way. It was frozen
over, but a single hole was left for the convenience of a solitary
swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then passed on to the lodge gate. There
he scribbled a short note for Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the
lodge-keeper.

"It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do something
for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit," said he. "I will
not quite take him into my confidence yet. I think our next scene of
operations must be the shipping office of the Adelaide-Southampton line,
which stands at the end of Pall Mall, if I remember right. There is a
second line of steamers which connect South Australia with England, but
we will draw the larger cover first."

Holmes's card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention, and he
was not long in acquiring all the information he needed. In June of
'95, only one of their line had reached a home port. It was the ROCK
OF GIBRALTAR, their largest and best boat. A reference to the passenger
list showed that Miss Fraser, of Adelaide, with her maid had made the
voyage in her. The boat was now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on
her way to Australia. Her officers were the same as in '95, with one
exception. The first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain
and was to take charge of their new ship, the BASS ROCK, sailing in two
days' time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was likely to
be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to wait for him.

No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to know more
about his record and character.

His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet to
touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a wild,
desperate fellow off the deck of his ship--hot-headed, excitable, but
loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith of the information
with which Holmes left the office of the Adelaide-Southampton company.
Thence he drove to Scotland Yard, but, instead of entering, he sat in
his cab with his brows drawn down, lost in profound thought. Finally he
drove round to the Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message,
and then, at last, we made for Baker Street once more.

"No, I couldn't do it, Watson," said he, as we reentered our room. "Once
that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would save him. Once
or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my
discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by h