have come to you this morning. I feel as if my name
and my misfortune must be in every man's mouth." He turned it over to
expose the central page. "Here it is, and with your permission I
will read it to you. Listen to this, Mr. Holmes. The headlines are:
'Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood. Disappearance of a Well Known
Builder. Suspicion of Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.' That is
the clue which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that
it leads infallibly to me. I have been followed from London Bridge
Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the warrant to
arrest me. It will break my mother's heart--it will break her heart!"
He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and swayed backward and
forward in his chair.

I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being the
perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and handsome,
in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue eyes, and a
clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His age may have been
about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that of a gentleman. From the
pocket of his light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of indorsed
papers which proclaimed his profession.

"We must use what time we have," said Holmes. "Watson, would you have
the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in question?"

Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted, I read
the following suggestive narrative:

"Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at Lower
Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr. Jonas
Oldacre is a well known resident of that suburb, where he has carried
on his business as a builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is a bachelor,
fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at the Sydenham
end of the road of that name. He has had the reputation of being a
man of eccentric habits, secretive and retiring. For some years he has
practically withdrawn from the business, in which he is said to have
massed considerable wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however,
at the back of the house, and last night, about twelve o'clock, an alarm
was given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon upon
the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it was impossible
to arrest the conflagration until the stack had been entirely consumed.
Up to this point the incident bore the appearance of an ordinary
ac