Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He continued to

walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his chest and his brows drawn

down, as was his habit when lost in thought.

 

“There will be no more murders,” he said at last, stopping abruptly and facing

us. “You can put that consideration out of the question. You have asked me if I

know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of his name is a small

thing, however, compared with the power of laying our hands upon him. This I

expect very shortly to do. I have good hopes of managing it through my own

arrangements; but it is a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a

shrewd and desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion

to prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man has no

idea that anyone can have a clue there is some chance of securing him; but if he

had the slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in an instant

among the four million inhabitants of this great city.

 

Without meaning to hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that I

consider these men to be more than a match for the official force, and that is

why I have not asked your assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all

the blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present I am

ready to promise that the instant that I can communicate with you without

endangering my own combinations, I shall do so.”

 

Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this assurance, or by

the depreciating allusion to the detective police. The former had flushed up to