o him,
although not quite offensively enough to require bloodshed. There was
one name that was upon every tongue from the start, but it was the last
to get utterance--Fetlock Jones's. It was Pat Riley that mentioned it.

"Oh, well," the boys said, "of course we've all thought of him, because
he had a million rights to kill Flint Buckner, and it was just his plain
duty to do it. But all the same there's two things we can't get around,
for one thing, he hasn't got the sand; and for another, he wasn't
anywhere near the place when it happened."

"I know it," said Pat. "He was there in the billiard-room with us when
it happened."

"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have been suspected in a minute
if it hadn't been for that."

III

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its furniture save one
six-foot pine table and a chair. This table was against one end of
the room; the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, imposing,
impressive, sat in the chair. The public stood. The room was full. The
tobacco-smoke was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to command additional silence;
held it in the air a few moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put
forward question after question, and noted the answers with "Um-ums,"
nods of the head, and so on. By this process he learned all about Flint
Buckner, his character, conduct, and habits, that the people were able
to tell him. It thus transpired that the Extraordinary Man's nephew
was the only person in the camp who had a killing-grudge against Flint
Buckner. Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the witness, and asked,
languidly--

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where the lad Fetlock Jones was
at the time of the explosion?"

A thunderous response followed--

"In the billiard-room of this house!"

"Ah. And had he just come in?"

"Been there all of an hour!"

"Ah. It is about--about--well, about how far might it be to the scene of
the explosions."

"All of a mile!"

"Ah. It isn't much of an alibi, 'tis true, but--"

A storm-burst of laughter, mingled with shouts of "By jiminy, but he's
chain-lightning!" and "Ain't you sorry you spoke, Sandy?" shut off the
rest of the sentence, and the crushed witness drooped his blushing face
in pathetic shame. The inquisitor resumed:

"The lad Jones's somewhat distant connection with the case" (laughter)