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gentlemen, I think that is about all.”
    “And what have you uncovered with all your creeping and crawling about that I haven’t?” Lestrade demanded with a sour grin.
    “Nothing very much, I grant you. The murderer is a man. He is right-handed, has a working knowledge of anatomy, and is very powerful, though somewhat under six feet–as calculated by the length of his stride. He wore new boots, expensive and probably purchased in the Strand, and he smoked what is definitely a foreign-made cigar, purchased abroad. And before he left, he tore out the page in McCarthy’s engagement diary with his name on it. Good day, Inspector Lestrade.”

FOUR

    CONCERNING BUNTHORNE

    On our way downstairs, we passed the police surgeon, Mr. Browniow, and his men with the stretcher. Holmes exchanged a few words with that grey-bearded individual, with whom he had a nodding acquaintance. We then passed through the police barriers outside, and Holmes withdrew his watch.
    “I’m in the mood for lunch, he declared, sucking in the cold fresh air and looking about. ‘Watson, this used to be your stamping ground; where shall we dine?”
    “There’s the Holborn; it’s not far from here.”
    “Excellent. Let us repair to it for sustenance. Are you coming, Shaw?” He began to walk through the dirty snow at a smart pace, obliging the critic to skip briskly.
    “How can you even think of food after what you have just witnessed?” Shaw cried in dismay.
    “It is because of what I have witnessed that I find it crossing my mind,” the detective returned. “Food is one of the principal means by which death is avoided.”
    “I really ought to be at work,” Shaw growled as he sat down with us at the Holborn and eyed askance the Masonic tiling with which the establishment was decorated. “I’ve two pieces due by noon tomorrow, and I haven’t begun either of ‘em yet.” In spite of which statement he showed no disposition to leave.
    “Watson,” Holmes turned to me, his face hidden by the menu, “what do you say to some Windsor soup, beefsteak pie, roly-poly pudding, and a respectable Bordeaux?”
    “That would suit me down to the ground.”
    “Good. Shaw, my dear fellow?”
    “Certainly not. I am no carnivore, preying upon my fellow creatures. You may order me a small salad.”
    Holmes shrugged and gave our order to the waiter. It nettled me, I confess, to have my eating and drinking habits constantly challenged and rebuked by this waggish fellow. Furthermore, I perceived that far from paying Holmes for his services, the Irishman was now prepared to accept his luncheon as part of the detective’s largesse.
    We sat in silence for some moments, awaiting our meal and listening to the hubbub around us: the chat of the many customers crowding the restaurant at midday, the clatter of cutlery, and the incessant swinging of the doors that led to the kitchen. Holmes paid no attention to the chaos, but sat lost in thought, his eyes closed and his chin sunk upon his breast. With his great hawk’s bill of a nose, he resembled nothing so much as some sleeping bird of prey.
    “Well?” Shaw demanded, tiring of watching him. “Will you take the case?”
    Holmes did not move or open his eyes. “Yes.”
    “Excellent!” The Irishman beamed, his countenance wreathed in smiles. “What must we do first?”
    “We must eat.” Holmes opened his eyes in search of our waiter, who arrived at that moment, carrying a large tray. Suiting action to the word, the detective refused to utter so much as a syllable for the next thirty minutes. He cheerfully ignored all Shaw’s insistent enquiries but favoured that peppery individual with a smile every now and then by way of encouragement.
    More familiar with his humours than was the critic, I did my best to contain my speculations and addressed myself to my own victuals, until at length Holmes took a final sip of wine, patted his mouth delicately with his napkin and proceeded to fill his pipe.
    “You’re