“The end is dark to me also， but I have hold of one idea whichmay lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere， and his bodywas on the ROOF of a carriage.”
“On the roof！”
“Remarkable， is it not？ But consider the facts. Is it a coincidencethat it is found at the very point where the train pitches and swaysas it comes round on the points？ Is not that the place where anobject upon the roof might be expected to fall off？ The pointswould affect no object inside the train. Either the body fell fromthe roof， or a very curious coincidence has occurred. But nowconsider the question of the blood. Of course， there was nobleeding on the line if the body had bled elsewhere. Each fact issuggestive in itself. Together they have a cumulative force.”
“And the ticket， too！” I cried.
“Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a ticket. Thiswould explain it. Everything fits together.”
“But suppose it were so， we are still as far as ever from unravellingthe mystery of his death. Indeed， it becomes not simpler butstranger.”
“Perhaps，” said Holmes， thoughtfully， “perhaps.” He relapsedinto a silent reverie， which lasted until the slow train drew up atlast in Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew Mycroft’spaper from his pocket.
“We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make，” saidhe. “I think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention.”
The house of the famous official was a fine villa with greenlawns stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fogwas lifting， and a thin， watery sunshine was breaking through. Abutler answered our ring.
“Sir James， sir！” said he with solemn face. “Sir James died thismorning.”
“Good heavens！” cried Holmes in amazement. “How did hedie？”
“Perhaps you would care to step in， sir， and see his brother，Colonel Valentine？”
“Yes， we had best do so.”
We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room， where an instantlater we were joined by a very tall， handsome， light-beared manof fifty， the younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild eyes，stained cheeks， and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden blowwhich had fallen upon the household. He was hardly articulate ashe spoke of it.
“It was this horrible scandal，” said he. “My brother， Sir James，was a man of very sensitive honour， and he could not survivesuch an affair. It broke his heart. He was always so proud of theefficiency of his department， and this was a crushing blow.”
“We had hoped that he might have given us some indicationswhich would have helped us to clear the matter up.”
“I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it is to you andto all of us. He had already put all his knowledge at the disposalof the police. Naturally he had no doubt that Cadogan West wasguilty. But all the rest was inconceivable.”
“You cannot throw any new light upon the affair？”
“I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard. I haveno desire to be discourteous， but you can understand， Mr. Holmes，that we are much disturbed at present， and I must ask you tohasten this interview to an end.”
“This is indeed an unexpected development，” said my friendwhen we had regained the cab. “I wonder if the death was natural，or whether the poor old fellow killed himself！ If the latter， mayit be taken as some sign of self-reproach for duty neglected？ Wemust leave that question to the future. Now we shall turn to theCadogan Wests.”
A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the townsheltered the bereaved mother. The old lady was too dazed withgrief to be of any use to us， but at her side was a white-faced younglady， who introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury， the fiancéeof the dead man， and the last to see him upon that fatal night.
“I cannot explain it， Mr. Holmes，” she said. “I have not shut aneye since the tragedy， thinking， thinking， thinking， night and day，what the true meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most single-minded，chivalrous， patriotic man upon earth. He would have cut his right handoff before he would sell a State secret confided to his keeping. It isabsurd， impossible， preposterous to anyone who knew him.”
“But the facts， Miss Westbury？”
“Yes， yes； I admit I cannot explain them.”
“Was he in any want of money？”
“No； his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He hadsaved a few hundreds， and we were to marry at the New Year.”
“No signs of any mental excitement？ Come， Miss Westbury， beabsolutely frank with us.”
The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in hermanner. She coloured and hesitated.
“Yes，” she said at last， “I had a feeling that there was somethingon his mind.”
“For long？”
“Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried.
Once I pressed him about it. He admitted that there was something，and that it was concerned with his official life. ‘It is too seriousfor me to speak about， even to you，’ said he. I could get nothingmore.”
Holmes looked grave.
“Go on， Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him， goon. We cannot say what it may lead to.”
“Indeed， I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemedto me that he was on the point of telling me something. He spokeone evening of the importance of the secret， and I have somerecollection that he said that no doubt foreign spies would pay agreat deal to have it.”
My friend’s face grew graver still.
“Anything else？”
“He said that we were slack about such matters—that it wouldbe easy for a traitor to get the plans.”
“Was it only recently that he made such remarks？”
“Yes， quite recently.”
“Now tell us of that last evening.”
“We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cabwas useless. We walked， and our way took us close to the office.
Suddenly he darted away into the fog.”
“Without a word？”
“He gave an exclamation； that was all. I waited but he neverreturned. Then I walked home. Next morning， after the officeopened， they came to inquire. About twelve o’clock we heard theterrible news. Oh， Mr. Holmes， if you could only， only save hishonour！ It was so much to him.”
Holmes shook his head sadly.