My friend had listened with amused surprise to this longspeech, which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour andearnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of abrawny hand upon the speaker’s knee. When our visitor was silentHolmes stretched out his hand and took down letter “S” of hiscommonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine ofvaried information.
“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” saidhe, “and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, butGodfrey Staunton is a new name to me.”
It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.
“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “Isuppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, youdon’t know Cyril Overton either?”
Holmes shook his head good humouredly.
“Great Scott!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve forEngland against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ‘Varsity all thisyear. But that’s nothing! I didn’t think there was a soul in Englandwho didn’t know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter,Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr.
Holmes, where HAVE you lived?”
Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naive astonishment.
“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton—a sweeterand healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sectionsof society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport,which is the best and soundest thing in England. However, yourunexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world offresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. So now, mygood sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly and quietly,exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire that Ishould help you.”
Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look of the manwho is more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but bydegrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omitfrom his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.
“It’s this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper ofthe Rugger team of Cambridge ‘Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton ismy best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all cameup, and we settled at Bentley’s private hotel. At ten o’clock I wentround and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I believein strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had aword or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He seemed to meto be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He saidhe was all right—just a touch of headache. I bade him good-nightand left him. Half an hour later, the porter tells me that a roughlookingman with a beard called with a note for Godfrey. He hadnot gone to bed, and the note was taken to his room. Godfreyread it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed. Theporter was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfreystopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself together.
Then he went downstairs, said a few words to the man who waswaiting in the hall, and the two of them went off together. Thelast that the porter saw of them, they were almost running downthe street in the direction of the Strand. This morning Godfrey’sroom was empty, his bed had never been slept in, and his thingswere all just as I had seen them the night before. He had gone offat a moment’s notice with this stranger, and no word has comefrom him since. I don’t believe he will ever come back. He wasa sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn’thave stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not forsome cause that was too strong for him. No: I feel as if he weregone for good, and we should never see him again.”
Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to thissingular narrative.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard ofhim there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”
“Could he have got back to Cambridge?”
“Yes, there is a late train—quarter-past eleven.”
“But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?”
“No, he has not been seen.”
“What did you do next?”
“I wired to Lord Mount-James.”
“Why to Lord Mount-James?”
“Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearestrelative—his uncle, I believe.”
“Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is one of the richest men in England.”
“So I’ve heard Godfrey say.”
“And your friend was closely related?”
“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty—cramfull of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with hisknuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he isan absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”
“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”
“No.”
“What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?”
“Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if itwas to do with money it is possible that he would make for hisnearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I haveheard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey wasnot fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it.”
“Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going tohis relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visitof this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitationthat was caused by his coming.”
Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can makenothing of it,” said he.
“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look intothe matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you to makeyour preparations for your match without reference to this younggentleman. It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessitywhich tore him away in such a fashion, and the same necessity islikely to hold him away. Let us step round together to the hotel, andsee if the porter can throw any fresh light upon the matter.”