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cried and we were off, as fast as the heavy afternoon traffic would allow. The drive was a long one, the monotony broken only by the view of the Royal Arsenal the sight of which always left me in awe. I arrived at the Whitney house around 5 P.M. and rang the bell.
    A sullen looking maid, whom I seem to recall answered to the name of Charlotte, opened the door.
    “Good evening. Is your mistress in?”
    “Good evening sir. Yes , Mrs. Whitney is in, but she is on her sick bed.”
    “I do not wish to inconvenience her but I must speak with her,” I said.
    “I have just taken her up a cup of broth as she did not feel strong enough to come down to dinner but I will see if she will receive you, Doctor Watson,” she replied, glancing at the card which I had handed to her.
    Favouring me with a small curtsey the maid left me in the drawing room and in a few minutes the lady of the house appeared, looking pale.
    “Good evening Kate.”
    “John. How good to see you.”
    “How are you feeling?”
    “I have my good days and bad days but I am getting stronger.”
    “I am glad to hear it.”
    “What brings you here John, did Mary forget something this morning?”
    For a brief moment I stood in silence. Regaining my powers of speech I managed to blurt out a reply. “Forget something! She has left then?”
    “Why yes. She left this morning after breakfast. Has she not returned yet?”
    “No Kate I haven’t seen her since Thursday. She said nothing about stopping anywhere else?”
    “She did mention something about stopping at the shops in Regent Street.”
    I sighed with relief. As the anniversary of our marriage was fast approaching Mary must have taken this opportunity to purchase a gift to celebrate the occasion. My wife liked to do her own shopping especially when the circumstances were special.
    “Well she has probably returned home by now. I won’t keep you any longer Kate; you must get your rest.”             
    I bade her good night and climbed back into the waiting cab. Both the driver and his charge seemed disinclined to hurry on the return trip and I had to threaten the man with bodily harm before, amid much grumbling, he urged his nag to a greater speed.
    As most of the better shops were closed by this hour, Mary should now be home waiting for me.
    “Mary! Mary!” I called out gaily as I entered. There was no response. The maid came out of the scullery where she had probably been cleaning the silverware and helping herself to the cooking sherry.
    “Where is your mistress, Mary Jane?”
    “Didn’t she come home with you, sir?”
    “ I think I would have noticed if she had been in the cab,” I replied dryly. “You have been here alone all evening?”
    “Yes sir.”
    I poured myself a whisky and soda and sat by the fireplace reading my well worn copy of Departmental Ditties . Kipling’s satirical look at civil and military life in British colonial India was a favorite of mine and I hoped it would be the tonic I needed to occupy my mind. For hours I remained there, my hopes being raised and dashed with every passing vehicle.
    I awoke the next morning to the sound of the maid entering the sitting room where I had fallen asleep over my book. A broken whisky tumbler was lying on the floor beside my chair.
    “What time is it?” I asked.
    “It is ten o’clock sir; I did not wish to awaken you.”
    “Has Mrs. Watson come in yet?”
    “No sir,” she replied cleaning up the debris of my evening’s entertainment.
    In ten minutes I had hailed a cab and was on my way to Baker Street. I offered the cabby an extra half crown if he could get me there within half an hour and within the allotted thirty minutes I had arrived at the door of my old rooms. I took the stairs two at a time.
    “Come in Watson,” Holmes called out even before I could knock on the door.
    I entered the familiar rooms and saw Holmes sitting by the large bow window. He turned around to face me and I could see that he looked as