atter to you later. Meanwhile, since it is too late to
prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I should use the knowledge
which I possess in order to insure that justice be done. Will you
associate me in your investigation, or will you prefer that I should act
independently?"

"I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr. Holmes,"
said the inspector, earnestly.

"In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to examine the
premises without an instant of unnecessary delay."

Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do things
in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully noting the
results. The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man, had just come down
from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt's room, and he reported that her injuries were
serious, but not necessarily fatal. The bullet had passed through the
front of her brain, and it would probably be some time before she could
regain consciousness. On the question of whether she had been shot or
had shot herself, he would not venture to express any decided opinion.
Certainly the bullet had been discharged at very close quarters. There
was only the one pistol found in the room, two barrels of which had
been emptied. Mr. Hilton Cubitt had been shot through the heart. It was
equally conceivable that he had shot her and then himself, or that
she had been the criminal, for the revolver lay upon the floor midway
between them.

"Has he been moved?" asked Holmes.

"We have moved nothing except the lady. We could not leave her lying
wounded upon the floor."

"How long have you been here, Doctor?"

"Since four o'clock."

"Anyone else?"

"Yes, the constable here."

"And you have touched nothing?"

"Nothing."

"You have acted with great discretion. Who sent for you?"

"The housemaid, Saunders."

"Was it she who gave the alarm?"

"She and Mrs. King, the cook."

"Where are they now?"

"In the kitchen, I believe."

"Then I think we had better hear their story at once."

The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been turned into a
court of investigation. Holmes sat in a great, old-fashioned chair, his
inexorable eyes gleaming out of his haggard face. I could read in them
a set purpose to devote his life to this quest until the client whom he
had failed to save should at last be avenged. The trim Inspector Martin,
the old, gray-headed country doctor, myself, and a stolid village
policeman made up the rest of that