“I am dumbfounded!” cried Harte after a moment. “I can scarcely credit that it is true! I simply wished to return the old gentleman’s satchel to him, but it seems I have become embroiled in a deadly conspiracy! It is clear now why the woman at Owl’s Hill lied to me. She must be Kraus’s wife, and she probably feared that I had some connection with the people pursuing her husband. No doubt when I saw her expressing anger towards him, she was berating him for his carelessness in losing his satchel, and thus, as she saw it, placing his life in danger.”

“It must be so. Now we must warn them of the real danger that threatens.”

“Surely we should notify the authorities at once?”

“I wired the Chief Constable of Suffolk from London,” returned Holmes. “But our first priority must be to warn Kraus himself of the grave peril in which he stands. If we had delayed our journey in order to discuss the matter with the authorities, it is likely that before they could act, Kraus would be dead. There are occasions when, for better or worse, a man must act upon his own judgement, or know that the issue is lost. I sent a wire also to Owl’s Hill, but it was, of necessity, a mere brief warning. It may serve, at least, to put them on their guard. But only in person can we explain to them the nature of the danger, how we know of it, and what our interest in the matter is.”

“You have acted very promptly,” I remarked. “I cannot think that there is anything more you could have done.”

My friend nodded his head. “Thank you, Watson,” said he. “It is good of you to say so. Now the matter lies somewhat precariously in the lap of the gods.”

Our train reached Little Gissingham station a little after twenty to seven. It was a fine evening, and though the sun was far in the west, the air was still warm and only the lightest of breezes stirred the blossom on the trees by the station master’s house. As that official examined our tickets, Holmes asked him if many visitors had alighted at the station that day. He shook his head and declared that there had been few travellers and all of them had been local folk.

“That is good news, at least,” remarked Harte, as we made our way up the short track towards the village. “For it means we have arrived before Herr Kraus’s enemies.”

“Unfortunately, we cannot be sure of that,” returned Holmes with a shake of the head. “They may have alighted at one of the other stations on the line – the last one we passed was only about two miles back – in order to avoid arousing comment here. It would not take them very long to make their way here across country. We must make all haste!”

Harte led us through the picturesque little village, past the green on which two children were playing with a little dog, past the ancient-looking inn, and along the road that led to Owl’s Hill. For some time, the road passed through dense woods, which threw long shadows across the road, and here, unseen among the shaded trees, the birds were chirruping their evensong. Presently, when we had been walking for about a quarter of an hour, we reached a crest, and saw the road winding down the hill ahead of us. A hundred yards further on, there was a gap in the woods on the right, and I descried a trim garden hedge. Behind this hedge, set a dozen yards back from the road, was a solid-looking red-brick house. “That is Owl’s Hill,” said our guide.

As we turned in at the garden gate, the house presented a silent and deserted appearance, and but for a thin wisp of smoke which rose from one of the chimneys, I might have imagined it unoccupied. Our ring at the bell was answered by a young girl in a parlour maid’s uniform. Holmes asked her if her mistress was at home, and intimated that we would wait at the door for a reply.

In a moment she had returned, and with her was a tall, middle-aged woman of striking appearance. Though her hair was grey and her face showed that the cares of life had not passed her by, there was yet a fineness and delicacy about her features, and a vividness about her grey eyes, which spoke of a nobility of spirit and a firmness of resolution.

“Yes?” she demanded in a peremptory tone. Then, as her eyes alighted on Holmes’s client, she started slightly. “Oh, it’s you again, is it?” said she sharply. She half turned and called loudly into the recesses of the house. “Joseph! Joseph! Come here at once!”

“It’s all right, Mother; I’m here already,” came a low, firm voice from behind us.

I turned quickly. Behind us in the garden stood a tall, lean young man with dark red hair. In his hand was a revolver, pointed at us. Clearly he had slipped out of a back door and approached silently round the side of the house. “If any of you makes an untoward movement,” said he in a cold voice, “I am quite prepared to use this pistol.”

“This is the man that rifled my room at the inn last night,” cried Harte in a tone of fear.

“He was looking for the satchel,” said Holmes. “He ransacked both rooms, because he did not know which one was yours.”

“You seem to know a lot!” cried the young man.

“I know everything,” returned Holmes in a calm voice. “I understand your caution,” he added, eyeing the pistol. “In this case, however, it is misplaced. We have come expressly to warn you that your father’s life is in great danger.”

“What do you know of my father?” demanded the young man in an angry voice. “You are armed!” he cried all at once. “You have a pistol in your pocket!”

“Yes, I am armed,” returned Holmes, “and so is my colleague here,” he added, indicating me. “We came prepared to defend your father, if necessary.”

“Why should we believe you?” demanded the young man. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. Did you not get my wire?”

“Your name means nothing to me,” retorted the young man.

“Nor to me,” said the woman.

“I am a consulting detective, madam,” said Holmes, turning to the woman. “This gentleman, Mr Harte, came to see me this morning, as a result of certain unpleasant and puzzling events which occurred yesterday evening. His only wish had been to return your husband’s satchel, which had been left on a train, and he was convinced that you had lied to him when you said that the gentleman in question no longer lived here.”

I read hesitation in the woman’s face.

“If the satchel is ours, I will accept it,” said she at last, holding out her hand. “Then Mr Harte’s wishes will be satisfied, and you must go and trouble us no more!”

“No, madam,” said Holmes in a firm voice as Harte handed her the satchel. “You must believe me when I tell you that your husband is in mortal danger. Yesterday evening, after you had spoken to Mr Harte, he saw a man hiding among the bushes at the side of the garden, spying on the house.”

“I knew it!” cried the young man to his mother. “I told you that I had heard someone moving about out there. Was this man aware that you had seen him?” he demanded of Harte.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I, too, hid and kept very still.”

“What makes you think my husband’s life is in danger?” the woman asked. “The man Mr Harte saw in the garden may have been some local simpleton playing a game.”

“Your husband is in deadly peril, madam,” returned Holmes, “because he is Adolf Kraus, late Prime Minister of Bohemia.”

“No!” cried she, a terrible note of anguish in her voice.

“Yes!” returned Holmes in a firm voice. “His initials are in the satchel, and from that and other indications, we were able to work out a solution to these puzzling events.”

The woman clutched her head in both her hands and appeared in a terrible state of indecision and fear. But at that moment a door opened in the hall behind her, and a tall, broad-chested elderly man with a mane of white hair stepped forward into the light. He put his arm round his wife’s shoulders, and she turned and buried her head in his chest, sobbing loudly.