o this in due form of law. You are the
prisoner. Watson, you are a British jury, and I never met a man who was
more eminently fitted to represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman
of the jury, you have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner
guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty, my lord," said I.

"VOX POPULI, VOX DEI. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So long as the
law does not find some other victim you are safe from me. Come back
to this lady in a year, and may her future and yours justify us in the
judgment which we have pronounced this night!"

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN

I had intended "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange" to be the last of
those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I should ever
communicate to the public. This resolution of mine was not due to any
lack of material, since I have notes of many hundreds of cases to which
I have never alluded, nor was it caused by any waning interest on the
part of my readers in the singular personality and unique methods of
this remarkable man. The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr.
Holmes has shown to the continued publication of his experiences.
So long as he was in actual professional practice the records of
his successes were of some practical value to him, but since he
has definitely retired from London and betaken himself to study and
bee-farming on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him,
and he has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should
be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him that I
had given a promise that "The Adventure of the Second Stain" should be
published when the times were ripe, and pointing out to him that it is
only appropriate that this long series of episodes should culminate in
the most important international case which he has ever been called
upon to handle, that I at last succeeded in obtaining his consent that a
carefully guarded account of the incident should at last be laid before
the public. If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in
certain details, the public will readily understand that there is an
excellent reason for my reticence.

It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be nameless,
that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two visitors of
European fame within the walls of our humble room in Baker Street. The
one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and dominant, was none other than
the illus