Holmes smiled his appreciation.

‘You must have examined the house very carefully, to find a single pellet of paper.’

‘I did, Mr Holmes. It’s my way. Shall I read it, Mr Gregson?’

The Londoner nodded.

‘The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some flat, oval object. It is addressed to Mr Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says: “Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. God speed. D.” It is a woman’s writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It is thicker and bolder, as you see.’

‘A very remarkable note,’ said Holmes, glancing it over. ‘I must compliment you, Mr Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added. The oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link—what else is of such a shape? The scissors were bent nail-scissors. Short as the two snips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each.’

The country detective chuckled.

‘I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see there was a little over,’ he said. ‘I’m bound to say that I make nothing of the note except that there was something on hand, and that a woman, as usual, was at the bottom of it.’

Mr Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this conversation.

‘I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story,’ said he. ‘But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what has happened to Mr Garcia, nor what has become of his household.’

‘As to Garcia,’ said Gregson, ‘that is easily answered. He was found dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home. His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sand- bag or some such instrument, which had crushed rather than wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no house within a quarter of a mile of the spot. He had apparently been struck down first from behind, but his assailant had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was a most furious assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals.’

‘Robbed?’

‘No, there was no attempt at robbery.’

‘This is very painful—very painful and terrible,’ said Mr Scott Eccles, in a querulous voice; ‘but it is really uncommonly hard upon me. I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the case?’

‘Very simply, sir,’ Inspector Baynes answered. ‘The only document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that you would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man’s name and address. It was after nine this morning when we reached his house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr Gregson to run you down in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr Gregson, and here we are.’

‘I think now,’ said Gregson, rising, ‘we had best put this matter into an official shape. You will come round with us to the station, Mr Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing.’