thods would look askance at
him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I
saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James' Hall, I
felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set
himself to hunt down.

"You want to go home, no doubt, doctor," he remarked, as we emerged.

"Yes, it would be as well."

"And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
business at Saxe-Coburg Square is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday
rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night."

"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 his hand, turned
on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, but I was always
oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock
Holmes. He and I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had
seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only
what had happened, but what was about to happen, while to me the whole
business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house
in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the
red-headed copier of 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 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
fr