When I came to my senses, it was broad daylight and two of our porters were bending over me. My clothes were torn, my head ached furiously and I was covered in cuts and bruises. They helped me to my feet, but I could not walk unaided. Mercifully, I had no broken bones, but both my ankles were badly sprained. I explained to the men what had happened the previous evening, and an expedition was mounted to find and rescue my lost companion. The porters had brought a coil of rope with them, and we lowered a lantern into that dreadful pit into which Strange had fallen. It was very deep – at least twenty-five feet down – and we could see by the light of the lantern that Strange lay unmoving at the bottom. One of the porters volunteered to be lowered down, and he reported that, as we feared, Strange was dead. With some difficulty, we eventually got his body out of the pit, and it was dreadful to see the broken remains of what had been a strong and forceful man.

This, then, Georgina, is a true account of what occurred in the wilds of Western Macedonia all those years ago. I recovered soon enough from my injuries, and was feted as the discoverer of the lost tomb of Pellas II, although I always made sure I gave full credit to the part that Strange had played in its discovery. His death at our moment of triumph was sad, but perhaps the most melancholy aspect of it was that no one seemed to mourn him. He was unmarried and had no close family, and when I at last succeeded in discovering some distant relatives of his, and informed them of his death, it was clear from their response that the matter was of no consequence to them. The strangely ironic conclusion of it all, then, was that I, who had disliked the man so intensely in life, was the only one saddened and affected by his death.

Later, when Professor Ormiston retired, I became the new head of the archaeological department, and I suppose I should be happy that my subsequent career was a reasonably distinguished one. But I have always been haunted by what happened that evening in Macedonia. That brief fraction of a second, when Strange screamed and vanished from my sight in a cloud of dust, is the worst moment of my life, and I cannot shake my brain free of it. Could I have done more to save him? Could my warning about the ground beneath his feet have been given more quickly, or in a louder tone? Could I have been more insistent in my warnings about Thesprotia? Were my actions – or lack of them – influenced in any way by my personal dislike of the man? I do not know the answers to any of these questions, but they will not leave me alone. They plague my thoughts during the day, and haunt my dreams at night. For all my professional success, and respected position in society, I have never in my life known untroubled happiness. At risk of embarrassing you, Georgina, I will say that the closest I have ever come to true happiness is in the last year, since you have moved into Bluebell Cottage. I am sorry that in return for the happiness your presence has brought me, I have been the cause of such alarms and upsets for you. It really is not fair on you, and I am not so selfish as to think it is. Sometimes I think that this state of affairs cannot, or should not, continue.

That, I believe, is everything, Georgina, and I hope you will think none the worse of me for it. In conclusion, I should like to offer you three observations, which the above experience and other episodes in my life have taught me. First, that no man, however clever he may think himself, ever really knows what will happen next. Second, that you should always be on your guard, for although first, superficial impressions can sometimes be surprisingly accurate, occasionally they are not, but are, on the contrary, quite misleading. Third, that there is nothing more terrible in all the world than a smile on the face of evil. Remember these things.

Your good friend, James Palfreyman

We sat in silence for some time when I had finished reading the professor’s account.

“Well, well,” said Holmes at last. “It is a singular document indeed, which explains what has been weighing so heavily on the professor’s mind. As he mentioned to you last week, however, Miss Calloway, most of the facts connected with the matter are already widely known – if not to you – so the only really new information concerns his very honest depiction of the strong antipathy he felt for this man Strange. Moreover, he makes no mention of the tile or the anonymous letters he has recently received through the post. I should very much like to know what his private thoughts are on those things. In his absence, however, we must do the best we can, and it is certainly upon the tile that we must now concentrate all our energies.”

“What could the tile possibly tell us?” asked Miss Calloway.

“Someone deliberately sent that tile to the professor,” replied Holmes, “and no doubt the same person also sent the anonymous letters. The aim seems clear enough – to torment him, and upset his equilibrium – and if so, it has certainly been successful: the professor’s worst moments, as you have recounted them to us, have generally followed the receipt of these unwelcome items of post. That is where we must therefore focus our attention, and as the letters have been destroyed, we are left only with the tile.”

“But the professor has buried it somewhere!”

“Then we must dig it up.”

“But it is smashed!”

“Then we must get hold of some strong glue, and try to put it together again. We may then be able to tell where the tile came from, whether it was purchased somewhere, or made individually by the person that sent it.”

“But who would do such a thing?”

“That is what we must discover.”

“There is something that troubles me,” I interrupted. “We have intruded upon Professor Palfreyman’s privacy so far as to read this account, which he wrote specifically for Miss Calloway, but to dig up without his permission something which he himself has buried seems to me a yet deeper invasion of his privacy.”

“I can understand your misgivings, Watson,” returned Holmes, “but I do not share them. I am acting for Miss Calloway, and she has been in danger, as that bruise on the side of her head bears testimony. Her well-being is my first consideration. Compared with that, Professor Palfreyman’s privacy seems to me a secondary matter, and I feel sure that, if it were put to him in those terms, the professor himself could not but agree with me. Now, let us be off to the woods, and Miss Calloway can show us where the professor may have buried the broken tile!”

We passed through the kitchen, where Miss Calloway noted with surprise that the back door from the kitchen to the garden was not locked.

“I have never known the professor to go out and leave the house unlocked before,” said she.

“Then that is certainly curious,” responded Holmes, “but perhaps the reason will become clear to us shortly.”

We followed Miss Calloway down the long back garden, Holmes pausing to pick up a trowel and small pail which were lying on the ground beside a garden shed, until we reached a small wicket gate. “This is the way into the woods,” said our guide as she pushed open the gate and led the way through it, into the wood beyond. It was a dense wood, where the trees grew close together and brambles and other undergrowth filled much of the space between them. Most of the trees had lost their leaves now, and stood bare and damp-looking, but it was still not possible to see very far through the wood, for the cold grey fog had thickened in the last hour, and all but the nearest trees were little more than shapeless blurs.

All at once, Holmes stopped and let out a little cry of surprise. “Halloa! Someone has passed this way today,” said he, indicating clear footprints on the soft earth of the path.

“It was probably the professor,” said Miss Calloway. “Perhaps we shall find him in the woodland glade, smoking his pipe and ruminating.”