nald

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

observe where the bullet went?"

"yes, sir. i'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust,

for it passed right through the head and flattened itself

on the wall. i picked it up from the carpet. here it is!"

holmes held it out to me. "a soft revolver bullet, as you

perceive, watson. there's genius in that, for who would

expect to find such a thing fired from an air-gun. all

right, mrs. hudson, i am much obliged for your assistance.

and now, watson, let me see you in your old seat once more,

for there are several points which i should like to discuss

with you."

he had thrown off the seedy frock-coat, and now he was the

holmes of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he

took from his effigy.

"the old shikari's nerves have not lost their steadiness

nor his eyes their keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he

inspected the shattered forehead of his bust.

"plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack

through the brain. he was the best shot in india, and i

expect that there are few better in london. have you heard

the name?"

"no, i have not."

"well, well, such is fame! but, then, if i remember

aright, you had not heard the name of professor james

moriarty, who had one of the great brains of the century.

just give me down my index of biographies from the shelf."

he turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair

and blowing great clouds from his cigar.

"my collection of m's is a fine one," said he. "moriarty

himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here

is morgan the poisoner, and merridew of abominable memory,

and mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the

waiting-room at charing cross, and, finally, here is our

friend of to-night."

he handed over the book, and i read: "_moran, sebastian,

colonel_. unemployed. formerly 1st bengalore pioneers.

born london, 1840. son of sir augustus moran, c.b., once

british minister to persia. educated eton and oxford.

served in jowaki campaign, afghan campaign, charasiab

(despatches), sherpur, and cabul. author of 'heavy game of

the western himalayas,' 1881; 'three months in the jungle,'

1884. address: conduit street. clubs: the anglo-indian,

the tankerville, the bagatelle card club."

on the margin was written, in holmes's precise hand:

"the second most dangerous man in london."

"this is astonishing," said i, as i handed back the volume.

"the man's career is that of an honourable soldier."

"it is true," holmes answered. "up to a certain point he

did well. he was always a man of iron nerve, and the story

is still told in india how he crawled down a drain after a

wounded man-eating tiger. there are some trees, watson,

which grow to a certain height and then suddenly develop

some unsightly eccentricity. you will see it often in

humans. i have a theory that the individual represents in

his development the whole procession of his ancestors, and

that such a sudden turn to good or evil stands for some

strong influence which came into the line of his pedigree.

the person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history

of his own family."

"it is surely rather fanciful."

"well, i don't insist upon it. whatever the cause, colonel

moran began to go wrong. without any open scandal he still

made india too