part of the affair. What do you suppose was above the murdered man?”

 

I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror, even before

Sherlock Holmes answered.

 

“The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,” he said.

 

“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all silent for

a while.

 

There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the deeds of

this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My

nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle tingled as I thought of

it.

 

“The man was seen,” continued Lestrade. “A milk boy, passing on his way to the

dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the mews at the back of

the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raised against

one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. After passing, he

looked back and saw a man descend the ladder. He came down so quietly and openly

that the boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the hotel.

He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his own mind that it was

early for him to be at work. He has an impression that the man was tall, had a

reddish face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in

the room some little time after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in