I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red- headed copier of the Encyclopedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair, and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation.
It was a quarter past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and, as I entered the passage, I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official police agent; while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.
‘Ha! our party is complete,’ said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket, and taking his heavy hunting- crop from the rack. ‘Watson, I think you know Mr Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr Merryweather, who is to be our companion in tonight’s adventure.’
‘We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,’ said Jones in his consequential way. ‘Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.’
‘I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,’ observed Mr Merryweather gloomily.
‘You may place considerable confidence in Mr Holmes, sir,’ said the police agent loftily. ‘He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force.’
‘Oh, if you say so, Mr Jones, it is all right!’ said the stranger, with deference. ‘Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-thirty years that I have not had my rubber.’
‘I think you will find,’ said Sherlock Holmes, ‘that you will play for a higher stake tonight than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr Merryweather, the stake will be some thirty thousand pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands.’
‘John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a Royal Duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years, and have never set eyes on him yet.’
‘I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you tonight. I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.’
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive, and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farringdon Street.
‘We are close there now,’ my friend remarked. ‘This fellow Merryweather is a bank director and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog, and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.’