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12 I have your word, Mr. Holmes, that you step right out of the case now and that you turn all your results over to us.”

“Certainly, that is always my custom.”

“Well, in the name of the Force I thank you. It seems a clear case, as you put it, and there can't be much difficulty over the bodies.”

“I'll show you a grim little bit of evidence,” said Holmes, “and I am sure Amberley himself never observed it. You'll get results, Inspector, by always putting yourself in the other fellow’s place, and thinking what you would do yourself. It takes some imagination, but it pays. Now, we will suppose that you were shut up in this little room, had not two minutes to live, but wanted to get even with the fiend who was probably mocking at you from the other side of the door. What would you do?”

“Write a message.”

“Exactly. You would like to tell people how you died. No use writing on paper. That would be seen. [sic] If you wrote on the wall some eye might rest upon it. Now, look here! Just above the skirting is scribbled with a purple indelible pencil: ‘We we’ That's all.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Well, it’s only a foot above the ground. The poor devil was on the floor and dying when he wrote it. He lost his senses before he could finish.”

“He was writing, ‘We were murdered.

“That’s how I read it. If you find an indelible pencil on the body”

“We'll look out for it, you may be sure. But those securities? Clearly there was no robbery at all. And yet he did possess those bonds. We verified that.”

“You may be sure he has them hidden in a safe place. When the whole elopement had passed into history he would suddenly discover them, and announce that the guilty couple had relented and sent back the plunder or had dropped it on the way.”

“You certainly seem to have met every difficulty,” said the Inspector. “Of course, he was bound to call us in, but why he should have gone to you I can’t understand.”

“Pure swank!” Holmes answered. “He felt so clever and so sure of himself that he imagined no one could touch him. He could say to any suspicious neighbour, ‘Look at the steps I have taken. I have consulted not only the police, but even Sherlock Holmes.

The Inspector laughed.

“We must forgive you your ‘even,’ Mr. Holmes,” said he; “it's as workmanlike a job as I can remember.”

COUPLE of days later my friend tossed across to me a copy of the bi-weekly North Surrey Observer. Under a series of flaming headlines, which began with “The Haven Horror” and ended with “Brilliant Police Investigation,” there was a packed column of print which gave the first consecutive account of the affair. The concluding paragraph is typical of the whole. It ran thus:—

“The remarkable acumen by which Inspector MacKinnon deduced from the smell of paint that some other smell, that of gas, for example, might be concealed; the bold deduction that the strong-room might also be the death-chamber, and the subsequent inquiry which led to the discovery of the bodies in a disused well, cleverly concealed by a dog-kennel, should live in the history of crime as a standing example of the intelligence of our professional detectives.”

”Well, well, MacKinnon is a good fellow,” said Holmes, with a tolerant smile. ”You can file it in our archives, Watson. Some day the true story may be told.”