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"Is this the lane
you referred to?"

In the added light of
the clearing, I looked up and down the country road and nodded. "That
path would be . . ."

I suddenly regained my
confidence. A little light and visibility does have that effect
on one.

"Here, I'll show
you."

I urged Fandango forward
as Holmes remounted and followed. Hopeful of recognizing landmarks I
had noted previously, I kept a sharp eye and even then passed my
objective. But the gleam of railroad tracks from the bluff reoriented
me and I backtracked to the opening by the roadside and the narrow
trail that my mount and I had traversed before. Holmes's hawk-like
eyes had been sizing up the situation.

"I may call you
'pathfinder' in the future, Watson."

Forced by the trail to
ride single file, I was unable to dazzle him with a retort, but then
I could not think of one either. We had our hands full negotiating
our passage, much more treacherous by night, I soon realized.

At last we reached level
ground, and the shadows of freight cars dotted the scene. But there
was sound as well. A stationary locomotive puffed in readiness, and
there was movement and sporadic conversation. I realized that a train
was being built up, probably carrying agricultural produce for early
morning delivery to the hungry metropolis. Holmes kept us in the
shadows, and since we had come from a heavily wooded hillside by a
thin and tortuous trail, I had no doubt that our presence was
unsuspected. The locomotive suddenly sprang to life, moving
backwards, and there was a clang of metal as other freight cars were
hooked onto a growing line.

"What is our next
move, Holmes?"

"We've gained
considerable time, which is fortunate. The Chinese had a delivery
wagon on the roadway. With their cargo they are making for here by
the branch road you mentioned, and the Sacred Sword will ride into
London on the early morning freight whilst they return via the
Follonsbee Road. It will mean that Gilligan and Styles are following
a dead trail, but no matter."

Holmes's voice dwindled
away and I shot him a quick glance, noting that his brow was
furrowed. Then the lines disappeared and he was looking at me with
that boyish half-smile.

"Merely
anticipating, Watson. Do keep an eye cocked for the delivery wagon,
like a good chap."

Again he dropped from
the saddle and glided swiftly across the open ground towards the
small building that seemed the nerve center of the junction. His
movements reminded me of descriptive passages I had read regarding
the American Indians' amazing ability to flit from one object to
another when engaged in a stealthy approach.

Fandango gave
indications of a whinny and I reached quickly forward, placing the
palm of my hand over her nose. Really, that horse was most
intelligent, and she curbed her desire to communicate. Then I saw,
vaguely, a wagon coming round a bend in the distance. I hastily
dismounted, holding both our steeds by their bits in an attempt
to keep them silent. Suddenly, Holmes was at my side.

"If you ever wish
to incriminate me, Watson, you have me dead to rights, for I have
just stolen an object from the Great Eastern Railroad. I note our
Chinese are on the scene, so let's get in the saddle once more."

He was displaying a
piece of marking chalk as he spoke, standard equipment with freight
handlers. I forestalled Holmes's move towards Mystique.

"Look here, I've
been leaping on and off for half the night, Holmes, or so it seems.
Would you be kind enough to give me a leg up?"

"Certainly,"
he replied, intertwining his long fingers. With one toe in his
hand-cradle and his shoulder as a fulcrum, I managed to get
astride of Fandango once more. As my friend swung upwards with a
grace that was revolting, I saw the moon glisten on his white teeth
and realized that he was laughing at me, but his words brought me up
short.

"I've said before,
Watson, that you occasionally display a pawky humor. I'm not fooled,
you know, being convinced you are descended from Attila the Hun
himself." So it is that reputations are born.

With Holmes leading the
way, we progressed a distance away from the junction but parallel to
the rails that were the feeder to the main line.

"The Chinese have
arranged to have their crate placed in one of the freight cars, of
that I am sure. This train is carrying naught but foodstuffs, so when
the object is removed, it should be readily spotted. However, we
shall facilitate the process."

Holmes had reined to a
stop now and was looking back at the junction, and my eyes followed
his. The wagon had drawn adjacent to one of the freight cars. Here in
the valley the moonlight was quite bright, and I noted that an
object about four feet in length was passed from the wagon to one of
the railway roustabouts, who took it towards the line of freight
cars. I looked at Holmes and realized that he was counting from the
engine back.

"The twelfth
freight car, Watson," he said happily.

Of course he was
enjoying the whole thing, as he always did. Especially when he
managed to keep one step ahead of the opposition.

Now he reined round
again and we traveled further towards the main line. Drawing to
a halt in the shadow of a clump of small trees, we waited, and then
came the methodical and lugubrious chug of the locomotive as it
slowly gained momentum with the cars behind it jerking into motion
like reluctant children making for school in single file. Every
thrust of the steam-driven pistons increased the speed of the metal
serpentine, and it was proceeding at a good rate when it passed our
place of concealment.

"Hold fast, good
Watson," said Holmes as he broke from the trees, gigging
Mystique to a fast gallop. I saw now that he had chosen the location
carefully, for it was a stretch where the roadbed was level with the
adjacent ground. Without realizing it I was counting cars, and then
Holmes swerved his mount in close to the swiftly moving train and,
leaning forward and out, he reached with one long arm to chalk an "X"
on the twelfth freight car. Then he guided his mount away from the
train and raced for the shelter of the trees.

As the train disappeared
round a bend, I rejoined Holmes to find him patting Mystique with all
the affection of a highland horseman for his bonny steed.

"Now that the pace
of our nocturnal adventures has diminished, you might explain to me
what is going on," I suggested.

"Things are going
swimmingly, and now we shall make our way to Litchfield. This freight
makes frequent stops along the line. We can catch the one o'clock
flyer from Litchfield and reach London before it. I assume we can
follow the rails to the rural hamlet."

"I've done so."

"Capital! Upon
arrival, you make for the station and secure tickets. I will roust
the cable-office attendant, for a message must precede us to London.
A message to Deets will not be amiss if only to locate his horses for
him."

Not long thereafter, I
lowered myself gingerly into the seat of our compartment on the
morning flyer with a deep sigh of relief. Stretching my aching legs,
I mentally forced strained and knotted muscles to relax. There was
the familiar click of wheel on rail and trestle. At last we were
headed back to London, far more suitable surroundings for two staid,
middle-aged bachelors, one of whom was intent on a steaming tub
positively alive with Epsom Salts. Holmes had been right, of course,
about the schedule of the flyer now hurtling through a countryside
covered by the blackness of night. The man's knowledge of trains,
both in Britain and on the continent, was positively encyclopedic,
and I drowsily made mention of this.

"Ah, Watson, those
ribbons of steel that are the warp and woof of the tapestry of
transportation so indispensable to the empire. . . ."

At this point, I fell
asleep.

It was Holmes's long,
violinist fingers on my shoulders shaking me gently that summoned me
from the land of Nod.

"Come, ol' chap, we
are pulling into Waterloo, and the curtain has not yet fallen on this
playlet."

It is with chagrin that
I confess to a small, nay mean, streak within my nature, for it was
pleasing to me that my companion seemed to arise from his seat with a
hesitant manner as though testing the steadiness and capabilities of
his extremities. I sprang upright, and it was with the greatest
difficulty that I suppressed an exclamation of anguish. But my
tottering legs stiffened at the quick glance of surprise tinged
with envy that the sleuth flashed my way while unlatching the
compartment door to the high-pitched background music of grating
brakes as the train came to a halt.

My friend's firm hand on
my arm guided me through the station and into a carriage without.
Holmes's directions to the sleepy-eyed driver were inaudible to me,
but at this point, I had lost interest in our next destination.

It proved to be a
vehicular bridge over the vast checkerboard of Great Eastern
rails converging towards the hub that was the transportation empire's
London station. Holmes's suggestion that I remain with the carriage
was accepted with alacrity. He removed himself to stand on the
walk-across of the bridge, his eyes in the direction of Surrey.
The appearance of his cigarette case and the lighting of one of the
Virginia blends that he fancied suggested a lengthy vigil, and I fell
asleep again.

Possibly it was the
sound of an approaching freight or the peculiar tocsin that alerts us
in some mysterious manner when action is imminent, but my eyes
blinked open to catch Holmes watching the cars of a freight train
passing beneath the bridge. At a particular moment, his white
handkerchief waved in the half-light of the early morning. Since this
was obviously a signal to someone positioned further down the line, I
now understood the cable that he had taken pains to dispatch from
Litchfield.

Not waiting to check the
results of his improvised semaphoring, Holmes returned to our
carriage, his knuckles rapping on the box. When the trap opened and a
bewhiskered and heavy-eyed face peered down, Holmes finally delivered
the curtain speech to our nighttime saga: "221B Baker Street, my
good man, with all possible speed."

Chapter
Nine

Holmes
Assumes the Trust

It was well into the
afternoon when I finally stumbled from my bed, giving vent to a
series of jaw-straining yawns as I rubbed the vestiges of sleep from
my eyes. Like an incoming tide, a flood of questions inundated my
poor, lethargic brain, but I shoved a mental finger into the
dike, effectively plugging the sea of conjecture. At the moment I
cared not a whit as to the dramatic happenings of late or the
potential fate of the Sacred Sword either.

After steaming in a hot
tub, performing my toilet, and dressing with care, I descended to our
sitting room feeling more the man and less like an archaic bag of
protesting bones.

Holmes was not alone,
for Clyde Deets at the moment was depositing his hat and gloves on
the end table.

"I have remarked
before about your intuitive timing, Watson. Mr. Deets is just upon
the scene."

Our client's face was a
blend of perplexity and fatigue with a soup
ç
on
of haunting fear.

"Gentlemen,"
he said in a harassed tone, "recent events are just too much for
me. A fire at Mayswood, Doctor Watson's disappearance, your message,
Mr. Holmes, which arrived with the two riding horses—"

"I trust,"
interjected Holmes, "that there was no damage to buildings or
livestock last night."

"None. I can be
thankful of that."

Deets's words terminated
abruptly as though he were at a loss, and Holmes came to his aid.

"Best we shred the
fabric of secrecy. A confidential inquiry agent cannot operate
at a level of efficiency without all the facts. In this case,
personal knowledge along with deduction filled some gaps for me."

"You know then. I
might have guessed that you did. But do you both—" his
eyes flashed to me "—understand the potential peril
involved?"

"More than you do,"
replied Holmes confidently. "For simplicity's sake, let me sum
this up. The subject of your father, Captain Spaulding, and his
explorations in Egypt and the Sudan is very much off limits in your
household, and not once have you made mention of his fame. It was
your father's hope that his name and activities would fade into the
mists of time, for he wished to become a missing link with the
Islamics of the desert."