‘Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called Blessington is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat.’

‘The Worthingdon bank gang,’ cried the inspector.

‘Precisely,’ said Holmes.

‘Then Blessington must have been Sutton?’

‘Exactly,’ said Holmes.

‘Why, that makes it as clear as crystal,’ said the inspector.

But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

‘You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business,’ said Holmes; ‘five men were in it, these four and a fifth called Cartwright. Tobin, the caretaker, was murdered, and the thieves got away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive. This Blessington, or Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned informer. On his evidence, Cartwright was hanged and the other three got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other day, which was some years before their full term, they set themselves, as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of their comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at him and failed; a third time, you see, it came off. Is there anything further which I can explain, Dr Trevelyan?’

‘I think you have made it all remarkably clear,’ said the doctor. ‘No doubt the day on which he was so perturbed was the day when he had read of their release in the newspapers.’

‘Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind.’

‘But why could he not tell you this?’

‘Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was still living under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt, Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may fail to guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge.’

Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the resident patient and the Brook Street doctor. From that night nothing has been seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised at Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of the ill-fated steamer Norah Creina, which was lost some years ago with all hands upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence, and the ‘Brook Street Mystery,’ as it was called, has never, until now, been fully dealt with in any public print.