Holmes stood by the table, with his hands deep in his trouser’s pockets and his chin upon his breast.
“I suppose we ought to call the police in now,” said he. “And yet I confess that I’d like to give them a complete case when they come.”
“It’s a blessed mystery to me,” cried Pycroft, scratching his head. “Whatever they wanted to bring me all the way up here for, and then—”
“Pooh! All that is clear enough,” said Holmes impatiently. “It is this last sudden move.”
“You understand the rest, then?”
“I think that it is fairly obvious. What do you say, Watson?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I must confess that I am out of my depths,” said I.
“Oh, surely if you consider the events at first they can only point to one conclusion.”
“What do you make of them?”
“Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. The first is the making of Pycroft write a declaration by which he entered the service of this preposterous company. Do you not see how very suggestive that is?”
“I am afraid I miss the point.”
“Well, why did they want him to do it? Not as a business matter, for these arrangements are usually verbal, and there was no earthly business reason why this should be an exception. Don’t you see, my young friend, that they were very anxious to obtain a specimen of your handwriting, and had no other way of doing it?”
“And why?”