“Take a seat, and try one of these cigars,” he said. “We are anxious to know how

you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?”

 

“I don’t mind if I do,” the detective answered. “The tremendous exertions which

I have gone through during the last day or two have worn me out. Not so much

bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain upon the mind. You will

appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both brain-workers.”

 

“You do me too much honour,” said Holmes, gravely. “Let us hear how you arrived

at this most gratifying result.”

 

The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed complacently at his

cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of amusement.

 

“The fun of it is,” he cried, “that that fool Lestrade, who thinks himself so

smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is after the secretary

Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime than the babe unborn. I have no

doubt that he has caught him by this time.”

 

The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.

 

“And how did you get your clue?”

 

“Ah, I’ll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is strictly

between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to contend with was the