called with a note for Godfrey. He had not gone to
bed and the note was taken to his room. Godfrey read
it and fell back in a chair as if he had been
pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going
to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of
water, and pulled himself together. Then he went
downstairs, said a few words to the man who was
waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off
together. The last that the porter saw of them, they
were almost running down the street in the direction
of the Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty,
his bed had never been slept in, and his things were
all just as I had seen them the night before. He had
gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and
no word has come from him since. I don't believe he
will ever come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey,
down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his
training and let in his skipper if it were not for
some cause that was too strong for him. No; I feel as
if he were gone for good and we should never see him
again."
Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to
this singular narrative.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been
heard of him there. I have had an answer. No one has
seen him."
"Could he have got back to Cambridge?"
"Yes, there is a late train -- quarter-past eleven."
"But so far as you can ascertain he did not take it?"
"No, he has not been seen."
"What did you do next?"
"I wired to Lord Mount-James."
"Why to Lord Mount-James?"
"Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his
nearest relative -- his uncle, I believe."
"Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter.
Lord Mount-James is one of the richest men in England."
"So I've heard Godfrey say."
"And your friend was closely related?"
"Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly
eighty -- cram full of gout, too. They say he could
chalk his billiard-cue with his knuckles. He never
allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an
absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough."
"Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"
"No."
"What motive could your friend have in going to Lord
Mount-James?"
"Well, something was worrying him the night before,
and if it was to do with money it is possible that he
would make for his nearest relative who had so much of
it, though from all I have heard he would not have
much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of
the old man. He would not go if he could help it."
"Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was
going to his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then
to explain the visit of this rough-looking fellow at
so late an hour, and the agitation that was caused by
his coming."
Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. "I can
make nothing of it," said he.
"Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy
to look into the matter," said Holmes. "I should
strongly recommend you to make your preparations for
your match without reference to this young gentleman.
It must, as you say, have been an overpowering
necessity which tore him away in such a fashion, and
the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us
step round together to this hotel, and see if the
porter can throw any fresh light upon the matter."
Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of
putting a humble witness at his ease, and very soon,
in the privacy of Godfrey Staunton's abandoned room,
he had extracted all that the porter had to tell.
The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman,
neither was he a working man. He was simply what the
porter described as a "medium-looking chap"; a man of
fifty, beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed.
He seemed himself to be agitated. The porter had
observed his hand trembling when he had held out the
note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note into his
pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man
in the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences,
of which the porter had only distinguished the one word
"time." Then they had hurried off in the manner
described. It was just half-past ten by the hall clock.
"Let me see," said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's bed.
"You are the day porter, are you not?"
"Yes, sir; I go off duty at eleven."
"The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?"
"No, sir; one theatre party came in late. No one else."
"Were you on duty all day yesterday?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?"
"Yes, sir; one telegram."
"Ah! that's interesting. What o'clock was this?"
"About six."
"Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?"
"Here in his room."
"Were you present when he opened it?"
"Yes, sir; I waited to see if there was an answer."
"Well, was there?"
"Yes, sir. He wrote an answer."
"Did you take it?"
"No; he took it himself."
"But he wrote it in your presence?"
"Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with
his back turned at that table. When he had written it
he said, 'All right, porter, I will take this myself.'"
"What did he write it with?"
"A pen, sir."
"Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?"
"Yes, sir; it was the top one."
Holmes rose. Taking the forms he carried them over to
the window and carefully examined that which was uppermost.
"It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said he,
throwing them down again with a shrug of
disappointment. "As you have no doubt frequently
observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through
-- a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage.
However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice,
however, to perceive that he wrote with a
broad-pointed quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that
we will find some impression upon this blotting-pad.
Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!"
He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned
towards us the following hieroglyphic:--
{GRAPHIC}
Cyril Overton was much excited. "Hold it to the
glass!" he cried.
"That is unnecessary," said Holmes. "The paper is thin,
and the reverse will give the message. Here it is."
He turned it over and we read:--
{GRAPHIC}
"So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey
Staunton dispatched within a few hours of his
disappearance. There are at least six words of the
message which have escaped us; but what remains --
'Stand by us for God's
sake!' -- proves that this
young man saw a formidable danger which approached
him, and from which someone else could protect him.
'_Us_,' mark you! Another person was involved. Who
should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man, who
seemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is
the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the
bearded man? And what is the third source from which
each of them sought for help against pressing danger?
Our inquiry has already narrowed down to that."
"We have only to find to whom that telegram is
addressed," I suggested.
"Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though
profound, had already crossed my mind. But I dare say
it may have come to your notice that if you walk into
a post-office and demand to see the counterfoil of
another man's message there may be some disinclination
on the part of the officials to oblige you. There is
so much red tape in these matters! However, I have no
doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end
may be attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your
presence, Mr. Overton, to go through these papers
which have been left upon the table."
There were a number of letters, bills, and note-books,
which Holmes turned over and examined with quick,
nervous fingers and darting, penetrating eyes.
"Nothing here," he said, at last. "By the way, I
suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow --
nothing amiss with him?"
"Sound as a bell."
"Have you ever known him ill?"
"Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once
he slipped his knee-cap, but that was nothing."
"Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose.
I should think he may have had some secret trouble.
With your assent I will put one or two of these papers
in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our future
inquiry."
"One moment! one moment!" cried a querulous voice, and
we looked up to find a queer little old man, jerking
and twitching in the doorway. He was dressed in rusty
black, with a very broad brimmed top-hat and a loose
white necktie -- the whole effect being that of a very
rustic parson or of an undertaker's mute. Yet, in
spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance, his
voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick
intensity which commanded attention.
"Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
gentleman's papers?" he asked.
"I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to
explain his disappearance."
"Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?"
"This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred
to me by Scotland Yard."
"Who are you, sir?"
"I am Cyril Overton."
"Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is
Lord Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the
Bayswater 'bus would bring me. So you have instructed
a detective?"
"Yes, sir."
"And are you prepared to meet the cost?"
"I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we
find him, will be prepared to do that."
"But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!"
"In that case no doubt his family ----"
"Nothing of the sort, sir!" screamed the little man.
"Don't look to me for a penny -- not a penny! You
understand that, Mr. Detective! I am all the family
that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am
not responsible. If he has any expectations it is due
to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do
not propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers
with which you are making so free, I may tell you that
in case there should be anything of any value among
them you will be held strictly to account for what you
do with them."
"Very good, sir," said Sherlock Holmes. "May I ask in
the meanwhile whether you have yourself any theory to
account for this young man's disappearance?"
"No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough
to look after himself, and if he is so foolish as to
lose himself I entirely refuse to accept the
responsibility of hunting for him."
"I quite understand your position," said Holmes, with
a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't
quite understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to
have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped it
could not have been for anything which he himself
possesses. The fame of your wealth has gone abroad,
Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a
gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to
gain from him some information as to your house, your
habits, and your treasure."
The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as
white as his neckcloth.
"Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such
villainy! What inhuman rogues there are in the world!
But Godfrey is a fine lad -- a staunch lad. Nothing
would induce him to give his old uncle away. I'll
have the plate moved over to the bank this evening.
In the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg
you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely
back. As to money, well, so far as a fiver, or even a
tenner, goes, you can always look to me."
Even in his chastened frame of mind the noble miser
could give us no information which could help us, for
he knew little of the private life of his nephew. Our
only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a
copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find a
second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord
Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the
other members of his team over the misfortune which
had befallen them.
There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from
the hotel. We halted outside it.
"It's worth trying, Watson," said Holmes. "Of course,
with a warrant we could demand to see the
counterfoils, but we have not reached that stage yet.
I don't suppose they remember faces in so busy a
place. Let us venture it."
"I am sorry to trouble you," said he, in his blandest
manner, to the young woman behind the grating; "there
is some small mistake about a telegram I sent
yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear
that I must have omitted to put my name at the end.
Could you tell me if this was so?"
The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.
"What o'clock was it?" she asked.
"A little after six."
"Whom was it to?"
Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me.
"The last words in it were 'for God's sake,'" he
whispered, confidentially; "I am very anxious at
getting no answer."
The young woman separated one of the forms.
/>
"This is it. There is no name," said she, smoothing
it out upon the counter.
"Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no
answer," said Holmes. "Dear me, how very stupid of
me, to be sure! Good morning, miss, and many thanks
for having relieved my mind." He chuckled and rubbed
his hands when we found ourselves in the street once
more.
"Well?" I asked.
"We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had
seven different schemes for getting a glimpse of that
telegram, but I could hardly hope to succeed the very
first time."
"And what have you gained?"
"A starting-point for our investigation." He hailed a
cab. "King's Cross Station," said he.
"We have a journey, then?"
"Yes; I think we must run down to Cambridge together.
All the indications seem to me to point in that
direction."
"Tell me," I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn Road,
"have you any suspicion yet as to the cause of the
disappearance? I don't think that among all our cases
I have known one where the motives are more obscure.
Surely you don't really imagine that he may be
kidnapped in order to give information against his
wealthy uncle?"
"I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal
to me as a very probable explanation. It struck me,
however, as being the one which was most likely to
interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person."
"It certainly did that. But what are your alternatives?"
"I could mention several. You must admit that it is
curious and suggestive that this incident should occur
on the eve of this important match, and should involve
the only man whose presence seems essential to the
success of the side. It may, of course, be
coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is
free from betting, but a good deal of outside betting
goes on among the public, and it is possible that it
might be worth someone's while to get at a player as
the ruffians of the turf get at a race-horse. There
is one explanation. A second very obvious one is that
this young man really is the heir of a great property,
however modest his means may at present be, and it is
not impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom
might be concocted."
"These theories take no account of the telegram."
"Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the
only solid thing with which we have to deal, and we
must not permit our attention to wander away from it.
It is to gain light upon the purpose of this telegram
that we are now upon our way to Cambridge. The path
of our investigation is at present obscure, but I
shall be very much surprised if before evening we have
not cleared it up or made a considerable advance along
it."
It was already dark when we reached the old University
city. Holmes took a cab at the station, and ordered
the man to drive to the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong.
A few minutes later we had stopped at a large mansion
in the busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and
after a long wait were at last admitted into the
consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated
behind his table.
It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my
profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was
unknown to me. Now I am aware that he is not only one
of the heads of the medical school of the University,
but a thinker of European reputation in more than one
branch of science. Yet even without knowing his
brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by
a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face,
the brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the
granite moulding of the inflexible jaw. A man of deep
character, a man with an alert mind, grim, ascetic,
self-contained, formidable -- so I read Dr. Leslie
Armstrong. He held my friend's card in his hand, and
he looked up with no very pleased expression upon his
dour features.