"Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes."
"What do you mean?"
The constable's features broadened into a grin. "I've seen many a drunkchap in my time," he said, "but never anyone so cryin' drunk asthat cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin' up agin therailings, and a-singin' at the pitch o' his lungs about Columbine'sNew-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn't stand, far lesshelp."
"What sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. "He wasan uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said. "He'd ha' found hisself in thestation if we hadn't been so took up."
"His face--his dress--didn't you notice them?" Holmes broke inimpatiently.
"I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up--meand Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lowerpart muffled round----"
"That will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"
"We'd enough to do without lookin' after him," the policeman said, in anaggrieved voice. "I'll wager he found his way home all right."
"How was he dressed?"
"A brown overcoat."
"Had he a whip in his hand?"
"A whip--no."
"He must have left it behind," muttered my companion. "You didn't happento see or hear a cab after that?"
"No."
"There's a half-sovereign for you," my companion said, standing up andtaking his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in theforce. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament. Youmight have gained your sergeant's stripes last night. The man whom youheld in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, andwhom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell youthat it is so. Come along, Doctor."
We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous,but obviously uncomfortable.
"The blundering fool," Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to ourlodgings. "Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of goodluck, and not taking advantage of it."
"I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of thisman tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery. But whyshould he come back to the house after leaving it? That is not the wayof criminals."
"The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have noother way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. Ishall have him, Doctor--I'll lay you two to one that I have him. I mustthank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so havemissed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh?Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon. There's the scarlet thread ofmurder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty isto unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it. And nowfor lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowingare splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin's she plays somagnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."
Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like alark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.
CHAPTER V. OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR.
OUR morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I wastired out in the afternoon. After Holmes' departure for the concert, Ilay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hours' sleep.It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all thathad occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded intoit. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distortedbaboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was theimpression which that face had produced upon me that I found itdifficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed itsowner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the mostmalignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, ofCleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done, and that thedepravity of the victim was no condonment [11] in the eyes of the law.
The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion'shypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how hehad sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected somethingwhich had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not poison, whathad caused the man's death, since there was neither wound nor marks ofstrangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that which lay sothickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor had thevictim any weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist. Aslong as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would beno easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confidentmanner convinced me that he had already formed a theory which explainedall the facts, though what it was I could not for an instant conjecture.
He was very late in returning--so late, that I knew that the concertcould not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table beforehe appeared.
"It was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you rememberwhat Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing andappreciating it existed among the human race long before the power ofspeech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influencedby it. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centurieswhen the world was in its childhood."
"That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.
"One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpretNature," he answered. "What's the matter? You're not looking quiteyourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."
"To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more case-hardenedafter my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces atMaiwand without losing my nerve."
"I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates theimagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have youseen the evening paper?"