

  spring, before I realized that he had no idea of our

  presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the

  window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half

  a foot. As he sank to the level of this opening the light

  of the street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell

  full upon his face. The man seemed to be beside himself

  with excitement. His two eyes shone like stars and his

  features were working convulsively. He was an elderly man,

  with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a

  huge grizzled moustache. An opera-hat was pushed to the

  back of his head, and an evening dress shirt-front gleamed

  out through his open overcoat. His face was gaunt and

  swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand he

  carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it down

  upon the floor it gave a metallic clang. Then from the

  pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he

  busied himself in some task which ended with a loud, sharp

  click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen into its place.

  Still kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw all

  his weight and strength upon some lever, with the result

  that there came a long, whirling, grinding noise, ending

  once more in a powerful click. He straightened himself

  then, and I saw that what he held in his hand was a sort of

  gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He opened it at the

  breech, put something in, and snapped the breech-block.

  Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the barrel upon

  the ledge of the open window, and I saw his long moustache

  droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered along

  the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he

  cuddled the butt into his shoulder, and saw that amazing

  target, the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear

  at the end of his fore sight. For an instant he was rigid

  and motionless. Then his finger tightened on the trigger.

  There was a strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery tinkle

  of broken glass. At that instant Holmes sprang like a

  tiger on to the marksman's back and hurled him flat upon

  his face. He was up again in a moment, and with convulsive

  strength he seized Holmes by the throat; but I struck him

  on the head with the butt of my revolver and he dropped

  again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him

  my comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was

  the clatter of running feet upon the pavement, and two

  policemen in uniform, with one plain-clothes detective,

  rushed through the front entrance and into the room.

  "That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes.

  "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see

  you back in London, sir."

  "I think you want a little unofficial help. Three

  undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you

  handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual --

  that's to say, you handled it fairly well."

  We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard,

  with a stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a

  few loiterers had begun to collect in the street. Holmes

  stepped up to the window, closed it, and dropped the

  blinds. Lestrade had produced two candles and the

  policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I was able at last

  to have a good look at our prisoner.

  It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which

  was turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher

  above and the jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have

  started with great capacities for good or for evil. But

  one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with their

  drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose

  and the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading

  Nature's plainest danger-signals. He took no heed of any

  of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes's face with an

  expression in which hatred and amazement were equally

  blended. "You fiend!" he kept on muttering. "You clever,

  clever fiend!"

  "Ah, Colonel!" said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar;

  "'journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says.

  I don't think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since

  you favoured me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge

  above the Reichenbach Fall."

  The Colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a

  trance. "You cunning, cunning fiend!" was all that he

  could say.

  "I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes. "This,

  gentlemen, is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her

  Majesty's Indian Army, and the best heavy game shot that

  our Eastern Empire has ever produced. I believe I am

  correct, Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers still

  remains unrivalled?"

  The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my

  companion; with his savage eyes and bristling moustache he

  was wonderfully like a tiger himself.

  "I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so

  old a shikari," said Holmes. "It must be very familiar to

  y
ou. Have you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain

  above it with your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring

  up your tiger? This empty house is my tree and you are my

  tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case

  there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely

  supposition of your own aim failing you. These," he

  pointed around, "are my other guns. The parallel is

  exact."

  Colonel Moran sprang forward, with a snarl of rage, but the

  constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was

  terrible to look at.

  "I confess that you had one small surprise for me," said

  Holmes. "I did not anticipate that you would yourself make

  use of this empty house and this convenient front window.

  I had imagined you as operating from the street, where

  my friend Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you.

  With that exception all has gone as I expected."

  Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

  "You may or may not have just cause for arresting me," said

  he, "but at least there can be no reason why I should

  submit to the gibes of this person. If I am in the hands

  of the law let things be done in a legal way."

  "Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade. "Nothing

  further you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"

  Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor

  and was examining its mechanism.

  "An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "noiseless and

  of tremendous power. I knew Von Herder, the blind German

  mechanic, who constructed it to the order of the late

  Professor Moriarty. For years I have been aware of its

  existence, though I have never before had an opportunity

  of handling it. I commend it very specially to your

  attention, Lestrade, and also the bullets which fit it."

  "You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes," said

  Lestrade, as the whole party moved towards the door.

  "Anything further to say?"

  "Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"

  "What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

  "Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the

  matter at all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit

  of the remarkable arrest which you have effected. Yes,

  Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your usual happy

  mixture of cunning and audacity you have got him."

  "Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"

  "The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain --

  Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald

  Adair with an expanding bullet from an air-gun through the

  open window of the second-floor front of No. 427, Park

  Lane, upon the 30th of last month. That's the charge,

  Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can endure the draught

  from a broken window, I think that half an hour in my study

  over a cigar may afford you some profitable amusement."

  Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the

  supervision of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of

  Mrs. Hudson. As I entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted

  tidiness, but the old landmarks were all in their place.

  There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained,

  deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of

  formidable scrap-books and books of reference which many of

  our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The

  diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack -- even the

  Persian slipper which contained the tobacco -- all met my

  eyes as I glanced round me. There were two occupants of

  the room -- one Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we

  entered; the other the strange dummy which had played so

  important a part in the evening's adventures. It was a

  wax-coloured model of my friend, so admirably done that

  it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a small pedestal

  table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes's so draped round

  it that the illusion from the street was absolutely perfect.

  "I hope you preserved all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?" said

  Holmes.

  "I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me."

  "Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you