pt his own

counsel, but, as he told me that inspector lestrade had taken him

into his confidence in the case, i knew that he was in close touch

with every development. upon the fourth day there appeared a long

telegram from paris which seemed to solve the whole question.

"a discovery has just been made by the parisian police," said the

_daily telegraph_, "which raises the veil which hung round the

tragic fate of mr. eduardo lucas, who met his death by violence

last monday night at godolphin street, westminster. our readers

will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in his

room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but that the

case broke down on an _alibi_. yesterday a lady, who has been

known as mme. henri fournaye, occupying a small villa in the rue

austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as

being insane. an examination showed that she had indeed developed

mania of a dangerous and permanent form. on inquiry the police

have discovered that mme. henri fournaye only returned from a

journey to london on tuesday last, and there is evidence to

connect her with the crime at westminster. a comparison of

photographs has proved conclusively that m. henri fournaye and

eduardo lucas were really one and the same person, and that the

deceased had for some reason lived a double life in london and

paris. mme. fournaye, who is of creole origin, is of an extremely

excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of

jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. it is conjectured that it

was in one of these that she committed the terrible crime which

has caused such a sensation in london. her movements upon the

monday night have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a

woman answering to her description attracted much attention at

charing cross station on tuesday morning by the wildness of her

appearance and the violence of her gestures. it is probable,

therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or

that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of

her mind. at present she is unable to give any coherent account

of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the

re-establishment of her reason. there is evidence that a woman,

who might have been mme. fournaye, was seen for some hours on

monday night watching the house in godolphin street."

"what do you think of that, holmes?" i had read the account aloud

to him, while he finished his breakfast.

"my dear watson," said he, as he rose from the table and paced up

and down the room, "you are most long-suffering, but if i have

told you nothing in the last three days it is because there is

nothing to tell. even now this report from paris does not help us

much."

"surely it is final as regards the man's death."

"the man's death is a mere incident -- a trivial episode -- in

comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document and

save a european catastrophe. only one important thing has

happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has

happened. i get reports almost hourly from the government, and it

is certain that nowhere in europe is there any sign of trouble.

now, if this letter were loose -- no, it _can't_ be loose -- but

if it isn't loose, where can it be? who has it? why is it held

back? that's the question that beats in my brain like a hammer.

was it, indeed, a coincidence that lucas should meet his death on

the night when the letter disappeared? did the letter ever reach

him? if so, why is it not among his papers? did this mad wife of

his carry it off with her? if so, is it in her house in paris?

how could i search for it without the french police having their

suspicions aroused? it is a case, my dear watson, where the law

is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. every man's hand is

against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. should i

bring it to a successful conclusion it will certainly represent

the crowning glory of my career. ah, here is my latest from the

front!" he glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed

in. "halloa! lestrade seems to have observed something of

interest. put on your hat, watson, and we will stroll down

together to westminster."

it was my first visit to the scene of the crime -- a high, dingy,

narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century

which gave it birth. lestrade's bulldog features gazed out at us

from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big

constable had opened the door and let us in. the room into which

we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but

no trace of it now remained, save an ugly, irregular stain upon

the carpet. this carpet was a small square drugget in the centre

of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,

old-fashioned wood-flooring in sq