“Gregson is the smartest of the policemen of the Scotland Yard,” my friend remarked; “he and Lestrade are both quick and energetic, but conventional.”

      “Surely there is not a moment to lose,” I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?”

      “I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am incurably lazy.”

      “Isn’t this your chance?”

      “My dear friend, if I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson and Lestrade will pocket all the credit[18]. However, we may go and have a look. Why not? Come on! Get your hat,” he said.

      “You wish me to come?”

      “Yes, if you have nothing better to do.”

      A minute later we were both in a hansom. We were driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

      It was a foggy, cloudy morning. My companion was talking about fiddles. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather depressed my spirits.

      Number 3, Lauriston Gardens, was one of four houses which stood back some little way from the street. Two of them were occupied and two were empty. There was a “To Let” card near the house. A small garden separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway. It was yellowish in colour, and consisted of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from the night rain.

      Sherlock Holmes lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Then he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass, and looked at the ground. Twice he stopped. He smiled, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

      At the door of the house, a tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired[19] man met us. He had a notebook in his hand. He rushed forward and wrung my companion’s hand with effusion.

      “It is indeed kind of you to come,” he said, “My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here.”

      Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.

      “With two such men as yourself and Lestrade here, I am useless,” he said.

      Gregson rubbed his hands.

      “I think,” he answered; “it’s a queer case, and I knew your taste for such things.”

      “You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

      “No, sir.”

      “Nor Lestrade?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Then let us go and look at the room.”

      And Sherlock Holmes entered the house.

      A short passage led to the kitchen and offices. I saw two doors to the left and to the right. One of these was closed. The other belonged to the dining-room, where the mysterious affair occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him.

      It was a large square room without furniture. A vulgar paper adorned the walls. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece. On one corner of this was the stump of a red wax candle. The window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain. All these details I observed afterwards.

      A single grim motionless figure lay upon the floor. It was a man about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a frock coat[20] and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers. A top hat[21] was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad[22], while his legs were interlocked[23]. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror and of hatred. This malignant and terrible contortion, the low forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw[24] gave the dead man an ape-like[25] appearance.

      Lestrade was standing by the doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.

      Sherlock Holmes approached the body. He knelt down and examined it intently.

      “You are sure that there is no wound?” he asked. He pointed to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.

      “Yes!” cried both detectives.

      “Then, of course, this blood belongs to somebody else, maybe to the murderer, if it is a murder?”

      As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere. They were feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining. Finally, he sniffed the dead man’s lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

      “You can take him to the mortuary now,” he said.

      Four men entered the room, and they lifted and carried the stranger out. As they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade took it.

      “There was a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a woman’s wedding-ring.”

      He held it upon the palm of his hand. We all gazed at it.

      “This complicates matters,” said Gregson.

      “You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed Holmes. “What did you find in his pockets?”

      “Here,” said Gregson. “A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud[26], of London. Gold chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with masonic device. Gold pin-bull-dog’s head, with rubies as eyes.

      Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland. No purse, but seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron,’[27]with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the fly-leaf[28]. Two letters-one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”

      “At what address?”

      “American