tment by himself, thus escaping observation, had
been murdered in the lane leading to his house. After robbing him, the
miscreants turned their thoughts towards the disposal of the body--a
subject that always occupies a first-class criminal mind before the
deed is done. They agreed to place it on the line, and have it mangled
by the Scotch Express, then nearly due. Before they got the body
half-way up the embankment the express came along and stopped. The
guard got out and walked along the other side to speak with the
engineer. The thought of putting the body into an empty first-class
carriage instantly occurred to the murderers. They opened the door
with the deceased's key. It is supposed that the pistol dropped when
they were hoisting the body in the carriage.

The Queen's evidence dodge didn't work, and Scotland Yard ignobly
insulted my friend Sherlaw Kombs by sending him a pass to see the
villains hanged.

2. The Adventure of the Second Swag

The time was Christmas Eve, 1904. The place was an ancient, secluded
manor house, built so far back in the last century as 1896. It stood
at the head of a profound valley; a valley clothed in ferns waist
deep, and sombrely guarded by ancient trees, the remnants of a
primeval forest. From this mansion no other human habitation could be
seen. The descending road which connected the king's highway with the
stronghold was so sinuous and precipitate that more than once the grim
baronet who owned it had upset his automobile in trying to negotiate
the dangerous curves. The isolated situation and gloomy architecture
of this venerable mansion must have impressed the most casual observer
with the thought that here was the spot for the perpetration of dark
deeds, were it not for the fact that the place was brilliantly
illumined with electricity, while the silence was emphasised rather
than disturbed by the monotonous, regular thud of an accumulator
pumping the subtle fluid into a receptive dynamo situated in an
outhouse to the east.

The night was gloomy and lowering after a day of rain, but the very
sombreness of the scene made the brilliant stained glass windows stand
out like the radiant covers of a Christmas number. Such was the
appearance presented by 'Undershaw', the home of Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle, situated among the wilds of Hindhead, some forty or fifty miles
from London. Is it any wonder that at a spot so remote from
civilisation law should be set at defiance, and th