rable. eat a good

breakfast, watson, for i propose to get upon dr.

armstrong's trail to-day, and once on it i will not

stop for rest or food until i run him to his burrow."

"in that case," said i, "we had best carry our

breakfast with us, for he is making an early start.

his carriage is at the door."

"never mind. let him go. he will be clever if he can

drive where i cannot follow him. when you have

finished come downstairs with me, and i will introduce

you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in

the work that lies before us."

when we descended i followed holmes into the stable

yard, where he opened the door of a loose-box and led

out a squat, lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something

between a beagle and a foxhound.

"let me introduce you to pompey," said he. "pompey is

the pride of the local draghounds, no very great

flier, as his build will show, but a staunch hound on

a scent. well, pompey, you may not be fast, but i

expect you will be too fast for a couple of

middle-aged london gentlemen, so i will take the

liberty of fastening this leather leash to your

collar. now, boy, come along, and show what you can

do." he led him across to the doctor's door. the dog

sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill

whine of excitement started off down the street,

tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. in

half an hour, we were clear of the town and hastening

down a country road.

"what have you done, holmes?" i asked.

"a threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon

occasion. i walked into the doctor's yard this

morning and shot my syringe full of aniseed over the

hind wheel. a draghound will follow aniseed from here

to john o' groat's, and our friend armstrong would

have to drive through the cam before he would shake

pompey off his trail. oh, the cunning rascal! this

is how he gave me the slip the other night."

the dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into

a grass-grown lane. half a mile farther this opened

into another broad road, and the trail turned hard to

the right in the direction of the town, which we had

just quitted. the road took a sweep to the south of

the town and continued in the opposite direction to

that in which we started.

"this _detour_ {2} has been entirely for our benefit,

then?" said holmes. "no wonder that my inquiries

among those villages led to nothing. the doctor has

certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one

would like to know the reason for such elaborate

deception. this should be the village of trumpington

to the right of us. and, by jove! here is the

brougham coming round the corner. quick, watson,

quick, or we are done!"

he sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the

reluctant pompey after him. we had hardly got under

the shelter of the hedge when the carriage rattled

past. i caught a glimpse of dr. armstrong within, his

shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very

image of distress. i could tell by my companion's

graver face that he also had seen.

"i fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said

he. "it cannot be long before we know it. come,

pompey! ah, it is the cottage in the field!"

there could be no doubt that we had reached the end of

our journey. pompey ran about and whined eagerly

outside the gate where the marks of the brougham's

wheels were still to be seen. a footpath led across

to the lonely cottage. holmes tied the dog to the

hedge, and we hastened onwards. my friend knocked at

the little rustic door, and knocked again without

response. and yet the cottage was not deserted,

for a low sound came to our ears -- a kind of drone

of misery and despair, which was indescribably

melancholy. holmes paused irresolute, and then he

glanced back at the road which we had just traversed.

a brougham was coming down it, and there could be no

mistaking those grey horses.

"by jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried holmes.

"that settles it. we are bound to see what it means

before he comes."

he opened the door and we stepped into the hall. the

droning sound swelled louder upon our ears until it

became one long, deep wail of distress. it came from

upstairs. holmes darted up and i followed him. he

pushed open a half-closed door and we both stood

appalled at the sight before us.

a woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the

bed. her calm, pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue

eyes, looked upwards from amid a great tangle of

golden hair. at the foot of the bed, half sitting,

half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes,

was a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs.

so absorbed was he by his bitter grief that he never

looked up until holmes's hand was on his shoulder.

"are you mr. godfrey staunton?"

"yes, yes; i am -- but you are too late. she is dead."

the man was