“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reasonto believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day beingSaturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help tonight.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger,so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved hishand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among thecrowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I wasalways oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealingswith Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I hadseen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident thathe saw clearly not only what had happened but what was aboutto happen, while to me the whole business was still confused andgrotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thoughtover it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copierof the Encyclopaedia 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 hintfrom Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant wasa formidable man—a man who might play a deep game. I triedto puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter asideuntil night should bring an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and mademy way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to BakerStreet. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I enteredthe passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On enteringhis room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with twomen, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official policeagent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a veryshiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his peajacketand taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson,I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduceyou to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in tonight’sadventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jonesin his consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man forstarting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do therunning 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, whichare, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoreticaland fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It isnot too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of theSholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearlycorrect than the official force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the strangerwith deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is thefirst Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not hadmy rubber.”
“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will playfor a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and thatthe play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, thestake will be some ￡30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the manupon whom you wish to lay your hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a youngman, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession,and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminalin London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. Hisgrandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton andOxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meetsigns of him at every turn, we never know where to find the manhimself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raisingmoney to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been onhis 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, andI agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is pastten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will takethe first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the longdrive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he hadheard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth ofgas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellowMerryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in thematter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not abad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He hasone positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious asa lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and theyare waiting for us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which wehad found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed,and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed downa narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us.
Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massiveiron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of windingstone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr.
Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted usdown a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a thirddoor, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round withcrates and massive boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked ashe held up the lantern and gazed about him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stickupon the flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it soundsquite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.
