The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes by June Thomson Page B

of these heirlooms which will constitute my bait. All that remains is to await a letter from The Magpie and the trap will be sprung.’
    Over the next three days, Holmes visited the Poste Restante in St Martins-le-Grand both mornings and afternoons, returning on each occasion with a small bundle of letters which, after perusing them, he threw impatiently to one side. None was from The Magpie.
    Between these daily excursions, he fretted with impatience and became, in consequence, most difficult to live with, prowling restlessly about the sitting-room and sending away his meals virtually untouched.
    Mrs Hudson was at her wits’ end.
    For my part, I absented myself from our lodgings as often as I could, either taking solitary walks in Regent’s Park or retreating to my club in order to escape for a few hours from my old friend’s black mood which seemed to permeate the whole house.
    It was on the third day that his efforts were at last rewarded.
    I returned from a game of billiards with Thurston, a fellow-member, to find Holmes standing at his desk, in the act of opening the latest batch of letters, the floor about him strewn with discarded envelopes and sheets of writing paper.
    ‘No success?’ I inquired as I entered, considerably cast down at the thought of spending the evening alone with Holmes in his present bad humour.
    ‘It is extraordinary,’ he replied peevishly, ‘although the advertisement states quite positively “No dealers”, how many of those rapacious gentlemen, no doubt hoping for a bargain, have written, trying to pass themselves off as private collectors.’ Breaking off to tear open yet another envelope, he quickly scanned its contents, his brow contracted while I quietly retreated to a seat by the fire from where I observed his features with some anxiety, assuming from his expression that this last letter was from another dealer.
    Then suddenly his countenance cleared and, waving the sheet of paper like a banner above his head, he gave a great shout of exultation.
    ‘Watson, The Magpie has taken the bait!’
    ‘Let me see!’ I cried eagerly, scrambling to my feet from my chair.
    The letter, which was written on good quality paper, bore no address, only the previous day’s date, and read:
    Dear Mr Smith,
    Like yourself, I prefer to remain incognito. However, as a private individual who has devoted many years to collecting works of art, I am most interested in examining those family heirlooms which you have for sale. Kindly write to K. Wesson, Poste Restante, Charing Cross, making the necessary arrangements as to place, date and time for such an inspection.
    There was no signature.
    I was a little disappointed by this curt, businesslike communication although Holmes, who was chuckling and rubbing his hands together, seemed delighted by it.
    ‘You see!’ he exclaimed. ‘It bears all the marks of The Magpie. No private address and no name, apart from Wesson. Smith and Wesson! Pistols for two, one might say. The man has a sense of humour, Watson. I am looking forward exceedingly to making his acquaintance.’
    ‘But where, Holmes? You can hardly arrange the meeting to take place here.’
    ‘Of course not, my dear fellow. That would be the height of folly. We shall meet at Claridge’s Hotel where I shall engage a suite of rooms for you.’
    ‘For me?’ I exclaimed, somewhat alarmed at the prospect.
    ‘I can hardly be expected to confront him myself. My features are too well known from the illustrated papers.’
    ‘But couldn’t you wear one of your disguises?’
    ‘Quite out of the question. I shall have to be on hand to follow him or any agent he sends in his place. The Magpie is clever enough to employ such a ruse. You noticed, of course, the postmark on the envelope?’
    ‘No; I am afraid I did not.’
    ‘It was West Central. But do not be taken in by that either, my dear fellow, and assume he lives in London. It is easy enough to bring a letter to town and to post it in some