Lestrade, as we parted. "Hill knows all these
gentry, and he will give a name to him. You'll find that my theory of
the Mafia will work out all right. But I'm sure I am exceedingly obliged
to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in which you laid hands upon
him. I don't quite understand it all yet."

"I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations," said Holmes.
"Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off, and
it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end.
If you will come round once more to my rooms at six o'clock to-morrow, I
think I shall be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the
entire meaning of this business, which presents some features which make
it absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you
to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee that you
will enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure of the
Napoleonic busts."

When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much
information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo,
second name unknown. He was a well-known ne'er-do-well among the Italian
colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest
living, but he had taken to evil courses and had twice already been in
jail--once for a petty theft, and once, as we had already heard, for
stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk English perfectly well. His
reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown, and he refused to
answer any questions upon the subject, but the police had discovered
that these same busts might very well have been made by his own hands,
since he was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of
Gelder & Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew,
Holmes listened with polite attention, but I, who knew him so well,
could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a
mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which
he was wont to assume. At last he started in his chair, and his eyes
brightened. There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard
steps upon the stairs, and an elderly red-faced man with grizzled
side-whiskers was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an
old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?"

My friend bowed and smiled. "Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?" said
he.

"Yes, s