The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put down his

hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click, the jangling of metal,

and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.

 

“Gentlemen,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “let me introduce you to Mr.

 

Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson.”

 

The whole thing occurred in a moment—so quickly that I had no time to realize

it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes’ triumphant

expression and the ring of his voice, of the cabman’s dazed, savage face, as he

glared at the glittering handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his

wrists. For a second or two we might have been a group of statues. Then, with an

inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched himself free from Holmes’s

grasp, and hurled himself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before

him; but before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon

him like so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the room, and then

commenced a terrific conflict. So powerful and so fierce was he, that the four

of us were shaken off again and again. He appeared to have the convulsive

strength of a man in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled

by his passage through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect in diminishing

his resistance. It was not until Lestrade succeeded in getting his hand inside

his neckcloth and half-strangling him that we made him realize that his

struggles were of no avail; and even then we felt no security until we had