t six o'clock this
evening. Until then I should like to keep this photograph, found in the
dead man's pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask your company
and assistance upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken
to-night, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until
then good-bye and good luck!"

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where we
stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been
purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be
absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a newcomer, who could
give us no information. Holmes's face showed his disappointment and
annoyance.

"Well, well, we can't expect to have it all our own way, Watson," he
said, at last. "We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr. Harding
will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised,
endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in order to find if
there is not something peculiar which may account for their remarkable
fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see
if he can throw any light upon the problem."

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's establishment. He
was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.

"Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir," said he. "What we pay rates and
taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in and break one's
goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.
Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot--that's what I make it. No one but an
anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red republicans--that's what
I call 'em. Who did I get the statues from? I don't see what that has to
do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder
& Co., in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the
trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three--two and
one are three--two of Dr. Barnicot's, and one smashed in broad daylight
on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don't. Yes, I do,
though. Why, it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who
made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a bit, and gild and
frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last week, and I've heard
nothing of him since. No, I don't know where he came from nor where he
went to. I had nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two
days before the bust was smashed."

"Well, that's all we could