dern French psychologists have
called the 'idee fixe,' which may be trifling in character, and
accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read
deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary
family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such
an 'idee fixe' and under its influence be capable of any fantastic
outrage."

"That won't do, my dear Watson," said Holmes, shaking his head; "for no
amount of 'idee fixe' would enable your interesting monomaniac to find
out where these busts were situated."

"Well, how do YOU explain it?"

"I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a certain
method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr.
Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was
taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there
was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair
seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I
reflect that some of my most classic cases have had the least promising
commencement. You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of
the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which
the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can't afford,
therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall
be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any fresh
developments of so singular a chain of events."

The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and an
infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still
dressing in my bedroom next morning when there was a tap at the door and
Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:--

"Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.--Lestrade."

"What is it, then?" I asked.

"Don't know--may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the
story of the statues. In that case our friend, the image-breaker, has
begun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the
table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door."

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater
just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was one
of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings.
As we drove up we found the railings in front of the house lined by a
curious crowd. Holmes whistled.

"By George! it's attempted murder at th