onderful! It's all as clear as crystal, as
you put it. But what is the object of this deep deception, Mr. Holmes?"

It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing manner had
changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its teacher.

"Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,
malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now waiting us
downstairs. You know that he was once refused by McFarlane's mother?
You don't! I told you that you should go to Blackheath first and Norwood
afterwards. Well, this injury, as he would consider it, has rankled
in his wicked, scheming brain, and all his life he has longed for
vengeance, but never seen his chance. During the last year or two,
things have gone against him--secret speculation, I think--and he finds
himself in a bad way. He determines to swindle his creditors, and for
this purpose he pays large checks to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I
imagine, himself under another name. I have not traced these checks
yet, but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at some
provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a double existence.
He intended to change his name altogether, draw this money, and vanish,
starting life again elsewhere."

"Well, that's likely enough."

"It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all pursuit off
his track, and at the same time have an ample and crushing revenge upon
his old sweetheart, if he could give the impression that he had been
murdered by her only child. It was a masterpiece of villainy, and he
carried it out like a master. The idea of the will, which would give
an obvious motive for the crime, the secret visit unknown to his own
parents, the retention of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains
and buttons in the wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from
which it seemed to me, a few hours ago, that there was no possible
escape. But he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge
of when to stop. He wished to improve that which was already perfect--to
draw the rope tighter yet round the neck of his unfortunate victim--and
so he ruined all. Let us descend, Lestrade. There are just one or two
questions that I would ask him."

The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a policeman
upon each side of him.

"It was a joke, my good sir--a practical joke, nothing more," he whined
incessantly. "I assure you, sir, that I simply conc