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