Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting ahumble witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy ofGodfrey Staunton’s abandoned room, he had extracted all thatthe porter had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not agentleman, neither was he a workingman. He was simply whatthe porter described as a “medium-looking chap,” a man of fifty,beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to beagitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he hadheld out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note intohis pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in thehall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter hadonly distinguished the one word “time.” Then they had hurried offin the manner described. It was just half-past ten by the hall clock.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton’s bed.
“You are the day porter, are you not?”
“Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven.”
“The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”
“No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else.”
“Were you on duty all day yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”
“Yes, sir, one telegram.”
“Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”
“About six.”
“Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”
“Here in his room.”
“Were you present when he opened it?”
“Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer.”
“Well, was there?”
“Yes, sir, he wrote an answer.”
“Did you take it?”
“No, he took it himself.”
“But he wrote it in your presence.”
“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turnedat that table. When he had written it, he said: ‘All right, porter, Iwill take this myself.’ ”
“What did he write it with?”
“A pen, sir.”
“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”
“Yes, sir, it was the top one.”
Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to thewindow and carefully examined that which was uppermost.
“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing themdown again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have nodoubt frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goesthrough—a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage.
However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to perceivethat he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can hardlydoubt that we will find some impression upon this blotting-pad.
Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”
He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards usthe following hieroglyphic:
Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.
“That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and thereverse will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over, andwe read:
“So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Stauntondispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are atleast six words of the message which have escaped us; but whatremains— ‘Stand by us for God’s sake!’ —proves that this young mansaw a formidable danger which approached him, and from whichsomeone else could protect him. ‘Us,’ mark you! Another person wasinvolved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man, whoseemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the connectionbetween Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And what isthe third source from which each of them sought for help againstpressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to that.”
“We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” Isuggested.
“Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound,had already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have cometo your notice that, counterfoil of another man’s message, theremay be some disinclination on the part of the officials to obligeyou. There is so much red tape in these matters. However, I haveno doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may beattained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton,to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”
There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, whichHolmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers anddarting, penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By theway, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow—nothingamiss with him?”
“Sound as a bell.”
“Have you ever known him ill?”
“Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slippedhis knee-cap, but that was nothing.”
“Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should thinkhe may have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will putone or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bearupon our future inquiry.”
“One moment—one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and welooked up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in thedoorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmedtop-hat and a loose white necktie—the whole effect being that ofa very rustic parson or of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in spite of hisshabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle,and his manner a quick intensity which commanded attention.
“Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch thisgentleman’s papers?” he asked.
“I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain hisdisappearance.”
“Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”
“This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend, was referred to me byScotland Yard.”
“Who are you, sir?”
“I am Cyril Overton.”
“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is LordMount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus wouldbring me. So you have instructed a detective?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And are you prepared to meet the cost?”
“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him,will be prepared to do that.”
“But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”
“In that case, no doubt his family——”
“Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don’tlook to me for a penny—not a penny! You understand that, Mr.