asked holmes.

"they appear to be lists of stock exchange securities.

i thought that 'j.h.n.' were the initials of a broker,

and that 'c.p.r.' may have been his client."

"try canadian pacific railway," said holmes.

stanley hopkins swore between his teeth and struck his

thigh with his clenched hand.

"what a fool i have been!" he cried. "of course, it is as

you say. then 'j.h.n.' are the only initials we have to solve.

i have already examined the old stock exchange lists, and i can

find no one in 1883 either in the house or among the outside

brokers whose initials correspond with these. yet i feel that

the clue is the most important one that i hold. you will admit,

mr. holmes, that there is a possibility that these initials are

those of the second person who was present -- in other words,

of the murderer. i would also urge that the introduction into

the case of a document relating to large masses of valuable

securities gives us for the first time some indication of a

motive for the crime."

sherlock holmes's face showed that he was thoroughly taken

aback by this new development.

"i must admit both your points," said he. "i confess that

this note-book, which did not appear at the inquest,

modifies any views which i may have formed. i had come to

a theory of the crime in which i can find no place for this.

have you endeavoured to trace any of the securities

here mentioned?"

"inquiries are now being made at the offices, but i fear

that the complete register of the stockholders of these

south american concerns is in south america, and that some

weeks must elapse before we can trace the shares."

holmes had been examining the cover of the note-book with

his magnifying lens.

"surely there is some discoloration here," said he.

"yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. i told you that i picked

the book off the floor."

"was the blood-stain above or below?"

"on the side next the boards."

"which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after

the crime was committed."

"exactly, mr. holmes. i appreciated that point, and i

conjectured that it was dropped by the murderer in his

hurried flight. it lay near the door."

"i suppose that none of these securities have been found

among the property of the dead man?"

"no, sir."

"have you any reason to suspect robbery?"

"no, sir. nothing seemed to have been touched."

"dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case.

then there was a knife, was there not?"

"a sheath-knife, still in its sheath. it lay at the feet

of the dead man. mrs. carey has identified it as being her

husband's property."

holmes was lost in thought for some time.

"well," said he, at last, "i suppose i shall have to come

out and have a look at it."

stanley hopkins gave a cry of joy.

"thank you, sir. that will indeed be a weight off my

mind."

holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

"it would have been an easier task a week ago," said he.

"but even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless.

watson, if you can spare the time i should be very glad of

your company. if you will call a four-wheeler, hopkins, we

shall be ready to start for forest row in a quarter of an hour."

alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some

miles through the remains of widespread woods, which were

once part of that great forest which for so long held the

saxon invaders at bay -- the impenetrable "weald," for

sixty years the bulwark of britain. vast sections of it

have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first

iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled

to smelt the ore. now the richer fields of the north have

absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves

and great scars in the earth show the work of the past.

here in a clearing upon the green slope of a hill stood a

long, low stone house, approached by a curving drive

running through the fields. nearer the road, and

surrounded on three sides by bushes, was a small outhouse,

one window and the door facing in our direction. it was

the scene of the murder!

stanley hopkins led us first to the house, where he

introduced us to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of

the murdered man, whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the

furtive look of terror in the depths of her red-rimmed

eyes, told of the years of hardship and ill-usage which

she had endured. with her was her daughter, a pale,

fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as

she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,

and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down.

it was a terrible household that black peter carey had made

for himself, and it was with a sense of relief that we

found ourselves in the sunlight again and making our way

along a path which had been worn across the fields by the

feet of the dead man.

the outhouse was the simplest of dwel