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Holmes deflected this
verbal lunge with a perfunctory parry. "Whatever I come upon
will be revealed in due time."

As Mycroft grunted, I
made to open the door. Hearing footfalls on the stairs, I wondered if
the silent driver was returning, but it was Billy on the landing and
at his heels was the dour face of Inspector MacDonald. As I stood
aside, the policeman caught sight of Mycroft Holmes.

"Good evening,
sir," he stammered in surprise. Then his natural instincts took
over. "Would that be your hansom at the curb, sir?"

A nod was his answer.

"Well, your driver
is placing a most peculiar object within, and—"

"I must leave,"
interrupted Mycroft Holmes, "since I'm due in Whitehall now.
Possibly the Inspector would like a drink, Watson, it being brisk
without."

"Thank you, no,"
said MacDonald, a puzzled expression on his long face. "Not
while I'm on duty, sir."

"My point exactly,"
said the intelligence expert. "Do enjoy a libation,
MacDonald."

Understanding forced
itself onto the Scot's face as Mycroft Holmes, with a nod to his
brother and myself, made his exit.

"Well, if that's
the way it is, I wouldn't mind a wee drop, Doctor."

He removed his hat and
coat as I crossed to the sideboard.

"I was catching up
with some paperwork, Mr. Holmes, but your lad stayed right there till
I came with him. 'Tis glad I am that I'll never have to question him
officially, for I could nae get a word from him."

Holmes's thin face
brightened. He took great pride in Billy.

"I gather there be
a spot of trouble, Mr. Holmes," persisted the Inspector,
accepting a glass from me with a look of gratitude.

"Potentially,"
replied the great sleuth, "though there are fewer official
complexities than I had anticipated."

There was a wise look in
MacDonald's eyes, and instinctively his gaze strayed to the door
through which the elder Holmes had disappeared.

"It's our old
acquaintance, Chu San Fu, Mr. Mac. He might be throwing his hat in
the ring again."

MacDonald's tumbler came
down on the end table forcibly enough to make me wince.

"Not that again.
'Twas hard enough to chop the beggar down the last time. Though it
did get simpler towards the end."

There was a look of
satisfaction about Holmes. "I wondered about that. Do fill
me in."

"Well, sir, the
Limehouse Squad just happened to get a complete list of the
Chinaman's business outlets, associates—a blueprint of his
organization. But you know all about that." The Aberdeenian
underlined the "you," a tinge of irony in his voice and a
rare trace of humor in his expression. "So we closed him down,
bit by bit. He'll nae set up shop in England again and that's a
fact."

"You mentioned the
climax of this extensive project," prompted Holmes.

"Chu San Fu seemed
irrational. Had his followers resisting arrest. Twice there were
shooting scrapes. 'Twas like he was making it easy for us."

Holmes's eyes shifted to
mine. "An interesting pattern for a doctor, Watson?"

"Not unusual,"
I replied. "A megalomaniac, his grandiose delusions
shattered, totters on the brink."

"If you mean he was
barmy, I'll go for that," said MacDonald. "We never could
convict him personally. He was too well covered. But we put him out
of business, for sure."

"At least for the
time," commented Holmes, and there was a chilling note to his
words. "How are your sources on art objects, Inspector?"

"Safes and Lofts
keeps an eye out. We've got a pretty good line on the lenders' shops
that pick up the under-the-table stuff, along with the active
fences."

"I had in mind the
legal trade. Word reaches me that Chu San Fu's treasure trove has
been sold. The market is positively glutted, for he had one of the
great collections of the world."

"'Twas above board,
Mr. Holmes. We could do nothing about that."

"Indeed, no. But it
is my thought that, despite the fact that you have dried up all his
sources of income, he must be well supplied with coin of the realm."

"From the sale of
his collection." There was a wary look about the Inspector.
"It's your feeling that he's getting ready for something new?"

"It does seem
possible. I assume the Oriental is still in London?"

"Aye, sir. We may
have written him off as a has-been on our books at the Yard, but we
haven't forgotten him."

"Excellent,"
said Holmes, rising to his feet. He must have rung the buzzer to our
downstairs landing, for there was a gentle tap on the door. "I'm
activating some of my sources, and it might be well, Mr. Mac, if we
give the Chinaman a long, hard, second look."

As I secured the
Inspector's hat and coat, he evidenced an expression of
disappointment. "Would there be anything else you'd like to
suggest, Mr. Holmes?"

The sleuth chose to be
frank. "I could din your ears with conjecture, but it's hard
evidence you're needing, is it not?"

MacDonald shrugged as
Holmes opened the door.

"We all have our
ways," he said, and on this philosophical note he departed.

"A moment, Bill,"
exclaimed Holmes crossing to the desk to secure the pages of foolscap
he had written on earlier. "After you show the Inspector out, do
see that these get off, will you?"

Passing the boy some
coins, Holmes closed the door and began to rub his hands together in
a satisfied manner.

"My dear Watson, we
have had a fulsome evening, have we not?"

I had to agree with him
there.

In truth, there was a
feeling of familiar comfort in that the mood of our establishment was
again normal. The wheels were spinning and at a rapid rate.

Chapter
Three

Another
Puzzle

The following morning I
rose quite early for me, my mind churning with the possibility of
another outbreak of violence similar to the one that had claimed the
heroic General Gordon.

Holmes and I breakfasted
together but he was preoccupied, and experience cautioned me
that it was useless to try to rouse him from his thoughts. The rain
was still with us, and since I had no medical calls on my calendar,
The Lancet
claimed my attention for a time. I noted that
my friend spent some time inspecting the golden dagger that had come
our way the night before and then, wearying of it, had crossed to the
window to gaze at the dreary scene outside.

The sheaf of cables that
had been sent the previous evening meant that Holmes had
initiated certain inquiries and now, while awaiting responses, he was
going over the matter of the departed agent, Cruthers, the
dagger, and the fears expressed by his brother. I rather hoped that
he had plenty to think about since, as readers of my words know, he
was not of a patient nature.

As my head rose to
survey the silhouette of the great detective, it was immediately
obvious that matters had taken an unexpected turn. His eyes, which
had been viewing the outside scene in a moody manner, were now
fastened on an area immediately below his vantage point, and his
whipcord frame leaned forward slightly. On occasion, he did bear a
remarkable resemblance to a predatory bird about to swoop.

"Ah ha, Watson!
What have we here? A carriage at the curb. A gentleman descending
from it, for his clothes are of Saville Row. Eureka! He is hastening
to our very door. Considering the state of the weather and the
resultant lack of traffic, I would say this indicates a matter
requiring the attention of certain unique talents. That is the way
you put it in those stories you write, is it not?"

I was prompted to remind
him that those stories, which he oft-times accused me of foisting on
a patient reading public, were but recountings, devoid of form or
content without his actions. But Holmes's eyes were sparkling and he
was rubbing his hands together like a gleeful moneylender. I did not
wish to intrude on his happy anticipation, but my native practicality
took hold.

"See here, Holmes,
you do have that Mid East matter to consider."

"Not until more
information comes our way. Meanwhile we have a man who has come
through the rain on this wearisome day, and we cannot deny him an
audience."

Here we go again, I
thought. Holmes, self-appointed protector of all in need on three
continents, because he hated a wasted moment and his ego could not
let him pass a puzzle by.

While Billy announced
our visitor and Holmes signified that he should be shown up, it
occurred to me that my smug attitude would get a justified
comeuppance if the man turned out to be a solicitor for church funds
but such was not the case.

Mr. Clyde Deets of
Mayswood, as he was announced, was well turned out indeed, from his
lucent top hat and black frock coat with white waistcoat down to his
patent-leather shoes. I noted, as he deposited his hat and gloves on
our occasional table while greeting Holmes, that his hair was
thinning. The flesh on his face was pale, even after braving the wind
outside, but firm. He had a small moustache somewhat military in its
cut. As he seated himself in the basket chair indicated by
Holmes, he brushed some droplets of moisture from his black satin
cravat. The word "foppish" came to my mind, but the square
cut of his shoulders with the suggestion of bunched muscles caused me
to amend it to "meticulous." I liked to have such little
observations at hand should Holmes ask my opinion, an infrequent
occurrence.

"There are cigars
in the coal scuttle," said the consulting detective with a
gesture of his hand.

Deets suppressed
surprise at the eccentric arrangements in our quarters. I hoped
Holmes would not secure shag from the Persian slipper.

"Thank you, no, Mr.
Holmes." He seemed ill at ease. "I feel most fortunate in
finding you in your lodgings," he added lamely as his eyes
questioningly swiveled towards me.

"This is my
associate, Doctor Watson. His discretion is beyond question, and he
is quite indispensable to my investigations."

While Holmes had used
these words, or similar ones, many times through the years, they
always prompted a glow of pride, though I had my own ideas as regards
their truth. Suddenly, a thought surprised me. Did Holmes really
believe this?

It was not apparent to
me whether Deets resented my presence or not. "We had a bit of
unpleasantness at the family home last night. Mayswood, you know."

I didn't. Holmes gave no
indication as to whether he shared my ignorance or not. There was an
awkward pause, then Deets continued: "Felt some professional
help was required, so I dashed over here first thing. Came right to
the best, you see."

I noted Holmes's
eyebrows escalating slightly, and there was an air of mild amusement
about him.

"Not immediately to
our door, Mr. Deets. There is a smudge of dusty ash on your topper
that is indigenous to our railway system, and surely I note a return
ticket in your waistcoat pocket. Then there is some mud on your
shoes, inevitable considering the weather, and judging by the color
of the soil, I would venture the guess that you went from the railway
station to an address in the Hyde Park vicinity."

Deets's eyes had widened
and there was that look, half amazement and half apprehension, that I
had seen so many times before.

"Mayswood is down
Surrey way, Mr. Holmes, and I did toddle over to the home of my
solicitor before coming here. I say, you are a bit of a crackerjack,
are you not? Lawyer Simpson lives in Hyde Park for a fact. Old fellow
thought I should contact the police, but the idea of a squad of
constables descending on the ménage didn't fill me with
enthusiasm. Felt if you might be persuaded to lend a hand, things
would be more discreet."

"Let us consider
what this unpleasantness involves."

I shuddered in my mind
at what Holmes's reaction might be to a tale of domestic strife, but
Deets did better than that.

"Fact is, Mr.
Holmes, we got burgled, or jolly well would have but for happy
chance."

Once started, our
visitor swung into his tale with commendable alacrity, and he
presented it with a minimum of extraneous verbiage, a fact that I
knew weighed well with Holmes.