As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by itssender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College,Cambridge, announced the arrival of an enormous young man,sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorwaywith his broad shoulders, and looked from one of us to the otherwith a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
My companion bowed.
“I’ve been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw InspectorStanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case,so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of theregular police.”
“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”
“It’s awful, Mr. Holmes—simply awful I wonder my hair isn’tgray. Godfrey Staunton—you’ve heard of him, of course? He’ssimply the hinge that the whole team turns on. I’d rather sparetwo from the pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line.
Whether it’s passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there’s no oneto touch him, and then, he’s got the head, and can hold us alltogether. What am I to do? That’s what I ask you, Mr. Holmes.
There’s Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a half, andhe always edges right in on to the scrum instead of keeping outon the touchline. He’s a fine place-kick, it’s true, but then hehas no judgment, and he can’t sprint for nuts. Why, Morton orJohnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson isfast enough, but he couldn’t drop from the twenty-five line, and athree-quarter who can’t either punt or drop isn’t worth a place forpace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help meto find Godfrey Staunton.”
My friend had listened with amused surprise to this longspeech, which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour andearnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of abrawny hand upon the speaker’s knee. When our visitor was silentHolmes stretched out his hand and took down letter “S” of hiscommonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine ofvaried information.
“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” saidhe, “and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, butGodfrey Staunton is a new name to me.”
It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.
“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “Isuppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, youdon’t know Cyril Overton either?”
1032 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
Holmes shook his head good humouredly.
“Great Scott!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve forEngland against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ‘Varsity all thisyear. But that’s nothing! I didn’t think there was a soul in Englandwho didn’t know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter,Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr.
Holmes, where HAVE you lived?”
Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naive astonishment.
“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton—a sweeterand healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sectionsof society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport,which is the best and soundest thing in England. However, yourunexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world offresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. So now, mygood sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly and quietly,exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire that Ishould help you.”
Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look of the manwho is more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but bydegrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omitfrom his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.
“It’s this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper ofthe Rugger team of Cambridge ‘Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton ismy best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all cameup, and we settled at Bentley’s private hotel. At ten o’clock I wentround and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I believein strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had aword or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He seemed to meto be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He saidhe was all right—just a touch of headache. I bade him good-nightand left him. Half an hour later, the porter tells me that a roughlookingman with a beard called with a note for Godfrey. He hadnot gone to bed, and the note was taken to his room. Godfreyread it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed. Theporter was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfreystopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself together.
Then he went downstairs, said a few words to the man who waswaiting in the hall, and the two of them went off together. Thelast that the porter saw of them, they were almost running downthe street in the direction of the Strand. This morning Godfrey’sroom was empty, his bed had never been slept in, and his thingswere all just as I had seen them the night before. He had gone offat a moment’s notice with this stranger, and no word has comefrom him since. I don’t believe he will ever come back. He wassportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn’thave stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not forThe Return of Sherlock Holmes 1033
some cause that was too strong for him. No: I feel as if he weregone for good, and we should never see him again.”
Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to thissingular narrative.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard ofhim there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”
“Could he have got back to Cambridge?”
“Yes, there is a late train—quarter-past eleven.”
“But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?”
“No, he has not been seen.”
“What did you do next?”
“I wired to Lord Mount-James.”
“Why to Lord Mount-James?”
“Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearestrelative—his uncle, I believe.”
“Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is one of the richest men in England.”
“So I’ve heard Godfrey say.”