smell the edge of the
wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand."

I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry
smell.

"That is where he put his foot in getting out. If YOU can trace him, I
should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run down-stairs,
loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."

By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the
roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very
slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of
chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon
the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated
at one of the corner eaves.

"That you, Watson?" he cried.

"Yes."

"This is the place. What is that black thing down there?"

"A water-barrel."

"Top on it?"

"Yes."

"No sign of a ladder?"

"No."

"Confound the fellow! It's a most break-neck place. I ought to be
able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty
firm. Here goes, anyhow."

There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily
down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the
barrel, and from there to the earth.

"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and
boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he
had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it."

The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out
of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In
shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a
dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other,
like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

"They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't prick
yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they
are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our
skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are
you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"

"Certainly," I answered.

"Your leg will stand it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He
pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the
creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical
cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet