deal more than you should.”

 

Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable. “Don’t get

arresting me for the murder,” he said. “I am one of the hounds and not the wolf;

Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do

next?”

 

Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified expression. “I went

back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought Murcher and two more to

the spot.”

 

“Was the street empty then?”

 

“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

The constable’s features broadened into a grin. “I’ve seen many a drunk chap in

my time,” he said, “but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that cove. He was at the

gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up agin the railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch

o’ his lungs about Columbine’s New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He

couldn’t stand, far less help.”

 

“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes.