.

"by george! it's attempted murder at the least. nothing

less will hold the london message-boy. there's a deed of

violence indicated in that fellow's round shoulders and

outstretched neck. what's this, watson? the top steps

swilled down and the other ones dry. footsteps enough,

anyhow! well, well, there's lestrade at the front window,

and we shall soon know all about it."

the official received us with a very grave face and showed

us into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and

agitated elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was

pacing up and down. he was introduced to us as the owner

of the house -- mr. horace harker, of the central press

syndicate.

"it's the napoleon bust business again," said lestrade.

"you seemed interested last night, mr. holmes, so i thought

perhaps you would be glad to be present now that the affair

has taken a very much graver turn."

"what has it turned to, then?"

"to murder. mr. harker, will you tell these gentlemen

exactly what has occurred?"

the man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most

melancholy face.

"it's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life i

have been collecting other people's news, and now that a

real piece of news has come my own way i am so confused and

bothered that i can't put two words together. if i had

come in here as a journalist i should have interviewed

myself and had two columns in every evening paper. as it

is i am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over

and over to a string of different people, and i can make no

use of it myself. however, i've heard your name, mr. sherlock

holmes, and if you'll only explain this queer business

i shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the story."

holmes sat down and listened.

"it all seems to centre round that bust of napoleon which i

bought for this very room about four months ago. i picked

it up cheap from harding brothers, two doors from the high

street station. a great deal of my journalistic work is

done at night, and i often write until the early morning.

so it was to-day. i was sitting in my den, which is at the

back of the top of the house, about three o'clock, when i

was convinced that i heard some sounds downstairs.

i listened, but they were not repeated, and i concluded that

they came from outside. then suddenly, about five minutes

later, there came a most horrible yell -- the most dreadful

sound, mr. holmes, that ever i heard. it will ring in my

ears as long as i live. i sat frozen with horror for a

minute or two. then i seized the poker and went

downstairs. when i entered this room i found the window

wide open, and i at once observed that the bust was gone

from the mantelpiece. why any burglar should take such a

thing passes my understanding, for it was only a plaster

cast and of no real value whatever.

"you can see for yourself that anyone going out through

that open window could reach the front doorstep by taking a

long stride. this was clearly what the burglar had done,

so i went round and opened the door. stepping out into the

dark i nearly fell over a dead man who was lying there.

i ran back for a light, and there was the poor fellow,

a great gash in his throat and the whole place swimming in

blood. he lay on his back, his knees drawn up, and his

mouth horribly open. i shall see him in my dreams. i had

just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then i must

have fainted, for i knew nothing more until i found the

policeman standing over me in the hall."

"well, who was the murdered man?" asked holmes.

"there's nothing to show who he was," said lestrade.

"you shall see the body at the mortuary, but we have made

nothing of it up to now. he is a tall man, sunburned,

very powerful, not more than thirty. he is poorly dressed,

and yet does not appear to be a labourer. a horn-handled clasp

knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him. whether it

was the weapon which did the deed, or whether it belonged

to the dead man, i do not know. there was no name on his

clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple, some string,

a shilling map of london, and a photograph. here it is."

it was evidently taken by a snap-shot from a small camera.

it represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man with

thick eyebrows, and a very peculiar projection of the lower

part of the face like the muzzle of a baboon.

"and what became of the bust?" asked holmes, after a

careful study of this picture.

"we had news of it just before you came. it has been found

in the front garden of an empty house in campden house road.

it was broken into fragments. i am going round now to see it.

will you come?"

"certainly. i must just take one look round." he examined

the carpet and the window. "the fellow had either very

long legs or was a most active man," said he. "with an