his fate upon the scaffold, cringing and whining when the
last hour came. Eight of his chief followers shared his fate. Fifty-odd
had various degrees of imprisonment. The work of Birdy Edwards was
complete.

And yet, as he had guessed, the game was not over yet. There was
another hand to be played, and yet another and another. Ted Baldwin,
for one, had escaped the scaffold; so had the Willabys; so had several
others of the fiercest spirits of the gang. For ten years they were out
of the world, and then came a day when they were free once more--a day
which Edwards, who knew his men, was very sure would be an end of his
life of peace. They had sworn an oath on all that they thought holy to
have his blood as a vengeance for their comrades. And well they strove
to keep their vow!

From Chicago he was chased, after two attempts so near success that it
was sure that the third would get him. From Chicago he went under a
changed name to California, and it was there that the light went for a
time out of his life when Ettie Edwards died. Once again he was nearly
killed, and once again under the name of Douglas he worked in a lonely
canyon, where with an English partner named Barker he amassed a
fortune. At last there came a warning to him that the bloodhounds were
on his track once more, and he cleared--only just in time--for England.
And thence came the John Douglas who for a second time married a worthy
mate, and lived for five years as a Sussex county gentleman, a life
which ended with the strange happenings of which we have heard.

Epilogue

The police trial had passed, in which the case of John Douglas was
referred to a higher court. So had the Quarter Sessions, at which he
was acquitted as having acted in self-defense.

"Get him out of England at any cost," wrote Holmes to the wife. "There
are forces here which may be more dangerous than those he has escaped.
There is no safety for your husband in England."

Two months had gone by, and the case had to some extent passed from our
minds. Then one morning there came an enigmatic note slipped into our
letter box. "Dear me, Mr. Holmes. Dear me!" said this singular epistle.
There was neither superscription nor signature. I laughed at the quaint
message; but Holmes showed unwonted seriousness.

"Deviltry, Watson!" he remarked, and sat long with a clouded brow.

Late last night Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, brought up a message that a
gentleman wished to see Holmes,