n inscrutable fellow that I
never quite know what to make of him. Do you think he is hopeful? Do you
think he expects to make a success of it?"

"He has said nothing."

"That is a bad sign."

"On the contrary, I have noticed that when he is off the trail he
generally says so. It is when he is on a scent and is not quite
absolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he is most taciturn.
Now, my dear fellow, we can't help matters by making ourselves nervous
about them, so let me implore you to go to bed and so be fresh for
whatever may await us to-morrow."

I was able at last to persuade my companion to take my advice, though I
knew from his excited manner that there was not much hope of sleep for
him. Indeed, his mood was infectious, for I lay tossing half the night
myself, brooding over this strange problem, and inventing a hundred
theories, each of which was more impossible than the last. Why had
Holmes remained at Woking? Why had he asked Miss Harrison to remain
in the sick-room all day? Why had he been so careful not to inform the
people at Briarbrae that he intended to remain near them? I cudgelled
my brains until I fell asleep in the endeavor to find some explanation
which would cover all these facts.

It was seven o'clock when I awoke, and I set off at once for Phelps's
room, to find him haggard and spent after a sleepless night. His first
question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.

"He'll be here when he promised," said I, "and not an instant sooner or
later."

And my words were true, for shortly after eight a hansom dashed up to
the door and our friend got out of it. Standing in the window we saw
that his left hand was swathed in a bandage and that his face was very
grim and pale. He entered the house, but it was some little time before
he came upstairs.

"He looks like a beaten man," cried Phelps.

I was forced to confess that he was right. "After all," said I, "the
clue of the matter lies probably here in town."

Phelps gave a groan.

"I don't know how it is," said he, "but I had hoped for so much from his
return. But surely his hand was not tied up like that yesterday. What
can be the matter?"

"You are not wounded, Holmes?" I asked, as my friend entered the room.

"Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness," he answered,
nodding his good-mornings to us. "This case of yours, Mr. Phelps, is
certainly one of the darkest which I have ever investigated."

"I feared that you woul