He looked pale, and his brows were sombre.

‘And were you sorry when I came along?’ she asked.

‘I was sorry and I was glad.’

‘And what are you now?’

‘I’m sorry, from the outside: all the complications and the ugliness and recrimination that’s bound to come, sooner or later. That’s when my blood sinks, and I’m low. But when my blood comes up, I’m glad. I’m even triumphant. I was really getting bitter. I thought there was no real sex left: never a woman who’d really ‘‘come’’ naturally with a man: except black women, and somehow, well, we’re white men: and they’re a bit like mud.’

‘And now, are you glad of me?’ she asked.

‘Yes! When I can forget the rest. When I can’t forget the rest, I want to get under the table and die.’

‘Why under the table?’

‘Why?’ he laughed. ‘Hide, I suppose. Baby!’

‘You do seem to have had awful experiences of women,’ she said.

‘You see, I couldn’t fool myself. That’s where most men manage. They take an attitude, and accept a lie. I could never fool myself. I knew what I wanted with a woman, and I could never say I’d got it when I hadn’t.’

‘But have you got got it now?’

‘Looks as if I might have.’

‘Then why are you so pale and gloomy?’

‘Bellyful of remembering: and perhaps afraid of myself.’

She sat in silence. It was growing late.

‘And do you think it’s important, a man and a woman?’ she asked him.

‘For me it is. For me it’s the core of my life: if I have a right relation with a woman.’

‘And if you didn’t get it?’

‘Then I’d have to do without.’

Again she pondered, before she asked:

‘And do you think you’ve always been right with women?’

‘God, no! I let my wife get to what she was: my fault a good deal. I spoilt her. And I’m very mistrustful. You’ll have to expect it. It takes a lot to make me trust anybody, inwardly. So perhaps I’m a fraud too. I mistrust. And tenderness is not to be mistaken.’

She looked at him.

‘You don’t mistrust with your body, when your blood comes up,’ she said. ‘You don’t mistrust then, do you?’

‘No, alas! That’s how I’ve got into all the trouble. And that’s why my mind mistrusts so thoroughly.’

‘Let your mind mistrust. What does it matter!’

The dog sighed with discomfort on the mat. The ash–clogged fire sank.

‘We ARE a couple of battered warriors,’ said Connie.

‘Are you battered too?’ he laughed. ‘And here we are returning to the fray!’

‘Yes! I feel really frightened.’

‘Ay!’

He got up, and put her shoes to dry, and wiped his own and set them near the fire. In the morning he would grease them. He poked the ash of pasteboard as much as possible out of the fire. ‘Even burnt, it’s filthy,’ he said. Then he brought sticks and put them on the hob for the morning. Then he went out awhile with the dog.

PIERROT.

“Then comes:

“Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed. Make appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.

PIERROT.

“Finally:

“Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be so suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.

PIERROT.

“A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at the other end!” He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the table. Finally he sprang to his feet.

“Well, perhaps it won’t be so difficult, after all. There is nothing more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive round to the offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good day’s work to a conclusion.”

Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head over our confessed burglary.

“We can’t do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “No wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these days you’ll go too far, and you’ll find yourself and your friend in trouble.”

“For England, home and beauty — eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of our country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?”

“Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of it?”

Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph which lay upon the table.

“Have you seen Pierrot’s advertisement to-day?”

“What? Another one?”

“Yes, here it is:

“To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important. Your own safety at stake.

PIERROT.

“By George!” cried Lestrade. “If he answers that we’ve got him!”

“That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both make it convenient to come with us about eight o’clock to Caulfield Gardens we might possibly get a little nearer to a solution.”

One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that he could no longer work to advantage. I remember that during the whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph which he had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. For my own part I had none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence, appeared to be interminable. The great national importance of the issue, the suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we were trying — all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our expedition. Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at the outside of Gloucester Road Station. The area door of Oberstein’s house had been left open the night before, and it was necessary for me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely and indignantly declined to climb the railings, to pass in and open the hall door. By nine o’clock we were all seated in the study, waiting patiently for our man.