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ElapticAI-512

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“Certainly.
“Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy
sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out. He chuckled to himself as
he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the
sombre thinker of the previous night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was
stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished
when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the
horse.
“I want to test a little theory of mine, said he, pulling on his
boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of
one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from
here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.
“And where is it? I asked, smiling.
“In the bathroom, he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking, he
continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just been there, and
I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on,
my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the
bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the
half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away
we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring,
bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on
either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.
“It has been in some points a singular case, said Holmes, flicking the
horse on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole,
but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.
In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from
their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.
Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found
ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,
and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the
horse’s head while the other led us in.
“Who is on duty? asked Holmes.
“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.
“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you? A tall, stout official had come down the
stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to
have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.
It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table,
and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his
desk.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?
“I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was charged with
being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.
“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.
“So I heard. You have him here?
“In the cells.
“Is he quiet?
“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.
“Dirty?
“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is
as black as a tinker’s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he
will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would
agree with me that he needed it.
“I should like to see him very much.
“Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your
bag.
“No, I think that I’ll take it.
“Very good. Come this way, if you please. He led us down a passage,
opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a
whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.
“The third on the right is his, said the inspector. “Here it is! He
quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced
through.
“He is asleep, said he. “You can see him very well.
We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face
towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was
a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a