Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmost

amazement upon his features.

 

“Why, that’s true, sir,” he said; “though how you come to know it, Heaven only

knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still and so lonesome, that I

thought I’d be none the worse for some one with me. I ain’t afeared of anything

on this side o’ the grave; but I thought that maybe it was him that died o’ the

typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The thought gave me a kind o’

turn, and I walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher’s lantern, but

there wasn’t no sign of him nor of anyone else.”

 

“There was no one in the street?”

 

“Not a livin’ soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself together and

went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside, so I went into the

room where the light was a-burnin’. There was a candle flickerin’ on the

mantelpiece—a red wax one—and by its light I saw——”

 

“Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times, and you

knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and tried the kitchen door,

and then——”

 

John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in his eyes.

“Where was you hid to see all that?” he cried. “It seems to me that you knows a