ry once in a while his eyes would light up with a subdued gleam of
triumph, and I knew he was on the trail of something or other.
Suddenly he jumped up and jerked the window-shade so that it flew up
to the top of the window, then dragged his chair closer to the window,
and continued examining the shoes through his two instruments. At
length, after more than an hour had passed, he put them down with a
deep-drawn sigh of relief, after hastily scribbling a few more notes,
and turned to me.

"Well, Doc, what would you say as to the shoes from a cursory
examination, without the instruments?" he inquired with a smile.

By this time I, having arisen and dressed, was kind of anxious to see
what was going to happen next. I picked up one of the shoes that we
had pilfered from Thorneycroft's room, and turned it over in my hands.

"All I can say about it is that this particular shoe ought to be sent
to the cobbler's. There's a small hole in the middle of the sole," I
said, "and it should also have this smear of red clay wiped off," I
added, as I pointed to the stain along the outer side of the shoe.

"Oh, use your bean, Doc, use your bean!" cried Holmes. "Is that all
you can detect?"

"Well, that's all there is to detect without your magnifying glass and
microscope there," I replied.

"Honestly, Watson, I think you're getting dumber and dumber every day!
Think, man, think! Where in this immediate vicinity did you see red
clay like that before?" said Holmes. I scratched my head with
perplexity, and after a moment it came to me:

"Oh, yes; out behind the stables, near where the horses' stalls are. I
remember now having seen the clay there when we were out after Billie
Budd yesterday afternoon."

"Well, that shows that Eustace Thorneycroft, the owner of the shoe,
was out behind the stable some time recently," said Holmes; "a rather
incongruous place for a private secretary, and one of such sedentary
and scholarly appearance too. Putting two and two together, it is not
a very violent assumption to say that Eustace went out to the stables
for a very special purpose, and what more special purpose could he
have than to hide the diamond cuff-buttons, or at least some of them,
which he probably stole! _Comprends-tu cela, tu imbecile?_" Then my
partner added: "Of course, I couldn't exactly swear to it yet that
Eustace is the guilty gink we are after, but I'm going to disguise
myself as a race-track follower and go out and talk 'hors