"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"
"Never."
"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points aboutwhich I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a littlesupper and then retire, for we may have a very busy dayto-morrow."
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at ourdisposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was wearyafter my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however,who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go fordays, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over,rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of viewuntil he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that hisdata were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was nowpreparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat andwaistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wanderedabout the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions fromthe sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort ofEastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, withan ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in frontof him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, anold briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon thecorner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him,silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-setaquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so hesat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I foundthe summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was stillbetween his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room wasfull of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap ofshag which I had seen upon the previous night.
"Awake, Watson?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Game for a morning drive?"
"Certainly."
"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where thestable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." Hechuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemeda different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no onewas stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardlyfinished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy wasputting in the horse.
"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on hisboots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in thepresence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserveto be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have thekey of the affair now."
"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.
"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," hecontinued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just beenthere, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in thisGladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it willnot fit the lock."
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out intothe bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse andtrap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We bothsprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few countrycarts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, butthe lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless assome 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 beenas blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late thannever to learn it at all."
In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepilyfrom their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surreyside. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over theriver, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to theright and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was wellknown to the force, and the two constables at the door salutedhim. 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 comedown the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and froggedjacket. "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 atelephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at hisdesk.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"
"I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was chargedwith 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 hisface is as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has beensettled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if yousaw 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 leaveyour bag."