, as I
say, left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr.
Holmes, and I'm your debtor."

"I MEAN to find her," said Sherlock Holmes. "I'm going through this
house till I do find her."

"Where is your warrant?"

Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. "This will have to serve
till a better one comes."

"Why, you're a common burglar."

"So you might describe me," said Holmes cheerfully. "My companion is
also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your
house."

Our opponent opened the door.

"Fetch a policeman, Annie!" said he. There was a whisk of feminine
skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.

"Our time is limited, Watson," said Holmes. "If you try to stop us,
Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin which
was brought into your house?"

"What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body in
it."

"I must see the body."

"Never with my consent."

"Then without it." With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to
one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened stood
immediately before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the
table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes
turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of the
coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above beat
down upon an aged and withered face. By no possible process of cruelty,
starvation, or disease could this wornout wreck be the still beautiful
Lady Frances. Holmes's face showed his amazement, and also his relief.

"Thank God!" he muttered. "It's someone else."

"Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said
Peters, who had followed us into the room.

"Who is the dead woman?"

"Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife's, Rose
Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse Infirmary. We
brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13 Firbank
Villas--mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes--and had her carefully
tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she
died--certificate says senile decay--but that's only the doctor's
opinion, and of course you know better. We ordered her funeral to be
carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury
her at eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that,
Mr. Holmes? You've made a silly blunder, and you may as we