Back I went to my hotel, put my head in a basin of cold water,and tried to think it out. Why had he sent me from London toBirmingham? Why had he got there before me? And why had hewritten a letter from himself to himself ? It was altogether toomuch for me, and I could make no sense of it. And then suddenlyit struck me that what was dark to me might be very light to Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. I had just time to get up to town by the nighttrain to see him this morning, and to bring you both back with meto Birmingham.”
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There was a pause after the stock-broker’s clerk had concludedhis surprising experience. Then Sherlock Holmes cocked his eyeat me, leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet criticalface, like a connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a cometvintage.
“Rather fine, Watson, is it not?” said he. “There are points inwhich please me. I think that you will agree with me that aninterview with Mr. Arthur Harry Pinner in the temporary officesof the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, would be arather interesting experience for both of us.”
“But how can we do it?” I asked.
“Oh, easily enough,” said Hall Pycroft, cheerily. “You are twofriends of mine who are in want of a billet, and what could bemore natural than that I should bring you both round to themanaging director?”
“Quite so, of course,” said Holmes. “I should like to have alook at the gentleman and see if I can make anything of his littlegame. What qualities have you, my friend, which would make yourservices so valuable? or is it possible that——” He began biting hisnails and staring blankly out of the window, and we hardly drewanother word from him until we were in New Street.
At seven o’clock that evening we were walking, the three of us,down Corporation Street to the company’s offices.
“It is no use our being at all before our time,” said our client. “Heonly comes there to see me, apparently, for the place is desertedup to the very hour he names.”
“That is suggestive,” remarked Holmes.
“By Jove, I told you so!” cried the clerk. “That’s he walkingahead of us there.”
He pointed to a smallish, dark, well-dressed man who wasbustling along the other side of the road. As we watched him helooked across at a boy who was bawling out the latest edition ofthe evening paper, and, running over among the cabs and busses,he bought one from him. Then, clutching it in his hand, hevanished through a doorway.
“There he goes!” cried Hall Pycroft. “These are the company’soffices into which he has gone. Come with me, and I’ll fix it up aseasily as possible.”
Following his lead, we ascended five stories, until we foundourselves outside a half-opened door, at which our client tapped.
voice within bade us enter, and we entered a bare, unfurnishedroom such as Hall Pycroft had described. At the single table satthe man whom we had seen in the street, with his evening paperspread out in front of him, and as he looked up at us it seemed tome that I had never looked upon a face which bore such marks ofMemoirs of Sherlock Holmes 709
grief, and of something beyond grief—of a horror such as comesto few men in a lifetime. His brow glistened with perspiration, hischeeks were of the dull, dead white of a fish’s belly, and his eyeswere wild and staring. He looked at his clerk as though he failedto recognize him, and I could see by the astonishment depictedupon our conductor’s face that this was by no means the usualappearance of his employer.
“You look ill, Mr. Pinner!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, I am not very well,” answered the other, making obviousefforts to pull himself together and licking his dry lips before hespoke. “Who are these gentlemen whom you have brought withyou?”
“One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price,of this town,” said our clerk, glibly. “They are friends of mine andgentlemen of experience, but they have been out of a place forsome little time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find anopening for them in the company’s employment.”
“Very possibly! Very possibly!” cried Mr. Pinner with a ghastlysmile. “Yes, I have no doubt that we shall be able to do somethingfor you. What is your particular line, Mr. Harris?”
“I am an accountant,” said Holmes.
“Ah yes, we shall want something of the sort. And you, Mr.
Price?”
“A clerk,” said I.
“I have every hope that the company may accommodate you. Iwill let you know about it as soon as we come to any conclusion.
And now I beg that you will go. For God’s sake leave me to myself!”
These last words were shot out of him, as though the constraintwhich he was evidently setting upon himself had suddenly andutterly burst asunder. Holmes and I glanced at each other, andHall Pycroft took a step towards the table.
“You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment toreceive some directions from you,” said he.
“Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly,” the other resumed in a calmertone. “You may wait here a moment; and there is no reason whyyour friends should not wait with you. I will be entirely at yourservice in three minutes, if I might trespass upon your patienceso far.” He rose with a very courteous air, and, bowing to us, hepassed out through a door at the farther end of the room, whichhe closed behind him.
“What now?” whispered Holmes. “Is he giving us the slip?”
“Impossible,” answered Pycroft.
“Why so?”
“That door leads into an inner room.”
“There is no exit?”
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“None.”
“Is it furnished?”
“It was empty yesterday.”
“Then what on earth can he be doing? There is something whichdon’t understand in this matter. If ever a man was three partsmad with terror, that man’s name is Pinner. What can have put theshivers on him?”
“He suspects that we are detectives,” I suggested.
“That’s it,” cried Pycroft.
Holmes shook his head. “He did not turn pale. He was palewhen we entered the room,” said he. “It is just possible that——”
His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the directionof the inner door.
“What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?” cried theclerk.