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Now, sir,’ she continued, ‘I have no alternative. Mr. Drebber stayed with us nearly three weeks. He and his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, were travelling on the Continent. I noticed a “Copenhagen” label upon each of their trunks. Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say, was coarse and brutish. He drank a lot, and, indeed, after twelve o’clock he was never sober. His manners towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all, he assumed the same attitude towards my daughter, Alice. Once he seized her in his arms and embraced her, his own secretary reproached him for his unmanly conduct.’

      ‘But why did you stand all this?’ I asked.

      Mrs. Charpentier blushed.

      ‘Money, sir,’ she said. ‘They were paying a pound a day each-fourteen pounds a week. I am a widow, and my boy in the Navy cost me much. But finally I gave Mr. Drebber’s notice to leave.’

      ‘Well?’

      ‘So he drove away. I did not tell my son anything of all this, for his temper is violent. When I closed the door behind them I felt happy. Alas, in less than an hour there was a ring at the bell. Mr. Drebber returned. He was much excited and drunk. He came way into the room, where I was sitting with my daughter. He missed his train. He then turned to Alice, and offered her to go with him. “You are big enough,” he said, “and there is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Come with me! You will live like a princess.” Poor Alice was so frightened that she shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the wrist. I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room.

      What happened then I do not know. I was too terrified to raise my head. When I looked up I saw Arthur in the doorway. He was laughing, with a stick in his hand.

      “I don’t think that fellow will trouble us again,” he said. “I will go and see what he is doing at the moment.”

      With those words he took his hat and went out. The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber’s mysterious death.’

      This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier’s lips with many gasps and pauses.”

      “It’s very interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. “What happened next?”

      “When Mrs. Charpentier paused,” the detective continued, “I asked her at what hour her son returned.

      ‘I do not know,’ she answered. He has a key.’

      ‘When did you go to bed?’

      ‘About eleven.’

      ‘So your son was away at least two hours?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Possibly four or five?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What was he doing during that time?’

      ‘I do not know,’ she answered.

      Of course after that I found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and offered him to come quietly with us, he said, ‘I suppose you are arresting me for the death of that scoundrel Drebber,’ he said. We said nothing to him about it, so this is very suspicious.”

      “Very,” said Holmes.

      “He still carried the heavy stick. It was a stout oak cudgel.”

      “What is your theory, then?”

      “Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton Road. There they had a fight, in the course of which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of the stomach, perhaps, which killed him without any mark. Then Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into the empty house. As to the candle, and the blood, and the writing on the wall, and the ring, they are just tricks to deceive the police.”

      “Well done, Gregson!” said Holmes.

      “Yes,” the detective answered proudly. “The young man says that Drebber perceived him, and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his way home he met an old shipmate[44], and took a long walk with him. I asked him where this old shipmate lived, but he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. But Lestrade! Just think of him! He knows nothing at all. Oh, here’s Lestrade himself!”

      It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were talking, and who now entered the room. His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He stood in the centre of the room. He was fumbling nervously with his hat.

      “This is a most extraordinary case,” he said at last, “a most incomprehensible affair.”

      “You think so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson, triumphantly. “Did you find the Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?”

      “The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said Lestrade gravely, “was murdered at Halliday’s Private Hotel about six o’clock this morning.”

      Chapter VII

      Light in the Darkness

      This news was unexpected. Gregson sprang out of his chair. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed.

      “Stangerson too!” he muttered.

      Lestrade took a chair.

      “Are you sure of this?” stammered Gregson.

      “I was in his room,” said Lestrade. “I was the first to discover that.”

      “Please, Mr. Lestrade, let us know what you saw,” Holmes observed.

      “You see,” Lestrade answered, “I thought that Stangerson was concerned in the death of Drebber. I was wrong, it’s true. Anyway, I wanted to find the Secretary. They were together at Euston Station about half-past eight on the evening. At two in the morning Drebber was found in the Brixton Road. The question is: what did Stangerson do between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what did he do afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool. I gave a description of the man, and asked them to watch upon the American boats. I then called upon all the hotels in the vicinity of Euston. You see, if Drebber and his companion become separated, Stangerson stayed somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then went to the station again next morning.”

      “They agreed on some meeting-place beforehand,” remarked Holmes.

      “Yes, they did. I spent the whole of yesterday, I was looking for Stangerson. No luck. This morning I began very early, and at eight o’clock I reached Halliday’s Private Hotel, in Little George Street. I asked if Mr. Stangerson was living there, and they answered me ‘yes’.

      ‘No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,’ they said.

      ‘Where is he now?’ I asked.

      ‘He is upstairs in bed.’

      ‘I will go up and see him at once,’ I said.

      His room was on the second floor. From under the door there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which formed a little pool. The door was locked on the inside[45], but we put our shoulders to it, and entered. The window of the room was open, and beside the window lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was dead, his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over, the men from the hotel recognized him at once. It was the gentleman who engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was a deep stab in the left side. And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What was above the murdered man?”

      “The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,” said Holmes.

      “That was it!” said Lestrade.

      “A milk boy saw the murder,” continued Lestrade. “He was going to the dairy. He walked down the lane which leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder was raised against one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. And he saw a man who was descending the ladder. The boy thought it was a carpenter. The man was tall, had a reddish face,

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