ne upon his eager, stooping

face and told me at a glance that something was amiss.

"come, watson, come!" he cried. "the game is afoot. not a word!

into your clothes and come!"

ten minutes later we were both in a cab and rattling through the

silent streets on our way to charing cross station. the first

faint winter's dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly

see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us,

blurred and indistinct in the opalescent london reek. holmes

nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and i was glad to do the

same, for the air was most bitter and neither of us had broken our

fast. it was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the

station, and taken our places in the kentish train, that we were

sufficiently thawed, he to speak and i to listen. holmes drew a

note from his pocket and read it aloud:--

"abbey grange, marsham, kent,

"3.30 a.m.

"my dear mr. holmes, -- i should be very glad of your immediate

assistance in what promises to be a most remarkable case. it is

something quite in your line. except for releasing the lady i

will see that everything is kept exactly as i have found it, but i

beg you not to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave sir

eustace there.

"yours faithfully, stanley hopkins."

"hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his

summons has been entirely justified," said holmes. "i fancy that

every one of his cases has found its way into your collection, and

i must admit, watson, that you have some power of selection which

atones for much which i deplore in your narratives. your fatal

habit of looking at everything from the point of view of a story

instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what might have

been an instructive and even classical series of demonstrations.

you slur over work of the utmost finesse and delicacy in order to

dwell upon sensational details which may excite, but cannot

possibly instruct, the reader."

"why do you not write them yourself?" i said, with some bitterness.

"i will, my dear watson, i will. at present i am, as you know,

fairly busy, but i propose to devote my declining years to the

composition of a text-book which shall focus the whole art of

detection into one volume. our present research appears to be a

case of murder."

"you think this sir eustace is dead, then?"

"i should say so. hopkins's writing shows considerable agitation,

and he is not an emotional man. yes, i gather there has been

violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. a mere

suicide would not have caused him to send for me. as to the

release of the lady, it would appear that she has been locked in

her room during the tragedy. we are moving in high life, watson;

crackling paper, 'e.b.' monogram, coat-of-arms, picturesque

address. i think that friend hopkins will live up to his

reputation and that we shall have an interesting morning.

the crime was committed before twelve last night."

"how can you possibly tell?"

"by an inspection of the trains and by reckoning the time. the

local police had to be called in, they had to communicate with

scotland yard, hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send

for me. all that makes a fair night's work. well, here we are at

chislehurst station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest."

a drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought

us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old lodge-keeper,

whose haggard face bore the reflection of some great disaster.

the avenue ran through a noble park, between lines of ancient

elms, and ended in a low, widespread house, pillared in front

after the fashion of palladio. the central part was evidently of

a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the large windows showed that

modern changes had been carried out, and one wing of the house

appeared to be entirely new. the youthful figure and alert,

eager face of inspector stanley hopkins confronted us in the open

doorway.

"i'm very glad you have come, mr. holmes. and you too,

dr. watson! but, indeed, if i had my time over again i should not

have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself she has

given so clear an account of the affair that there is not much

left for us to do. you remember that lewisham gang of burglars?"

"what, the three randalls?"

"exactly; the father and two sons. it's their work. i have not a

doubt of it. they did a job at sydenham a fortnight ago, and were

seen and described. rather cool to do another so soon and so

near, but it is they, beyond all doubt. it's a hanging matter

this time."

"sir eustace is dead, then?"

"yes; his head was knocked in with his own poker."

"sir eustace brackenstall, the driver tells me."

"exactly -- one of the richest