“Well, Watson,” said he, “a very pretty hash you have made of it! I rather think you had better come back with me to London by the night express.”

An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style, was seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of his sudden and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for, finding that he could get away from London, he determined to head me off at the next obvious point of my travels. In the disguise of a workingman he had sat in the cabaret waiting for my appearance.

“And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear Watson,” said he. “I cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder which you have omitted. The total effect of your proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet to discover nothing.”

“Perhaps you would have done no better,” I answered bitterly.

“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. I have done better. Here is the Hon. Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel, and we may find him the starting-point for a more successful investigation.”

A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started when he saw me.

“What is this, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “I had your note and and I have come. But what has this man to do with the matter?”

“This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping us in this affair.”

The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of apology.

“I hope I didn’t harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I lost my grip of myself. Indeed, I’m not responsible in these days. My nerves are like live wires. But this situation is beyond me. What I want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is, how in the world you came to hear of my existence at all.”

“I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances’s governess.”

“Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well.”

“And she remembers you. It was in the days before — before you found it better to go to South Africa.”

“Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing from you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this world a man who loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than I had for Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know — not worse than others of my class. But her mind was pure as snow. She could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So, when she came to hear of things that I had done, she would have no more to say to me. And yet she loved me — that is the wonder of it! — loved me well enough to remain single all her sainted days just for my sake alone. When the years had passed and I had made my money at Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her out and soften her. I had heard that she was still unmarried. I found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew. She weakened, I think, but her will was strong, and when next I called she had left the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after a time heard that her maid was here. I’m a rough fellow, fresh from a rough life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself for a moment. But for God’s sake tell me what has become of the Lady Frances.”

But she lay still, without recoil. Even when he had finished, she did not rouse herself to get a grip on her own satisfaction, as she had done with Michaelis; she lay still, and the tears slowly filled and ran from her eyes.

He lay still, too. But he held her close and tried to cover her poor naked legs with his legs, to keep them warm. He lay on her with a close, undoubting warmth.

‘Are yer cold?’ he asked, in a soft, small voice, as if she were close, so close. Whereas she was left out, distant.

‘No! But I must go,’ she said gently.

He sighed, held her closer, then relaxed to rest again.

He had not guessed her tears. He thought she was there with him.

‘I must go,’ she repeated.

He lifted himself kneeled beside her a moment, kissed the inner side of her thighs, then drew down her skirts, buttoning his own clothes unthinking, not even turning aside, in the faint, faint light from the lantern.

‘Tha mun come ter th’ cottage one time,’ he said, looking down at her with a warm, sure, easy face.

But she lay there inert, and was gazing up at him thinking: Stranger! Stranger! She even resented him a little.

He put on his coat and looked for his hat, which had fallen, then he slung on his gun.

‘Come then!’ he said, looking down at her with those warm, peaceful sort of eyes.

She rose slowly. She didn’t want to go. She also rather resented staying. He helped her with her thin waterproof and saw she was tidy.

Then he opened the door. The outside was quite dark. The faithful dog under the porch stood up with pleasure seeing him. The drizzle of rain drifted greyly past upon the darkness. It was quite dark.

‘Ah mun ta’e th’ lantern,’ he said. ‘The’ll be nob’dy.’

He walked just before her in the narrow path, swinging the hurricane lamp low, revealing the wet grass, the black shiny tree–roots like snakes, wan flowers. For the rest, all was grey rain–mist and complete darkness.

‘Tha mun come to the cottage one time,’ he said, ‘shall ta? We might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.’

It puzzled her, his queer, persistent wanting her, when there was nothing between them, when he never really spoke to her, and in spite of herself she resented the dialect. His ‘tha mun come’ seemed not addressed to her, but some common woman. She recognized the foxglove leaves of the riding and knew, more or less, where they were.

‘It’s quarter past seven,’ he said, ‘you’ll do it.’ He had changed his voice, seemed to feel her distance. As they turned the last bend in the riding towards the hazel wall and the gate, he blew out the light. ‘We’ll see from here,’ be said, taking her gently by the arm.

But it was difficult, the earth under their feet was a mystery, but he felt his way by tread: he was used to it. At the gate he gave her his electric torch. ‘It’s a bit lighter in the park,’ he said; ‘but take it for fear you get off th’ path.’