‘Now, Watson,’ said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side-lanterns, ‘you’ll come with me, won’t you?’

‘If I can be of use.’

‘Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use. And a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.’

‘The Cedars?’

‘Yes; that is Mr St Clair’s house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry.’

‘Where is it, then?’

‘Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.’

‘But I am all in the dark.’

‘Of course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up here! All right, John, we shall not need you. Here’s half-a-crown. Look out for me to-morrow about eleven. Give her her head! So long, then!’

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another broad wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, whilst I sat beside him curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.

‘You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,’ said he. ‘It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. ’Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door.’

‘You forget that I know nothing about it.’

‘I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow, I can get nothing to go upon. There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the end of it in my hand. Now, I’ll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you may see a spark where all is dark to me.’

‘Proceed, then.’

‘Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he has now had two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies, and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5.14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr St Clair is now 37 years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £88 10s., while he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.