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"We have been roaming about the neighborhood," apologized Holmes, "and took the liberty of coming to your rear entrance."

"You have a clew?" asked Mr. Harrington Edwards, eagerly.

A queer smile of triumph sat upon Sherlock Holmes' lips.

"Indeed," he said, quietly, "I believe I have solved your little problem, Mr. Harrington Edwards!"

"My dear Holmes!" I cried, and "My dear Sir!" cried our client.

"I have yet to establish a motive," confessed my friend, "but as to the main facts there can be no question."

Mr. Harrington Edwards fell into a chair, white and shaking.

"The book," he croaked. "Tell me!"

"Patience, my good sir," counseled Holmes, kindly. "We have had nothing to eat since sunup, and are famished. All in good time. Let us first dine and then all shall be made clear. Meanwhile, I should like to telephone to Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman, for I wish him to hear what I have to say. "

Our client's pleas were in vain. Holmes would have his little joke and his luncheon. In the end, Mr. Harrington Edwards staggered away