“And I you，” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was verynew and effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently，” said Jones. “He’s quickerat climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix thederbies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands，”
remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.
“You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Havethe goodness， also， when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and‘please.’ ”
“All right，” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well， wouldyou please， sir， march upstairs， where we can get a cab to carryyour Highness to the police-station？”
“That is better，” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweepingbow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of thedetective.
“Really， Mr. Holmes，” said Mr. Merryweather as we followedthem from the cellar， “I do not know how the bank can thank youor repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeatedin the most complete manner one of the most determined attemptsat bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.”
“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
John Clay，” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense overthis matter， which I shall expect the bank to refund， but beyondthat I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is inmany ways unique， and by hearing the very remarkable narrativeof the Red-headed League.”
“You see， Watson，” he explained in the early hours of themorning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street，“it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possibleobject of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement ofthe League， and the copying of the Encyclop？dia， must be to getthis not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number ofhours every day. It was a curious way of managing it， but， really，it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was nodoubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of hisaccomplice’s hair. The？4 a week was a lure which must draw him，and what was it to them， who were playing for thousands？ Theyput in the advertisement， one rogue has the temporary office， theother rogue incites the man to apply for it， and together they manageto secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time thatI heard of the assistant having come for half wages， it was obviousto me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive was？”
“Had there been women in the house， I should have suspecteda mere vulgar intrigue. That， however， was out of the question.
The man’s business was a small one， and there was nothing in hishouse which could account for such elaborate preparations， andsuch an expenditure as they were at. It must， then， be somethingout of the house. What could it be？ I thought of the assistant’sfondness for photography， and his trick of vanishing into thecellar. The cellar！ There was the end of this tangled clue. Then Imade inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that Ihad to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals inLondon. He was doing something in the cellar—something whichtook many hours a day for months on end. What could it be， oncemore？ I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnelto some other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. Isurprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I wasascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind.
It was not in front. Then I rang the bell， and， as I hoped， theassistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes， but we hadnever set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face.
His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself haveremarked how worn， wrinkled， and stained they were. They spokeof those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was whatthey were burrowing for. I walked round the corner， saw the Cityand Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises， and felt thatI had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concertI called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bankdirectors， with the result that you have seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt tonight？”
I asked.
“Well， when they closed their League offices that was a sign thatthey cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in otherwords， that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essentialthat they should use it soon， as it might be discovered， or thebullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better thanany other day， as it would give them two days for their escape. Forall these reasons I expected them to come to-night.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully，” I exclaimed in unfeignedadmiration. “It is so long a chain， and yet every link rings true.”
“It saved me from ennui，” he answered， yawning. “Alas！ I alreadyfeel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort toescape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problemshelp me to do so.”
“And you are a benefactor of the race，” said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well， perhaps， after all， it is of somelittle use，” he remarked. “ ‘L’homme c’est rien—l’oeuvre c’est tout，’ asGustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”
A Case of Identity
“My dear fellow，” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either sideof the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street， “life is infinitely strangerthan anything which the mind of man could invent. We would notdare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplacesof existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand，hover over this great city， gently remove the roofs， and peep inat the queer things which are going on， the strange coincidences，the plannings， the cross-purposes， the wonderful chains of events，working through generations， and leading to the most outréresults， it would make all fiction with its conventionalities andforeseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.”