“And your friend was closely related?”
“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty—cramfull of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with hisknuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he isan absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”
“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”
“No.”
“What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?”
“Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if itwas to do with money it is possible that he would make for hisnearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I haveheard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey wasnot fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it.”
“Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going tohis relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visitof this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitationthat was caused by his coming.”
Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can makenothing of it,” said he.
“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look intothe matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you to makeyour preparations for your match without reference to this younggentleman. It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessitywhich tore him away in such a fashion, and the same necessity islikely to hold him away. Let us step round together to the hotel, andsee if the porter can throw any fresh light upon the matter.”
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Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting ahumble witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy ofGodfrey Staunton’s abandoned room, he had extracted all thatthe porter had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not agentleman, neither was he a workingman. He was simply whatthe porter described as a “medium-looking chap,” a man of fifty,beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to beagitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he hadheld out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note intohis pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in thehall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter hadonly distinguished the one word “time.” Then they had hurried offin the manner described. It was just half-past ten by the hall clock.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton’s bed.
You are the day porter, are you not?”
“Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven.”
“The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”
“No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else.”
“Were you on duty all day yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”
“Yes, sir, one telegram.”
“Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”
“About six.”
“Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”
“Here in his room.”
“Were you present when he opened it?”
“Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer.”
“Well, was there?”
“Yes, sir, he wrote an answer.”
“Did you take it?”
“No, he took it himself.”
“But he wrote it in your presence.”
“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turnedat that table. When he had written it, he said: ‘All right, porter, Iwill take this myself.’ ”
“What did he write it with?”
“A pen, sir.”
“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”
“Yes, sir, it was the top one.”
Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to thewindow and carefully examined that which was uppermost.
“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing themdown again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have nodoubt frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goesthrough—a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage.
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However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to perceivethat he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can hardlydoubt that we will find some impression upon this blotting-pad.
Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”
He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards usthe following hieroglyphic:
Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.
“That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and thereverse will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over, andwe read:
“So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Stauntondispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are atleast six words of the message which have escaped us; but whatremains— ‘Stand by us for God’s sake!’ —proves that this young mansaw a formidable danger which approached him, and from whichsomeone else could protect him. ‘Us,’ mark you! Another person wasinvolved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man, whoseemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the connectionbetween Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And what isthe third source from which each of them sought for help againstpressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to that.”
“We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” Isuggested.
“Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound,had already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have cometo your notice that, counterfoil of another man’s message, theremay be some disinclination on the part of the officials to obligeyou. There is so much red tape in these matters. However, I haveno doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may beattained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton,to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”
There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, whichHolmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers anddarting, penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By theway, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow—nothingamiss with him?”
“Sound as a bell.”
“Have you ever known him ill?”
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“Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slippedhis knee-cap, but that was nothing.”
