er the
woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No powder on her
nose--that proved to be the correct solution. How can you build on such
a quicksand? Their most trivial action may mean volumes, or their most
extraordinary conduct may depend upon a hairpin or a curling tongs.
Good-morning, Watson."

"You are off?"

"Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our friends
of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the solution of
our problem, though I must admit that I have not an inkling as to what
form it may take. It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of
the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good Watson, and receive any fresh
visitors. I'll join you at lunch if I am able."

All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which his
friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out and ran in,
smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin, sank into reveries,
devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and hardly answered the casual
questions which I put to him. It was evident to me that things were not
going well with him or his quest. He would say nothing of the case, and
it was from the papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest,
and the arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of
the deceased. The coroner's jury brought in the obvious Wilful Murder,
but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive was suggested.
The room was full of articles of value, but none had been taken. The
dead man's papers had not been tampered with. They were carefully
examined, and showed that he was a keen student of international
politics, an indefatigable gossip, a remarkable linguist, and an
untiring letter writer. He had been on intimate terms with the leading
politicians of several countries. But nothing sensational was discovered
among the documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He had
many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one whom he
loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive. His death was
an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.

As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of despair
as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could be sustained
against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith that night. The ALIBI
was complete. It is true that he started home at an hour which shou