“But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from unravelling the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not simpler but stranger.”

“Perhaps,” said Holmes, thoughtfully, “perhaps.” He relapsed into a silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up at last in Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew Mycroft’s paper from his pocket.

“We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make,” said he. “I think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention.”

The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green lawns stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog was lifting, and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A butler answered our ring.

“Sir James, sir!” said he with solemn face. “Sir James died this morning.”

“Good heavens!” cried Holmes in amazement. “How did he die?”