infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still
dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a tap at the door
and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:

"Come instantly, 131 Pitt Street, Kensington.

"LESTRADE."

"What is it, then?" I asked.

"Don't know--may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the
story of the statues. In that case our friend the image-breaker has
begun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the
table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door."

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater
just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was one
of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings.
As we drove up, we found the railings in front of the house lined by a
curious crowd. Holmes whistled.

"By George! It's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will hold
the London message-boy. There's a deed of violence indicated in that
fellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's this, Watson? The
top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow!
Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know
all about it."

The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a
sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly
man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was
introduced to us as the owner of the house--Mr. Horace Harker, of the
Central Press Syndicate.

"It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade. "You seemed
interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be
glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver
turn."

"What has it turned to, then?"

"To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has
occurred?"

The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy face.

"It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life I have been
collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of news has
come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can't put two
words together. If I had come in here as a journalist, I should have
interviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it is,
I am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over to a
string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However,
I've heard y