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"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my

feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the

lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they

had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always

answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad.

Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now-and now I am myself a

branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I

sold my character. God help me! God help me!" He burst into

convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.

There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and

by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the

edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

"Get out!" said he.

"What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

"No more words. Get out!"

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon

the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running

footfalls from the street.