the basin, where he had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where he had

deliberately wiped his knife.”

 

I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which tallied so

exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of exultation or satisfaction

upon his face.

 

“Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the murderer?”

he asked.

 

“Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in his pocket, but it seems that this

was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd pounds in it, but

nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of these extraordinary crimes,

robbery is certainly not one of them. There were no papers or memoranda in the

murdered man’s pocket, except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a

month ago, and containing the words, ‘J. H. is in Europe.’ There was no name

appended to this message.”

 

“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.

 

“Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel, with which he had read himself to

sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him. There was

a glass of water on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box

containing a couple of pills.”