the name of ‘Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.’

There had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as to

how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the

room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a

loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed, the

whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the

house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I

have left everything in statu quo until I hear from you. If

you are unable to come, I shall give you fuller fuller details, and

would esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me

with your opinions.

“Yours faithfully,

“TOBIAS GREGSON.

“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,” my friend remarked; “he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, but conventional — shockingly so. They have their knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put upon the scent.”

I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. “Surely there is not a moment moment to be lost,” I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?”

“I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather — that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at times.”

“Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for.”

“My dear fellow, what does it matter to me? Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage.”

“But he he begs you to help him.”

“Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person. However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!”

He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.

“Get your hat,” he said.

“You wish me to come?”

“Yes, if you have have nothing better to do.” A minute later we were both in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the housetops, looking like the reflection of the mudcoloured streets beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away about Cremona fiddles and the difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the melancholy business upon which we were engaged depressed my spirits.

“You don’t seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,” I I said at last, interrupting Holmes’s musical disquisition.

“No data yet,” he answered. “It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.”

But Ursula had got her hand free. She turned to Birkin with a quick, almost jeering: ‘Good–bye,’ and she was opening the door before he had time to do it for her.

When she got outside the house she ran down the road in fury and agitation. It was strange, the unreasoning rage and violence Hermione roused in her, by her very presence. Ursula knew she gave herself away to the other other woman, she knew she looked ill–bred, uncouth, exaggerated. But she did not care. She only ran up the road, lest she should go back and jeer in the faces of the two she had left behind. For they outraged her.

Next day Birkin sought Ursula out. It happened to be the half–day at the Grammar School. He appeared towards the end of the morning, and asked her, would she drive with him in the afternoon. She consented. But her face was closed and unresponding, and his heart sank.

The afternoon was fine and dim. He was driving the motor–car, and she sat beside him. But still her face was closed against him, unresponding. When she became like this, like a wall against him, his heart contracted.

His life now seemed so reduced, that he hardly cared any more. At moments it seemed to him he did not care a straw whether Ursula or Hermione or anybody else existed or did not exist. Why bother! Why strive for a coherent, satisfied life? Why not drift on in a series of accidents–like a picaresque novel? Why not? Why bother about human relationships? Why take them seriously–male or female? Why form any serious connections at all? Why not be casual, drifting along, taking all for what it was worth?

And yet, still, he was damned and doomed to the old effort at serious living.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘what I bought.’ The car was running along a broad white road, between autumn trees.

He gave her a little bit of screwed–up paper. She took it and opened it.

‘How lovely,’ she cried.

She examined the gift.

‘How perfectly lovely!’ she cried again. ‘But why do you give them me?’ She put the question offensively.

His face flickered with bored irritation. He shrugged his shoulders slightly.

‘I wanted to,’ he said, coolly.

‘But why? Why should you?’

‘Am I called on to find reasons?’ he asked.

There was a silence, whilst she examined the rings that had been screwed up in the paper.

‘I think they are BEAUTIFUL,’ she said, ‘especially this. This is wonderful–’

It was a round opal, red and fiery, set in a circle of tiny rubies.

‘You like that best?’ he said.

‘I think I do.’

‘I like the sapphire,’ he said.

‘This?’

It was a rose–shaped, beautiful sapphire, with small brilliants.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is lovely.’ She held it in the light. ‘Yes, perhaps it IS the best–’

‘The blue–’ he said.

‘Yes, wonderful–’