


      We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small
      stage at Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more
      sudden and startling than the first appearance of Thorneycroft
      Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc. His card, which seemed too small to
      carry the weight of his academic distinctions, preceded him by a
      few seconds, and then he entered himself—so large, so pompous,
      and so dignified that he was the very embodiment of
      self-possession and solidity. And yet his first action, when the
      door had closed behind him, was to stagger against the table,
      whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that
      majestic figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin
      hearth-rug.

      We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared in
      silent amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which told
      of some sudden and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life. Then
      Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head, and I with brandy for
      his lips. The heavy, white face was seamed with lines of trouble,
      the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were leaden in colour,
      the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the corners, the rolling
      chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore the grime of a long
      journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from the well-shaped head.
      It was a sorely stricken man who lay before us.

      “What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

      “Absolute exhaustion—possibly mere hunger and fatigue,” said I,
      with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life
      trickled thin and small.

      “Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north of England,” said
      Holmes, drawing it from the watch-pocket. “It is not twelve
      o’clock yet. He has certainly been an early starter.”

      The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of
      vacant grey eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had
      scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.

      “Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes, I have been a little
      overwrought. Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a
      biscuit, I have no doubt that I should be better. I came
      personally, Mr. Holmes, in order to insure that you would return
      with me. I feared that no telegram would convince you of the
      absolute urgency of the case.”

      “When you are quite restored——”

      “I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how I came to be so
      weak. I wish you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me by the
      next train.”

      My friend shook his head.

      “My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very busy
      at present. I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Documents,
      and the Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial. Only a very
      important issue could call me from London at present.”

      “Important!” Our visitor threw up his hands. “Have you heard
      nothing of the abduction of the only son of the Duke of
      Holdernesse?”

      “What! the late Cabinet Minister?”

      “Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there
      was some rumour in the _Globe_ last night. I thought it might
      have reached your ears.”

      Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked out Volume “H” in
      his encyclopædia of reference.

      “‘Holdernesse, 6th Duke, K.G., P.C.’—half the alphabet! ‘Baron
      Beverley, Earl of Carston’—dear me, what a list! ‘Lord Lieutenant
      of Hallamshire since 1900. Married Edith, daughter of Sir Charles
      Appledore, 1888. Heir and only child, Lord Saltire. Owns about
      two hundred and fifty thousand acres. Minerals in Lancashire and
      Wales. Address: Carlton House Terrace; Holdernesse Hall,
      Hallamshire; Carston Castle, Bangor, Wales. Lord of the
      Admiralty, 1872; Chief Secretary of State for——’ Well, well, this
      man is certainly one of the greatest subjects of the Crown!”

      “The greatest and perhaps the wealthiest. I am aware, Mr. Holmes,
      that you take a very high line in professional matters, and that
      you are prepared to work for the work’s sake. I may tell you,
      however, that his Grace has already intimated that a check for
      five thousand pounds will be handed over to the person who can
      tell him where his son is, and another thousand to him who can
      name the man or men who have taken him.”

      “It is a princely offer,” said Holmes. “Watson, I think that we
      shall accompany Dr. Huxtable back to the north of England. And
      now, Dr. Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk, you will
      kindly tell me what has happened, when it happened, how it
      happened, and, finally, what Dr. Thorneycroft Huxtable, of the
      Priory School, near Mackleton, has to do with the matter, and why
      he comes three days after an event—the state of your chin gives
      the date—to ask for my humble services.”

      Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits. The light had
      come back to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks, as he set
      himself with great vigour and lucidity to explain the situation.

      “I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is a preparatory
      school, of which I am the founder and principal. _Huxtable’s
      Sidelights on Horace_ may possibly recall my name to your
      memories. The Priory is, without exception, the best and most
      select preparatory school in England. Lord Leverstoke, the Earl
      of Blackwater, Sir Cathcart Soames—they all have intrusted their
      sons to me. But I felt that my school had reached its zenith
      when, weeks ago, the Duke of Holdernesse sent Mr. James Wilder,
      his secretary, with intimation that young Lord Saltire, ten years
      old, his only son and heir, was about to be committed to my
      charge. Little did I think that this would be the prelude to the
      most crushing misfortune of my life.

      “On May 1st the boy arrived, that being the beginning of the
      summer term. He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into our
      ways. I may tell you—I trust that I am not indiscreet, but
      half-confidences are absurd in such a case—that he was not
      entirely happy at home. It is an open secret that the Duke’s
      married life had not been a peaceful one, and the matter had
      ended in a separation by mutual consent, the Duchess taking up
      her residence in the south of France. This had occurred very
      shortly before, and the boy’s sympathies are known to have been
      strongly with his mother. He moped after her departure from
      Holdernesse Hall, and it was for this reason that the Duke
      desired to send him to my establishment. In a fortnight the boy
      was quite at home with us and was apparently absolutely happy.

      “He was last seen on the night of May 13th—that is, the night of
      last Monday. His room was on the second floor and was approached
      through another larger room, in which two boys were sleeping.
      These boys saw and heard nothing, so that it is certain that
      young Saltire did not pass out that way. His window was open, and
      there is a stout ivy plant leading to the ground. We could trace
      no footmarks below, but it is sure that this is the only possible
      exit.

      “His absence was discovered at seven o’clock on Tuesday morning.
      His bed had been slept in. He had dressed himself fully, before
      going off, in his usual school suit of black Eton jacket and dark
      grey trousers. There were no signs that anyone had entered the
      room, and it is quite certain that anything in the nature of
      cries or a struggle would have been heard, since Caunter, the
      elder boy in the inner room, is a very light sleeper.

      “When Lord Saltire’s disappearance was discovered, I at once
      called a roll of the whole establishment—boys, masters, and
      servants. It was then that we ascertained that Lord Saltire had
      not been alone in his flight. Heidegger, the German master, was
      missing. His room was on the second floor, at the farther end of
      the building, facing the same way as Lord Saltire’s. His bed had
      also been slept in, but he had apparently gone away partly
      dressed, since his shirt and socks were lying on the floor. He
      had undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy, for we could see the
      marks of his feet where he had landed on the lawn. His bicycle
      was kept in a small shed beside this lawn, and it also was gone.

      “He had been with me for two years, and came with the best
      references, but he was a silent, morose man, not very popular
      either with masters or boys. No trace could be found of the
      fugitives, and now, on Thursday morning, we are as ignorant as we
      were on Tuesday. Inquiry was, of course, made at once at
      Holdernesse Hall. It is only a few miles away, and we imagined
      that, in some sudden attack of homesickness, he had gone back to
      his father, but nothing had been heard of him. The Duke is
      greatly agitated, and, as to me, you have seen yourselves the
      state of nervous prostration to which the suspense and the
      responsibility have reduced me. Mr. Holmes, if ever you put
      forward your full powers, I implore you to do so now, for never
      in your life could you have a case which is more worthy of them.”

      Sherlock Holmes had listened with the utmost intentness to the
      statement of the unhappy schoolmaster. His drawn brows and the
      deep furrow between them showed that he needed no exhortation to
      concentrate all his attention upon a problem which, apart from
      the tremendous interests involved must appeal so directly to his
      love of the complex and the unusual. He now drew out his notebook
      and jotted down one or two memoranda.

      “You have been very remiss in not coming to me sooner,” said he,
      severely. “You start me on my investigation with a very serious
      handicap. It is inconceivable, for example, that this ivy and
      this lawn would have yielded nothing to an expert observer.”

      “I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes. His Grace was extremely desirous
      to avoid all public scandal. He was afraid of his family
      unhappiness being dragged before the world. He has a deep horror
      of anything of the kind.”

      “But there has been some official investigation?”

      “Yes, sir, and it has proved most disappointing. An apparent clue
      was at once obtained, since a boy and a young man were reported
      to have been seen leaving a neighbouring station by an early
      train. Only last night we had news that the couple had been
      hunted down in Liverpool, and they prove to have no connection
      whatever with the matter in hand. Then it was that in my despair
      and disappointment, after a sleepless night, I came straight to
      you by the early train.”

      “I suppose the local investigation was relaxed while this false
      clue was being followed up?”

      “It was entirely dropped.”

      “So that three days have been wasted. The affair has been most
      deplorably handled.”

      “I feel it and admit it.”

      “And yet the problem should be capable of ultimate solution. I
      shall be very happy to look into it. Have you been able to trace
      any connection between the missing boy and this German master?”

      “None at all.”

      “Was he in the master’s class?”

      “No, he never exchanged a word with him, so far as I know.”

      “That is certainly very singular. Had the boy a bicycle?”

      “No.”

      “Was any other bicycle missing?”

      “No.”

      “Is that certain?”

      “Quite.”

      “Well, now, you do not mean to seriously suggest that this German
      rode off upon a bicycle in the dead of the night, bearing the boy
      in his arms?”

      “Certainly not.”

      “Then what is the theory in your mind?”

      “The bicycle may have been a blind. It may have been hidden
      somewhere, and the pair gone off on foot.”

      “Quite so, but it seems rather an absurd blind, does it not? Were
      there other bicycles in this shed?”

      “Several.”

      “Would he not have hidden _a couple_, had he desired to give the
      idea that they had gone off upon them?”

      “I suppose he would.”

      “Of course he would. The blind theory won’t do. But the incident
      is an admirable starting-point for an investigation. After all, a
      bicycle is not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy. One other
      question. Did anyone call to see the boy on the day before he
      disappeared?”

      “No.”

      “Did he get any letters?”

      “Yes, one letter.”

      “From whom?”

      “From his father.”

      “Do you open the boys’ letters?”

      “No.”

      “How do you know it was from the father?”

      “The coat of arms was on the envelope, and it was addressed in
      the Duke’s peculiar stiff hand. Besides, the Duke remembers
      having written.”

      “When had he a letter before that?”

      “Not for several days.”

      “Had he ever one from France?”

      “No, never.

      “You see the point of my questions, of course. Either the boy was
      carried off by force or he went of his own free will. In the
      latter case, you would expect that some prompting from outside
      would be needed to make so young a lad do such a thing. If he has
      had no visitors, that prompting must have come in letters; hence
      I try to find out who were his correspondents.”

      “I fear I cannot help you much. His only correspondent, so far as
      I know, was his own father.”

      “Who wrote to him on the very day of his disappearance. Were the
      relations between father and son very friendly?”

      “His Grace is never very friendly with anyone. He is completely
      immersed in large public questions, and is rather inaccessible to
      all ordinary emotions. But he was always kind to the boy in his
      own way.”

      “But the sympathies of the latter were with the mother?”

      “Yes.”

      “Did he say so?”

      “No.”

      “The Duke, then?”

      “Good Heavens, no!”

      “Then how could you know?”

      “I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his
      Grace’s secretary. It was he who gave me the information about
      Lord Saltire’s feelings.”

      “I see. By the way, that last letter of the Duke’s—was it found
      in the boy’s room after he was gone?”

      “No, he had taken it with him. I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time
      that we were leaving for Euston.”

      “I will order a four-wheeler. In a quarter of an hour, we shall
      be at your service. If you are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable,
      it would be well to allow the people in your neighbourhood to
      imagine that the inquiry is still going on in Liverpool, or
      wherever else that red herring led your pack. In the meantime I
      will do a little quiet work at your own doors, and perhaps the
      scent is not so cold but that two old hounds like Watson and
      myself may get a sniff of it.”

      That evening found us in the cold, bracing atmosphere of the Peak
      country, in which Dr. Huxtable’s famous school is situated. It
      was already dark when we reached it. A card was lying on the hall
      table, and the butler whispered something to his master, who
      turned to us with agitation in every heavy feature.

      “The Duke is here,” said he. “The Duke and Mr. Wilder are in the
      study. Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you.”

      I was, of course, familiar with the pictures of the famous
      statesman, but the man himself was very different from his
      representation. He was a tall and stately person, scrupulously
      dressed, with a drawn, thin face, and a nose which was
      grotesquely curved and long. His complexion was of a dead pallor,
      which was more startling by contrast with a long, dwindling beard
      of vivid red, which flowed down over his white waistcoat with his
      watch-chain gleaming through its fringe. Such was the stately
      presence who looked stonily at us from the centre of Dr.
      Huxtable’s hearthrug. Beside him stood a very young man, whom I
      understood to be Wilder, the private secretary. He was small,
      nervous, alert with intelligent light-blue eyes and mobile
      features. It was he who at once, in an incisive and positive
      tone, opened the conversation.

      “I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to prevent you
      from starting for London. I learned that your object was to
      invite Mr. Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this case.
      His Grace is surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should have taken
      such a step without consulting him.”

      “When I learned that the police had failed——”

      “His Grace is by no means convinced that the police have failed.”

      “But surely, Mr. Wilder——”

      “You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his Grace is particularly
      anxious to avoid all public scandal. He prefers to take as few
      people as possible into his confidence.”

      “The matter can be easily remedied,” said the brow-beaten doctor;
      “Mr. Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the morning train.”

      “Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that,” said Holmes, in his blandest
      voice. “This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I
      propose to spend a few days upon your moors, and to occupy my
      mind as best I may. Whether I have the shelter of your roof or of
      the village inn is, of course, for you to decide.”

      I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of
      indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous voice
      of the red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a dinner-gong.

      “I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have done
      wisely to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already been taken
      into your confidence, it would indeed be absurd that we should
      not avail ourselves of his services. Far from going to the inn,
      Mr. Holmes, I should be pleased if you would come and stay with
      me at Holdernesse Hall.”

      “I thank your Grace. For the purposes of my investigation, I
      think that it would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of the
      mystery.”

      “Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information which Mr. Wilder
      or I can give you is, of course, at your disposal.”

      “It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall,”
      said Holmes. “I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have
      formed any explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious
      disappearance of your son?”

      “No, sir, I have not.”

      “Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you, but I
      have no alternative. Do you think that the Duchess had anything
      to do with the matter?”

      The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.

      “I do not think so,” he said, at last.

      “The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been
      kidnapped for the purpose of levying ransom. You have not had any
      demand of the sort?”

      “No, sir.”

      “One more question, your Grace. I understand that you wrote to
      your son upon the day when this incident occurred.”

      “No, I wrote upon the day before.”

      “Exactly. But he received it on that day?”

      “Yes.”

      “Was there anything in your letter which might have unbalanced
      him or induced him to take such a step?”

      “No, sir, certainly not.”

      “Did you post that letter yourself?”

      The nobleman’s reply was interrupted by his secretary, who broke
      in with some heat.

      “His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself,” said
      he. “This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and I
      myself put them in the post-bag.”

      “You are sure this one was among them?”

      “Yes, I observed it.”

      “How many letters did your Grace write that day?”

      “Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence. But surely this
      is somewhat irrelevant?”

      “Not entirely,” said Holmes.

      “For my own part,” the Duke continued, “I have advised the police
      to turn their attention to the south of France. I have already
      said that I do not believe that the Duchess would encourage so
      monstrous an action, but the lad had the most wrong-headed
      opinions, and it is possible that he may have fled to her, aided
      and abetted by this German. I think, Dr. Huxtable, that we will
      now return to the Hall.”

      I could see that there were other questions which Holmes would
      have wished to put, but the nobleman’s abrupt manner showed that
      the interview was at an end. It was evident that to his intensely
      aristocratic nature this discussion of his intimate family
      affairs with a stranger was most abhorrent, and that he feared
      lest every fresh question would throw a fiercer light into the
      discreetly shadowed corners of his ducal history.

      When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend flung
      himself at once with characteristic eagerness into the
      investigation.

      The boy’s chamber was carefully examined, and yielded nothing
      save the absolute conviction that it was only through the window
      that he could have escaped. The German master’s room and effects
      gave no further clue. In his case a trailer of ivy had given way
      under his weight, and we saw by the light of a lantern the mark
      on the lawn where his heels had come down. That one dint in the
      short, green grass was the only material witness left of this
      inexplicable nocturnal flight.

      Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after
      eleven. He had obtained a large ordnance map of the
      neighbourhood, and this he brought into my room, where he laid it
      out on the bed, and, having balanced the lamp in the middle of
      it, he began to smoke over it, and occasionally to point out
      objects of interest with the reeking amber of his pipe.

      “This case grows upon me, Watson,” said he. “There are decidedly
      some points of interest in connection with it. In this early
      stage, I want you to realize those geographical features which
      may have a good deal to do with our investigation.

      Holmes'-map

      HOLMES’ MAP OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE SCHOOL.

      “Look at this map. This dark square is the Priory School. I’ll
      put a pin in it. Now, this line is the main road. You see that it
      runs east and west past the school, and you see also that there
      is no side road for a mile either way. If these two folk passed
      away by road, it was _this_ road.”

      “Exactly.”

      “By a singular and happy chance, we are able to some extent to
      check what passed along this road during the night in question.
      At this point, where my pipe is now resting, a county constable
      was on duty from twelve to six. It is, as you perceive, the first
      cross-road on the east side. This man declares that he was not
      absent from his post for an instant, and he is positive that
      neither boy nor man could have gone that way unseen. I have
      spoken with this policeman to-night and he appears to me to be a
      perfectly reliable person. That blocks this end. We have now to
      deal with the other. There is an inn here, the Red Bull, the
      landlady of which was ill. She had sent to Mackleton for a
      doctor, but he did not arrive until morning, being absent at
      another case. The people at the inn were alert all night,
      awaiting his coming, and one or other of them seems to have
      continually had an eye upon the road. They declare that no one
      passed. If their evidence is good, then we are fortunate enough
      to be able to block the west, and also to be able to say that the
      fugitives did _not_ use the road at all.”

      “But the bicycle?” I objected.

      “Quite so. We will come to the bicycle presently. To continue our
      reasoning: if these people did not go by the road, they must have
      traversed the country to the north of the house or to the south
      of the house. That is certain. Let us weigh the one against the
      other. On the south of the house is, as you perceive, a large
      district of arable land, cut up into small fields, with stone
      walls between them. There, I admit that a bicycle is impossible.
      We can dismiss the idea. We turn to the country on the north.
      Here there lies a grove of trees, marked as the ‘Ragged Shaw,’
      and on the farther side stretches a great rolling moor, Lower
      Gill Moor, extending for ten miles and sloping gradually upward.
      Here, at one side of this wilderness, is Holdernesse Hall, ten
      miles by road, but only six across the moor. It is a peculiarly
      desolate plain. A few moor farmers have small holdings, where
      they rear sheep and cattle. Except these, the plover and the
      curlew are the only inhabitants until you come to the
      Chesterfield high road. There is a church there, you see, a few
      cottages, and an inn. Beyond that the hills become precipitous.
      Surely it is here to the north that our quest must lie.”

      “But the bicycle?” I persisted.

      “Well, well!” said Holmes, impatiently. “A good cyclist does not
      need a high road. The moor is intersected with paths, and the
      moon was at the full. Halloa! what is this?”

      There was an agitated knock at the door, and an instant
      afterwards Dr. Huxtable was in the room. In his hand he held a
      blue cricket-cap with a white chevron on the peak.

      “At last we have a clue!” he cried. “Thank heaven! at last we are
      on the dear boy’s track! It is his cap.”

      “Where was it found?”

      “In the van of the gipsies who camped on the moor. They left on
      Tuesday. To-day the police traced them down and examined their
      caravan. This was found.”

      “How do they account for it?”

      “They shuffled and lied—said that they found it on the moor on
      Tuesday morning. They know where he is, the rascals! Thank
      goodness, they are all safe under lock and key. Either the fear
      of the law or the Duke’s purse will certainly get out of them all
      that they know.”

      “So far, so good,” said Holmes, when the doctor had at last left
      the room. “It at least bears out the theory that it is on the
      side of the Lower Gill Moor that we must hope for results. The
      police have really done nothing locally, save the arrest of these
      gipsies. Look here, Watson! There is a watercourse across the
      moor. You see it marked here in the map. In some parts it widens
      into a morass. This is particularly so in the region between
      Holdernesse Hall and the school. It is vain to look elsewhere for
      tracks in this dry weather, but at _that_ point there is
      certainly a chance of some record being left. I will call you
      early to-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we can throw
      some little light upon the mystery.”

      The day was just breaking when I woke to find the long, thin form
      of Holmes by my bedside. He was fully dressed, and had apparently
      already been out.

      “I have done the lawn and the bicycle shed,” said he. “I have
      also had a rumble through the Ragged Shaw. Now, Watson, there is
      cocoa ready in the next room. I must beg you to hurry, for we
      have a great day before us.”

      His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with the exhilaration
      of the master workman who sees his work lie ready before him. A
      very different Holmes, this active, alert man, from the
      introspective and pallid dreamer of Baker Street. I felt, as I
      looked upon that supple figure, alive with nervous energy, that
      it was indeed a strenuous day that awaited us.

      And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment. With high hopes
      we struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with a
      thousand sheep paths, until we came to the broad, light-green
      belt which marked the morass between us and Holdernesse.
      Certainly, if the lad had gone homeward, he must have passed
      this, and he could not pass it without leaving his traces. But no
      sign of him or the German could be seen. With a darkening face my
      friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant of every muddy
      stain upon the mossy surface. Sheep-marks there were in
      profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had left their
      tracks. Nothing more.

      “Check number one,” said Holmes, looking gloomily over the
      rolling expanse of the moor. “There is another morass down
      yonder, and a narrow neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa! what
      have we here?”

      We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway. In the middle of
      it, clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of a
      bicycle.

      “Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”

      But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled and
      expectant rather than joyous.

      “A bicycle, certainly, but not _the_ bicycle,” said he. “I am
      familiar with forty-two different impressions left by tires.
      This, as you perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer
      cover. Heidegger’s tires were Palmer’s, leaving longitudinal
      stripes. Aveling, the mathematical master, was sure upon the
      point. Therefore, it is not Heidegger’s track.”

      “The boy’s, then?”

      “Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle to have been in his
      possession. But this we have utterly failed to do. This track, as
      you perceive, was made by a rider who was going from the
      direction of the school.”

      “Or towards it?”

      “No, no, my dear Watson. The more deeply sunk impression is, of
      course, the hind wheel, upon which the weight rests. You perceive
      several places where it has passed across and obliterated the
      more shallow mark of the front one. It was undoubtedly heading
      away from the school. It may or may not be connected with our
      inquiry, but we will follow it backwards before we go any
      farther.”

      We did so, and at the end of a few hundred yards lost the tracks
      as we emerged from the boggy portion of the moor. Following the
      path backwards, we picked out another spot, where a spring
      trickled across it. Here, once again, was the mark of the
      bicycle, though nearly obliterated by the hoofs of cows. After
      that there was no sign, but the path ran right on into Ragged
      Shaw, the wood which backed on to the school. From this wood the
      cycle must have emerged. Holmes sat down on a boulder and rested
      his chin in his hands. I had smoked two cigarettes before he
      moved.

      “Well, well,” said he, at last. “It is, of course, possible that
      a cunning man might change the tires of his bicycle in order to
      leave unfamiliar tracks. A criminal who was capable of such a
      thought is a man whom I should be proud to do business with. We
      will leave this question undecided and hark back to our morass
      again, for we have left a good deal unexplored.”

      We continued our systematic survey of the edge of the sodden
      portion of the moor, and soon our perseverance was gloriously
      rewarded. Right across the lower part of the bog lay a miry path.
      Holmes gave a cry of delight as he approached it. An impression
      like a fine bundle of telegraph wires ran down the centre of it.
      It was the Palmer tires.

      “Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!” cried Holmes, exultantly.
      “My reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson.”

      “I congratulate you.”

      “But we have a long way still to go. Kindly walk clear of the
      path. Now let us follow the trail. I fear that it will not lead
      very far.”

      We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of the moor
      is intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequently lost
      sight of the track, we always succeeded in picking it up once
      more.

      “Do you observe,” said Holmes, “that the rider is now undoubtedly
      forcing the pace? There can be no doubt of it. Look at this
      impression, where you get both tires clear. The one is as deep as
      the other. That can only mean that the rider is throwing his
      weight on to the handle-bar, as a man does when he is sprinting.
      By Jove! he has had a fall.”

      There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of the
      track. Then there were a few footmarks, and the tire reappeared
      once more.

      “A side-slip,” I suggested.

      Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse. To my horror
      I perceived that the yellow blossoms were all dabbled with
      crimson. On the path, too, and among the heather were dark stains
      of clotted blood.

      “Bad!” said Holmes. “Bad! Stand clear, Watson! Not an unnecessary
      footstep! What do I read here? He fell wounded—he stood up—he
      remounted—he proceeded. But there is no other track. Cattle on
      this side path. He was surely not gored by a bull? Impossible!
      But I see no traces of anyone else. We must push on, Watson.
      Surely, with stains as well as the track to guide us, he cannot
      escape us now.”

      Our search was not a very long one. The tracks of the tire began
      to curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path. Suddenly,
      as I looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye from amid the
      thick gorse-bushes. Out of them we dragged a bicycle,
      Palmer-tired, one pedal bent, and the whole front of it horribly
      smeared and slobbered with blood. On the other side of the bushes
      a shoe was projecting. We ran round, and there lay the
      unfortunate rider. He was a tall man, full-bearded, with
      spectacles, one glass of which had been knocked out. The cause of
      his death was a frightful blow upon the head, which had crushed
      in part of his skull. That he could have gone on after receiving
      such an injury said much for the vitality and courage of the man.
      He wore shoes, but no socks, and his open coat disclosed a
      nightshirt beneath it. It was undoubtedly the German master.

      Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with
      great attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I
      could see by his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not,
      in his opinion, advanced us much in our inquiry.

      “It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson,” said he,
      at last. “My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we
      have already lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste
      another hour. On the other hand, we are bound to inform the
      police of the discovery, and to see that this poor fellow’s body
      is looked after.”

      “I could take a note back.”

      “But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is a
      fellow cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will
      guide the police.”

      I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the
      frightened man with a note to Dr. Huxtable.

      “Now, Watson,” said he, “we have picked up two clues this
      morning. One is the bicycle with the Palmer tire, and we see what
      that has led to. The other is the bicycle with the patched
      Dunlop. Before we start to investigate that, let us try to
      realize what we _do_ know, so as to make the most of it, and to
      separate the essential from the accidental.”

      “First of all, I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly
      left of his own free-will. He got down from his window and he
      went off, either alone or with someone. That is sure.”

      I assented.

      “Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master. The
      boy was fully dressed when he fled. Therefore, he foresaw what he
      would do. But the German went without his socks. He certainly
      acted on very short notice.”

      “Undoubtedly.”

      “Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw the
      flight of the boy, because he wished to overtake him and bring
      him back. He seized his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in pursuing
      him met his death.”

      “So it would seem.”

      “Now I come to the critical part of my argument. The natural
      action of a man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after
      him. He would know that he could overtake him. But the German
      does not do so. He turns to his bicycle. I am told that he was an
      excellent cyclist. He would not do this, if he did not see that
      the boy had some swift means of escape.”

      “The other bicycle.”

      “Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death five
      miles from the school—not by a bullet, mark you, which even a lad
      might conceivably discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a
      vigorous arm. The lad, then, _had_ a companion in his flight. And
      the flight was a swift one, since it took five miles before an
      expert cyclist could overtake them. Yet we survey the ground
      round the scene of the tragedy. What do we find? A few
      cattle-tracks, nothing more. I took a wide sweep round, and there
      is no path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have had
      nothing to do with the actual murder, nor were there any human
      foot-marks.”

      “Holmes,” I cried, “this is impossible.”

      “Admirable!” he said. “A most illuminating remark. It _is_
      impossible as I state it, and therefore I must in some respect
      have stated it wrong. Yet you saw for yourself. Can you suggest
      any fallacy?”

      “He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?”

      “In a morass, Watson?”

      “I am at my wits’ end.”

      “Tut, tut, we have solved some worse problems. At least we have
      plenty of material, if we can only use it. Come, then, and,
      having exhausted the Palmer, let us see what the Dunlop with the
      patched cover has to offer us.”

      We picked up the track and followed it onward for some distance,
      but soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted curve, and we
      left the watercourse behind us. No further help from tracks could
      be hoped for. At the spot where we saw the last of the Dunlop
      tire it might equally have led to Holdernesse Hall, the stately
      towers of which rose some miles to our left, or to a low, grey
      village which lay in front of us and marked the position of the
      Chesterfield high road.

      As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the sign of
      a game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden groan, and
      clutched me by the shoulder to save himself from falling. He had
      had one of those violent strains of the ankle which leave a man
      helpless. With difficulty he limped up to the door, where a
      squat, dark, elderly man was smoking a black clay pipe.

      “How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?” said Holmes.

      “Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?” the countryman
      answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes.

      “Well, it’s printed on the board above your head. It’s easy to
      see a man who is master of his own house. I suppose you haven’t
      such a thing as a carriage in your stables?”

      “No, I have not.”

      “I can hardly put my foot to the ground.”

      “Don’t put it to the ground.”

      “But I can’t walk.”

      “Well, then hop.”

      Mr. Reuben Hayes’s manner was far from gracious, but Holmes took
      it with admirable good-humour.

      “Look here, my man,” said he. “This is really rather an awkward
      fix for me. I don’t mind how I get on.”

      “Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.

      “The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign for
      the use of a bicycle.”

      The landlord pricked up his ears.

      “Where do you want to go?”

      “To Holdernesse Hall.”

      “Pals of the Dook, I suppose?” said the landlord, surveying our
      mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.

      Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

      “He’ll be glad to see us, anyhow.”

      “Why?”

      “Because we bring him news of his lost son.”

      The landlord gave a very visible start.

      “What, you’re on his track?”

      “He has been heard of in Liverpool. They expect to get him every
      hour.”

      Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face. His
      manner was suddenly genial.

      “I’ve less reason to wish the Dook well than most men,” said he,
      “for I was head coachman once, and cruel bad he treated me. It
      was him that sacked me without a character on the word of a lying
      corn-chandler. But I’m glad to hear that the young lord was heard
      of in Liverpool, and I’ll help you to take the news to the Hall.”

      “Thank you,” said Holmes. “We’ll have some food first. Then you
      can bring round the bicycle.”

      “I haven’t got a bicycle.”

      Holmes held up a sovereign.

      “I tell you, man, that I haven’t got one. I’ll let you have two
      horses as far as the Hall.”

      “Well, well,” said Holmes, “we’ll talk about it when we’ve had
      something to eat.”

      When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen, it was
      astonishing how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered. It was
      nearly nightfall, and we had eaten nothing since early morning,
      so that we spent some time over our meal. Holmes was lost in
      thought, and once or twice he walked over to the window and
      stared earnestly out. It opened on to a squalid courtyard. In the
      far corner was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at work. On the
      other side were the stables. Holmes had sat down again after one
      of these excursions, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair
      with a loud exclamation.

      “By heaven, Watson, I believe that I’ve got it!” he cried. “Yes,
      yes, it must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing any cow-tracks
      to-day?”

      “Yes, several.”

      “Where?”

      “Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on the
      path, and again near where poor Heidegger met his death.”

      “Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see on the
      moor?”

      “I don’t remember seeing any.”

      “Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our line,
      but never a cow on the whole moor. Very strange, Watson, eh?”

      “Yes, it is strange.”

      “Now, Watson, make an effort, throw your mind back. Can you see
      those tracks upon the path?”

      “Yes, I can.”

      “Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that,
      Watson,”—he arranged a number of breadcrumbs in this fashion—: :
      : : :—“and sometimes like this”—: . : . : . : .—“and occasionally
      like this”—.・.・.・. “Can you remember that?”

      “No, I cannot.”

      “But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at our
      leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been, not to
      draw my conclusion.”

      “And what is your conclusion?”

      “Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and
      gallops. By George! Watson, it was no brain of a country publican
      that thought out such a blind as that. The coast seems to be
      clear, save for that lad in the smithy. Let us slip out and see
      what we can see.”

      There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-down
      stable. Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and laughed
      aloud.

      “Old shoes, but newly shod—old shoes, but new nails. This case
      deserves to be a classic. Let us go across to the smithy.”

      The lad continued his work without regarding us. I saw Holmes’s
      eye darting to right and left among the litter of iron and wood
      which was scattered about the floor. Suddenly, however, we heard
      a step behind us, and there was the landlord, his heavy eyebrows
      drawn over his savage eyes, his swarthy features convulsed with
      passion. He held a short, metal-headed stick in his hand, and he
      advanced in so menacing a fashion that I was right glad to feel
      the revolver in my pocket.

      “You infernal spies!” the man cried. “What are you doing there?”

      “Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes,” said Holmes, coolly, “one might think
      that you were afraid of our finding something out.”

      The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim
      mouth loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing than
      his frown.

      “You’re welcome to all you can find out in my smithy,” said he.
      “But look here, mister, I don’t care for folk poking about my
      place without my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and get
      out of this the better I shall be pleased.”

      “All right, Mr. Hayes, no harm meant,” said Holmes. “We have been
      having a look at your horses, but I think I’ll walk, after all.
      It’s not far, I believe.”

      “Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That’s the road to
      the left.” He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his
      premises.

      We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the
      instant that the curve hid us from the landlord’s view.

      “We were warm, as the children say, at that inn,” said he. “I
      seem to grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no,
      I can’t possibly leave it.”

      “I am convinced,” said I, “that this Reuben Hayes knows all about
      it. A more self-evident villain I never saw.”

      “Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the horses,
      there is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this
      Fighting Cock. I think we shall have another look at it in an
      unobtrusive way.”

      A long, sloping hillside, dotted with grey limestone boulders,
      stretched behind us. We had turned off the road, and were making
      our way up the hill, when, looking in the direction of
      Holdernesse Hall, I saw a cyclist coming swiftly along.

      “Get down, Watson!” cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon my
      shoulder. We had hardly sunk from view when the man flew past us
      on the road. Amid a rolling cloud of dust, I caught a glimpse of
      a pale, agitated face—a face with horror in every lineament, the
      mouth open, the eyes staring wildly in front. It was like some
      strange caricature of the dapper James Wilder whom we had seen
      the night before.

      “The Duke’s secretary!” cried Holmes. “Come, Watson, let us see
      what he does.”

      We scrambled from rock to rock, until in a few moments we had
      made our way to a point from which we could see the front door of
      the inn. Wilder’s bicycle was leaning against the wall beside it.
      No one was moving about the house, nor could we catch a glimpse
      of any faces at the windows. Slowly the twilight crept down as
      the sun sank behind the high towers of Holdernesse Hall. Then, in
      the gloom, we saw the two side-lamps of a trap light up in the
      stable-yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards heard the rattle
      of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore off at a
      furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.

      “What do you make of that, Watson?” Holmes whispered.

      “It looks like a flight.”

      “A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, it
      certainly was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door.”

      A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. In the
      middle of it was the black figure of the secretary, his head
      advanced, peering out into the night. It was evident that he was
      expecting someone. Then at last there were steps in the road, a
      second figure was visible for an instant against the light, the
      door shut, and all was black once more. Five minutes later a lamp
      was lit in a room upon the first floor.

      “It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by the
      Fighting Cock,” said Holmes.

      “The bar is on the other side.”

      “Quite so. These are what one may call the private guests. Now,
      what in the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that den at this
      hour of night, and who is the companion who comes to meet him
      there? Come, Watson, we must really take a risk and try to
      investigate this a little more closely.”

      Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the door
      of the inn. The bicycle still leaned against the wall. Holmes
      struck a match and held it to the back wheel, and I heard him
      chuckle as the light fell upon a patched Dunlop tire. Up above us
      was the lighted window.

      “I must have a peep through that, Watson. If you bend your back
      and support yourself upon the wall, I think that I can manage.”

      An instant later, his feet were on my shoulders, but he was
      hardly up before he was down again.

      “Come, my friend,” said he, “our day’s work has been quite long
      enough. I think that we have gathered all that we can. It’s a
      long walk to the school, and the sooner we get started the
      better.”

      He hardly opened his lips during that weary trudge across the
      moor, nor would he enter the school when he reached it, but went
      on to Mackleton Station, whence he could send some telegrams.
      Late at night I heard him consoling Dr. Huxtable, prostrated by
      the tragedy of his master’s death, and later still he entered my
      room as alert and vigorous as he had been when he started in the
      morning. “All goes well, my friend,” said he. “I promise that
      before to-morrow evening we shall have reached the solution of
      the mystery.”

      At eleven o’clock next morning my friend and I were walking up
      the famous yew avenue of Holdernesse Hall. We were ushered
      through the magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his Grace’s
      study. There we found Mr. James Wilder, demure and courtly, but
      with some trace of that wild terror of the night before still
      lurking in his furtive eyes and in his twitching features.

      “You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry, but the fact is that
      the Duke is far from well. He has been very much upset by the
      tragic news. We received a telegram from Dr. Huxtable yesterday
      afternoon, which told us of your discovery.”

      “I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.”

      “But he is in his room.”

      “Then I must go to his room.”

      “I believe he is in his bed.”

      “I will see him there.”

      Holmes’s cold and inexorable manner showed the secretary that it
      was useless to argue with him.

      “Very good, Mr. Holmes, I will tell him that you are here.”

      After an hour’s delay, the great nobleman appeared. His face was
      more cadaverous than ever, his shoulders had rounded, and he
      seemed to me to be an altogether older man than he had been the
      morning before. He greeted us with a stately courtesy and seated
      himself at his desk, his red beard streaming down on the table.

      “Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.

      But my friend’s eyes were fixed upon the secretary, who stood by
      his master’s chair.

      “I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr.
      Wilder’s absence.”

      The man turned a shade paler and cast a malignant glance at
      Holmes.

      “If your Grace wishes——”

      “Yes, yes, you had better go. Now, Mr. Holmes, what have you to
      say?”

      My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreating
      secretary.

      “The fact is, your Grace,” said he, “that my colleague, Dr.
      Watson, and myself had an assurance from Dr. Huxtable that a
      reward had been offered in this case. I should like to have this
      confirmed from your own lips.”

      “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

      “It amounted, if I am correctly informed, to five thousand pounds
      to anyone who will tell you where your son is?”

      “Exactly.”

      “And another thousand to the man who will name the person or
      persons who keep him in custody?”

      “Exactly.”

      “Under the latter heading is included, no doubt, not only those
      who may have taken him away, but also those who conspire to keep
      him in his present position?”

      “Yes, yes,” cried the Duke, impatiently. “If you do your work
      well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will have no reason to complain of
      niggardly treatment.”

      My friend rubbed his thin hands together with an appearance of
      avidity which was a surprise to me, who knew his frugal tastes.

      “I fancy that I see your Grace’s check-book upon the table,” said
      he. “I should be glad if you would make me out a check for six
      thousand pounds. It would be as well, perhaps, for you to cross
      it. The Capital and Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch are my
      agents.”

      His Grace sat very stern and upright in his chair and looked
      stonily at my friend.

      “Is this a joke, Mr. Holmes? It is hardly a subject for
      pleasantry.”

      “Not at all, your Grace. I was never more earnest in my life.”

      “What do you mean, then?”

      “I mean that I have earned the reward. I know where your son is,
      and I know some, at least, of those who are holding him.”

      The Duke’s beard had turned more aggressively red than ever
      against his ghastly white face.

      “Where is he?” he gasped.

      “He is, or was last night, at the Fighting Cock Inn, about two
      miles from your park gate.”

      The Duke fell back in his chair.

      “And whom do you accuse?”

      Sherlock Holmes’s answer was an astounding one. He stepped
      swiftly forward and touched the Duke upon the shoulder.

      “I accuse _you_,” said he. “And now, your Grace, I’ll trouble you
      for that check.”

      Never shall I forget the Duke’s appearance as he sprang up and
      clawed with his hands, like one who is sinking into an abyss.
      Then, with an extraordinary effort of aristocratic self-command,
      he sat down and sank his face in his hands. It was some minutes
      before he spoke.

      “How much do you know?” he asked at last, without raising his
      head.

      “I saw you together last night.”

      “Does anyone else beside your friend know?”

      “I have spoken to no one.”

      The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his
      check-book.

      “I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to write
      your check, however unwelcome the information which you have
      gained may be to me. When the offer was first made, I little
      thought the turn which events might take. But you and your friend
      are men of discretion, Mr. Holmes?”

      “I hardly understand your Grace.”

      “I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes. If only you two know of this
      incident, there is no reason why it should go any farther. I
      think twelve thousand pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it
      not?”

      But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

      “I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be arranged so
      easily. There is the death of this schoolmaster to be accounted
      for.”

      “But James knew nothing of that. You cannot hold him responsible
      for that. It was the work of this brutal ruffian whom he had the
      misfortune to employ.”

      “I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks upon a
      crime, he is morally guilty of any other crime which may spring
      from it.”

      “Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. But surely not in
      the eyes of the law. A man cannot be condemned for a murder at
      which he was not present, and which he loathes and abhors as much
      as you do. The instant that he heard of it he made a complete
      confession to me, so filled was he with horror and remorse. He
      lost not an hour in breaking entirely with the murderer. Oh, Mr.
      Holmes, you must save him—you must save him! I tell you that you
      must save him!” The Duke had dropped the last attempt at
      self-command, and was pacing the room with a convulsed face and
      with his clenched hands raving in the air. At last he mastered
      himself and sat down once more at his desk. “I appreciate your
      conduct in coming here before you spoke to anyone else,” said he.
      “At least, we may take counsel how far we can minimize this
      hideous scandal.”

      “Exactly,” said Holmes. “I think, your Grace, that this can only
      be done by absolute frankness between us. I am disposed to help
      your Grace to the best of my ability, but, in order to do so, I
      must understand to the last detail how the matter stands. I
      realize that your words applied to Mr. James Wilder, and that he
      is not the murderer.”

      “No, the murderer has escaped.”

      Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

      “Your Grace can hardly have heard of any small reputation which I
      possess, or you would not imagine that it is so easy to escape
      me. Mr. Reuben Hayes was arrested at Chesterfield, on my
      information, at eleven o’clock last night. I had a telegram from
      the head of the local police before I left the school this
      morning.”

      The Duke leaned back in his chair and stared with amazement at my
      friend.

      “You seem to have powers that are hardly human,” said he. “So
      Reuben Hayes is taken? I am right glad to hear it, if it will not
      react upon the fate of James.”

      “Your secretary?”

      “No, sir, my son.”

      It was Holmes’s turn to look astonished.

      “I confess that this is entirely new to me, your Grace. I must
      beg you to be more explicit.”

      “I will conceal nothing from you. I agree with you that complete
      frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best policy in
      this desperate situation to which James’s folly and jealousy have
      reduced us. When I was a very young man, Mr. Holmes, I loved with
      such a love as comes only once in a lifetime. I offered the lady
      marriage, but she refused it on the grounds that such a match
      might mar my career. Had she lived, I would certainly never have
      married anyone else. She died, and left this one child, whom for
      her sake I have cherished and cared for. I could not acknowledge
      the paternity to the world, but I gave him the best of
      educations, and since he came to manhood I have kept him near my
      person. He surmised my secret, and has presumed ever since upon
      the claim which he has upon me, and upon his power of provoking a
      scandal which would be abhorrent to me. His presence had
      something to do with the unhappy issue of my marriage. Above all,
      he hated my young legitimate heir from the first with a
      persistent hatred. You may well ask me why, under these
      circumstances, I still kept James under my roof. I answer that it
      was because I could see his mother’s face in his, and that for
      her dear sake there was no end to my long-suffering. All her
      pretty ways too—there was not one of them which he could not
      suggest and bring back to my memory. I _could_ not send him away.
      But I feared so much lest he should do Arthur—that is, Lord
      Saltire—a mischief, that I dispatched him for safety to Dr.
      Huxtable’s school.

      “James came into contact with this fellow Hayes, because the man
      was a tenant of mine, and James acted as agent. The fellow was a
      rascal from the beginning, but, in some extraordinary way, James
      became intimate with him. He had always a taste for low company.
      When James determined to kidnap Lord Saltire, it was of this
      man’s service that he availed himself. You remember that I wrote
      to Arthur upon that last day. Well, James opened the letter and
      inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him in a little wood called
      the Ragged Shaw, which is near to the school. He used the
      Duchess’s name, and in that way got the boy to come. That evening
      James bicycled over—I am telling you what he has himself
      confessed to me—and he told Arthur, whom he met in the wood, that
      his mother longed to see him, that she was awaiting him on the
      moor, and that if he would come back into the wood at midnight he
      would find a man with a horse, who would take him to her. Poor
      Arthur fell into the trap. He came to the appointment, and found
      this fellow Hayes with a led pony. Arthur mounted, and they set
      off together. It appears—though this James only heard
      yesterday—that they were pursued, that Hayes struck the pursuer
      with his stick, and that the man died of his injuries. Hayes
      brought Arthur to his public-house, the Fighting Cock, where he
      was confined in an upper room, under the care of Mrs. Hayes, who
      is a kindly woman, but entirely under the control of her brutal
      husband.

      “Well, Mr. Holmes, that was the state of affairs when I first saw
      you two days ago. I had no more idea of the truth than you. You
      will ask me what was James’s motive in doing such a deed. I
      answer that there was a great deal which was unreasoning and
      fanatical in the hatred which he bore my heir. In his view he
      should himself have been heir of all my estates, and he deeply
      resented those social laws which made it impossible. At the same
      time, he had a definite motive also. He was eager that I should
      break the entail, and he was of opinion that it lay in my power
      to do so. He intended to make a bargain with me—to restore Arthur
      if I would break the entail, and so make it possible for the
      estate to be left to him by will. He knew well that I should
      never willingly invoke the aid of the police against him. I say
      that he would have proposed such a bargain to me, but he did not
      actually do so, for events moved too quickly for him, and he had
      not time to put his plans into practice.

      “What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your discovery
      of this man Heidegger’s dead body. James was seized with horror
      at the news. It came to us yesterday, as we sat together in this
      study. Dr. Huxtable had sent a telegram. James was so overwhelmed
      with grief and agitation that my suspicions, which had never been
      entirely absent, rose instantly to a certainty, and I taxed him
      with the deed. He made a complete voluntary confession. Then he
      implored me to keep his secret for three days longer, so as to
      give his wretched accomplice a chance of saving his guilty life.
      I yielded—as I have always yielded—to his prayers, and instantly
      James hurried off to the Fighting Cock to warn Hayes and give him
      the means of flight. I could not go there by daylight without
      provoking comment, but as soon as night fell I hurried off to see
      my dear Arthur. I found him safe and well, but horrified beyond
      expression by the dreadful deed he had witnessed. In deference to
      my promise, and much against my will, I consented to leave him
      there for three days, under the charge of Mrs. Hayes, since it
      was evident that it was impossible to inform the police where he
      was without telling them also who was the murderer, and I could
      not see how that murderer could be punished without ruin to my
      unfortunate James. You asked for frankness, Mr. Holmes, and I
      have taken you at your word, for I have now told you everything
      without an attempt at circumlocution or concealment. Do you in
      turn be as frank with me.”

      “I will,” said Holmes. “In the first place, your Grace, I am
      bound to tell you that you have placed yourself in a most serious
      position in the eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony, and
      you have aided the escape of a murderer, for I cannot doubt that
      any money which was taken by James Wilder to aid his accomplice
      in his flight came from your Grace’s purse.”

      The Duke bowed his assent.

      “This is, indeed, a most serious matter. Even more culpable in my
      opinion, your Grace, is your attitude towards your younger son.
      You leave him in this den for three days.”

      “Under solemn promises——”

      “What are promises to such people as these? You have no guarantee
      that he will not be spirited away again. To humour your guilty
      elder son, you have exposed your innocent younger son to imminent
      and unnecessary danger. It was a most unjustifiable action.”

      The proud lord of Holdernesse was not accustomed to be so rated
      in his own ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high forehead,
      but his conscience held him dumb.

      “I will help you, but on one condition only. It is that you ring
      for the footman and let me give such orders as I like.”

      Without a word, the Duke pressed the electric bell. A servant
      entered.

      “You will be glad to hear,” said Holmes, “that your young master
      is found. It is the Duke’s desire that the carriage shall go at
      once to the Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.

      “Now,” said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disappeared,
      “having secured the future, we can afford to be more lenient with
      the past. I am not in an official position, and there is no
      reason, so long as the ends of justice are served, why I should
      disclose all that I know. As to Hayes, I say nothing. The gallows
      awaits him, and I would do nothing to save him from it. What he
      will divulge I cannot tell, but I have no doubt that your Grace
      could make him understand that it is to his interest to be
      silent. From the police point of view he will have kidnapped the
      boy for the purpose of ransom. If they do not themselves find it
      out, I see no reason why I should prompt them to take a broader
      point of view. I would warn your Grace, however, that the
      continued presence of Mr. James Wilder in your household can only
      lead to misfortune.”

      “I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he
      shall leave me forever, and go to seek his fortune in Australia.”

      “In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that
      any unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence, I
      would suggest that you make such amends as you can to the
      Duchess, and that you try to resume those relations which have
      been so unhappily interrupted.”

      “That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes. I wrote to the Duchess
      this morning.”

      “In that case,” said Holmes, rising, “I think that my friend and
      I can congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results from
      our little visit to the North. There is one other small point
      upon which I desire some light. This fellow Hayes had shod his
      horses with shoes which counterfeited the tracks of cows. Was it
      from Mr. Wilder that he learned so extraordinary a device?”

      The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of intense
      surprise on his face. Then he opened a door and showed us into a
      large room furnished as a museum. He led the way to a glass case
      in a corner, and pointed to the inscription.

      “These shoes,” it ran, “were dug up in the moat of Holdernesse
      Hall. They are for the use of horses, but they are shaped below
      with a cloven foot of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the
      track. They are supposed to have belonged to some of the
      marauding Barons of Holdernesse in the Middle Ages.”

      Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed it
      along the shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.

      “Thank you,” said he, as he replaced the glass. “It is the second
      most interesting object that I have seen in the North.”

      “And the first?”

      Holmes folded up his check and placed it carefully in his
      notebook. “I am a poor man,” said he, as he patted it
      affectionately, and thrust it into the depths of his inner
      pocket.





