nd of my visit to Wisteria Lodge."

Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this
bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.

"Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique," said he.
"May I ask, sir, what you did then?"

"I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of some
absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door behind
me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at Allan
Brothers', the chief land agents in the village, and found that it was
from this firm that the villa had been rented. It struck me that the
whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of making a fool of
me, and that the main object must be to get out of the rent. It is
late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would not
work. The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the
rent had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called
at the Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went
to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I found
that he really knew rather less about him than I did. Finally when I
got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since I gather that you
are a person who gives advice in difficult cases. But now, Mr.
Inspector, I understand, from what you said when you entered the room,
that you can carry the story on, and that some tragedy had occurred. I
can assure you that every word I have said is the truth, and that,
outside of what I have told you, I know absolutely nothing about the
fate of this man. My only desire is to help the law in every possible
way."

"I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles--I am sure of it," said Inspector
Gregson in a very amiable tone. "I am bound to say that everything
which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have
come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived
during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?"

"Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire."

"What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?"

The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was only
redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes, almost
hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow smile
he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his pocket.

"It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this
out u