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that had taken him thither.
    At last he said, “I was devastated not to be able to see the Rembrandt you presented to your college. When I visited the chapel there was a notice saying that it had been sent for restoration but I heard a rumour …”
    “Vandals!” The old man became suddenly animated.
    “Then it’s true, sir, that the painting has been stolen?” Holmes asked in shocked tones.
    “They should have looked after it better. It’s a priceless painting – magnificent example of the artist’s best period. Now they’ve let some hooligans make off with it. It’s probably mouldering in a fenland shed somewhere. It will be ruined! Lost!” Giddings subsided into a fit of coughing and pressed a large spotted handkerchief to his mouth.
    “It must be very distressing to you, sir. I imagine the Rembrandt was the crowning item of your collection.”
    The old man nodded vigorously. “Yes, I bought it privately in The Hague a quarter of a century ago. It had impeccable provenance. It was quite a sacrifice to part with it but I thought it would make a suitable parting gift, to mark a lifetime of service to New College. They might not have appreciated me but at least they had something to remember me by. Now, however …” Giddings shrugged and seemed to shrink even further into his wrappings.
    “You don’t think the crime might be the work of professional thieves? The art world, as I understand is not without its share of unscrupulous men.”
    “Out of the question,” the old man wheezed. “Too well known. Too difficult to sell.”
    Holmes propelled the chair towards the next door but stopped when Gidding’s frame was convulsed by a fresh bout of violent coughing.
    “Should I fetch your man?” Holmes enquired anxiously.
    The invalid nodded by way of reply and my friend retraced his steps to the library where a tug on the bell pull quickly brought the servant. He conveyed his master back into the library. The old man had recovered from his fit but announced that he was rather tired and begged Holmes to excuse him. He invited the young student to return another day to conclude the tour. Holmes thanked his host volubly and withdrew.
    His next call was upon Mr Spooner in his New College rooms. He informed the don that he had become intrigued by the theft and that, with Spooner’s permission, he would like to follow up certain ideas which had occurred to him. He pressed the fellow for some details on certain points and asked him for a letter of introduction to Messrs Simkins and Streeter. Thus armed, Holmes travelled next day to London. A cab dropped him at the entrance of a narrow alley leading off Jermyn Street by way of which Holmes discovered a painted signboard and a flight of stairs which led to the restorers’ second-floor premises. These consisted of a single, long room illumined by sunshine entering through large skylights. Easels and wide tables were scattered throughout the workshop and at these men in their shirtsleeves were working singly or in pairs upon an assortment of old paintings. On enquiring for the proprietors, Holmes managed to distract one of these craftsmen just long enough to elicit a nod in the direction of a partitioned-off cubicle at the far end of the room.
    The man who stood behind a desk untidy with scattered papers to greet him as he stepped in through the open door was stocky and of middle years. He was, Holmes judged, a touch overdressed; his suit a shade flamboyant of cut; his diamond-fastened necktie slightly too bright of hue. “Henry Simkins at your service, sir,” the man announced. “Whom have I the honour of addressing?”
    Holmes handed over his card with Spooner’s letter and carefully observed Simkin’s reaction. The man displayed momentary alarm but quickly covered it up. “Well, Mr Holmes sit down, sit down do. I’ll help you all I can, though I fear you’ve had a wasted journey, for Mr Spooner knows all there is to be known about this sad