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Shortly thereafter we
dined, following which my host graciously took me for a stroll round
the grounds, providing excellent cigars for us both to enjoy
during it, though I have always felt that the taste and aroma of a
cigar loses something in the open air. They, like good brandy, are
meant to be enjoyed in a comfortable easy chair, to be savored, as
'twere. I told the equine expert about the monograph Holmes had
once published dealing with the ash of every known brand of cigar and
tobacco and rather lengthily titled: "Upon the Distinction
between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos."

This so intrigued Deets,
who obviously enjoyed the good things of life, that I was able to
guide our footsteps without seeming to into the area of the stables
containing the riding horses, and I used my eyes as well as I could
and managed a few leading questions as well.

Life on a breeding farm
evidently began at an early hour. It was with no difficulty that I
was able to reach my bedroom before nine. My riding habit of the day
had been carefully brushed, and the boots polished to a fine sheen.
But the container in which my toilet articles were kept had not been
opened. A tiny piece of wax was still under the cover when I opened
it. This was a trick that I had learned from Holmes years ago. Within
was the small candle that I had taken the precaution to include with
my razor and the rest of my kit.

Extinguishing the lights
on the hour, I lit the candle and passed it three times across the
center window of my room. I then snuffed out the flame and blinked my
eyes to allow clearer vision in the darkness, another trick of the
sleuth. In short order there were three answering flashes from the
woods. Quick work, I thought, but then Gilligan and Styles already
knew which side of the house to watch. My trip into Litchfield had
been of some benefit.

Clear country air, free
from the oily smoke of channel coal, has a soporific effect, and I
felt myself drifting off to sleep almost immediately.

My final thoughts were
that it had not been a wasted day and I could think of no grievous
errors I had made. Possibly I had some aptitude in the sleuthing line
after all.

The following day gave
promise of being a repetition of the previous one. Fandango seemed
more familiar with my ways and allowed me, with a resigned air I
thought, to make a complete circuit of the estate. I noted the
various roads and paths as best I could along with the general
terrain. Then we traveled to Litchfield where I avoided "The
Red Lion" but, from habit, visited the cable office. I was
somewhat surprised to find a message there, not yet dispatched
to Mayswood. It was brief, as Holmes's cables were wont to be:
"Inform those concerned of my arrival tomorrow. S.H."

I allowed Fandango her
head returning to the stud farm, and she made a rapid job of it. A
good thing, too, since I had noted a number of aches and pains when
we had set out, and our brisk return trip seemed to relieve them
rather than compound the problem.

I informed Deets of the
contents of the cable and he finally expressed curiosity, reasonable
under the circumstances.

"I wonder what he
has learned?" It was a general question, but I sensed he
expected an answer and might be a little suspicious if he didn't get
one.

Well, ol' boy, I
thought, you'd better make this good. Holmes has remarked often that
subtlety is not one of your talents. Let's prove him wrong. Holmes
was not a fabricator; he did not have to be. But I had noted
that when he found it expedient to lay a false scent, he employed as
much of the truth as possible. I determined to follow this principle
in my first attempt at flim-flammery.

"I seldom know all
of Holmes's moves until after the checkmate." Well, that was
certainly true. "As he mentioned," I continued, "the
fact that the intruder used a bolo-type device alerted him to a South
American as a possibility. I can give you a guess."

Deets indicated this
would be appreciated. "Holmes's knowledge of the criminal
classes is extensive, and in addition he has access to the files of
Scotland Yard and the Suret
é
as well, if
need be." I didn't dwell on the Kriminal Archiv of the Berlin
police. No sense in overdoing it.

"I think he has
selected possibilities from known second-story men who are agile,
strong, but small."

"Why small?"
The wary look in Deets's eyes was fading away.

"He pulled himself
up to the balcony in short order and descended in a trice; otherwise
you would have seen him. That's not easy for a weighty man. Holmes
pictures a type like a tumbler or acrobat, who is also adept with a
weighted line. He has been narrowing down the list, and his cable
indicates that he now has a prime suspect."

"But how does this
tie in with your presence here? Not that your company hasn't been
welcome," Deets hastened to add, with the true instincts of a
proper host. "Your stories of Mr. Holmes's cases have been
of great interest."

I hope I exhibited a
magnanimous air. For safety's sake, I resorted to the oft-used device
of a Socratical response.

"Would you think it
possible that a man of that description might have been seen in
this area?"

He nodded, of course.
What else could he do?

"In fact, the
culprit might still be in the vicinity planning a second attempt. If
so," I stated with a touch of bravado, "my presence on the
scene might deter such an idea."

Deets's boyish smile had
returned.

"You detectives
really have to touch all the wickets, don't you?"

"Detail.
Painstaking detail. The sifting of all the facts and, finally, the
forming of the relevant elements into a mosaic, a design that throws
the harsh light of truth on what happened or, possibly of more
importance, what might happen."

As well to be hung for a
sheep as a goat, I thought. Deets didn't really know what I was
talking about, for I didn't know myself. But it had a good sound to
it and obviously played a pleasant tune in his ears. I resolved to
attend future discussions between Holmes and our client lest some of
my words come back at me.

I was present, but not
at all in the manner that I had anticipated.

Chapter
Eight

A
Harrowing Night

I had no sooner retired
to my bedroom, the footsteps of the attentive Dooley fading down the
hall, when I was so startled that I must have jumped a foot. Out of
nowhere came a voice, and it took a moment to realize that it was a
familiar one.

"Is the coast
clear, Guv?"

As I stood petrified,
Slim Gilligan assumed that my silence indicated an affirmative
and rolled out from under my bed.

"Good Heavens,
Gilligan, what brings you here?"

"Mr. 'Olmes wants
you ready to move, Guv. 'E's got a nose fer such things, 'e 'as, and
tonight's the night."

I did not bother asking
the cracksman how he had gained my room. With his record, a country
estate presented no problems. To my credit, I acted in a businesslike
manner. "What's the plan?"

"If yuh waits a
bit, till the master of the 'ouse 'as folded up shop, you're to go
downstairs. Tell the butler that you want to take another turn 'round
and then nip out to the stables and saddle a couple of ridin' 'orses.
Then you come back, see, and the butler—"

"Dooley."

"—'ll lock
the place up fer the night. You get inter your ridin' togs and stand
by. Mr. 'Olmes figures there's goin' to be a real hullabaloo durin'
the night with a lot o' runnin' 'round, and you slips out in the
confusion and gets the 'orses. Ride round back and make fer the main
road, stayin' away from the tree line."

"Then what?"

"Just keep goin'
away from the 'ouse. Mr. 'Olmes'll hail yuh."

"Is he here?"

"'As been fer a
while. Good luck!"

Gilligan listened for a
moment at the door and then slipped through it and was gone.

I sat on the bed for a
moment, my thoughts awhirl. Holmes had said that I would play an
important part in the drama to unfold, and suddenly it seemed that I
would. It struck me that this was the greatest miscasting of all
times. Night alarms with a somewhat overweight medical man riding
over the countryside like a supporter of the ill-fated Stuarts
fleeing from a company of roundheads? Holmes's drama might be played
out like a farce comedy!

But the Watson spirit
rose within me, and I banished such thoughts as self-defeating.
Holmes had dressed me in the clothes of an adventurer, ready to take
center stage, and I resolved to play the part with conviction, though
I felt more like assuming Gilligan's hiding place under the bed, with
a blanket over my head.

After a suitable period,
I walked jauntily down the great stairs of the mansion and made for
the rear. In the butler's pantry adjacent to the huge kitchen I found
Dooley, who slipped a copy of
La vie Parisienne
out of sight
and took me to the rear door, which he unlocked for me. Outside in
the bracing night air, I walked casually and apparently aimlessly
until well removed from the house and then made a beeline for the
stables. None of the grooms were about, and I was able to secure the
riding equipment from the tack room.

Locating Fandango's
stall, I spoke to the horse in a low tone and allowed her to get used
to the idea of my presence before slipping a bridle on her. I
then led her from the stall and arranged the saddle. There were
sounds from the other horses but I ignored them. Either I was going
to pull this off undetected, or I was not. With the girth cinched
tight around the mare, I secured her bridle in front of the next
stall, figuring that the horse within, conscious of Fandango ready
for action, would get the idea and accept the bit from my
unfamiliar hands. Such proved the case, and with the two horses
saddled, I returned them to their stalls to await their moment. I
don't think my foray took more than fifteen minutes, and when I
tapped on the back door, Dooley opened it for me, indicating no
suspicion. Feeling considerably the better for having
accomplished the first part of my task, I returned to my bedroom and
wondered what the signal for the second act would be. Seated in an
armchair, I steeled myself for the waiting, always the most difficult
period in a situation like this. It had been such a short time ago
that I had thought of the peaceful atmosphere in our snug quarters on
Baker Street, and here I was in a Surrey mansion waiting for
who-knew-what in connection with the Deets affair. It had begun like
such, a pedestrian matter. The introduction of our client's deceased
father into the list of dramatis personae had added the fillip of
dark and sinister motives.

And what about the agent
of Mycroft who had died in our presence? This bizarre occurrence
combined with the invasion of our quarters had been momentarily
jettisoned it would seem, though I knew Holmes's manner too well not
to accept the fact that the two cases had connective tissue. The
association of all this with one John H. Watson in Surrey was remote
indeed. But if Sherlock Holmes's nostrils had quivered, there
was a scent in the air.

My musings were suddenly
interrupted with an energizing thought. My activities on this
night had just begun, and I hastened to my feet to don my riding
habit, on loan, to be ready for the action when it came.

It did come, finally,
with a rush and a roar of sound that snapped me awake and out of the
chair that I had been slumbering in. There were indistinguishable
shouts transformed to alarms by their tone of anguish and
terror. There was a smell in the air and, for a ridiculous moment, I
thought it might be Holmes's pipe. But no, it was not the scent of
his shag, but there was smoke. As I made for the stairs, it became
more apparent. My God! It came from a conflagration!

Darting out the side
entrance by the porte cochere, it being the most readily at hand, I
saw flames lighting up the night sky. They were at or adjacent to the
horses' barns wherein the racers were stabled. Despite a tumult of
sound and running footsteps, I was completely alone. Every man jack
on the place was at the fire, desperately trying to save the
priceless thoroughbreds.

I made an instinctive
move to rush to join the rescuers, but Holmes's instructions came to
mind in the nick of time, and I bolted to the stalls of the riding
horses, somewhat removed from the center of activity. There were
whinnies and neighs as I made my way to Fandango, for the horses,
sensitive to the aura of excitement, nay panic, were moving nervously
in their places. Fortunately the wind was such that the smell of the
fire had not reached them, or they might have been unmanageable. My
presence seemed to have a calming effect on the chestnut mare, and I
led her from her stall and then secured the reins of her neighbor.