Inspection from the Empty Box

Holmes left Mrs Crane in the shadow of the wings. He hung the river-muddied coat on the peg beside the chalk line and slipped the half-ticket into its cuff, as if the living man had just been delivered to the stage mouth.

"Not a sound," he whispered to Watson. "The writer must see the goods with his own eyes—and when he looks, he will lean from the box." Watson took the copper key and went up the left-hand corridor of the upper tier. The prompt-bell struck a short note, as if Scene Five had opened early; the empty seats below showed white in the fog-light.

Inside the box the chair was still warm, ash not yet cold. The curtain stirred; the grey shadow drew back—and Watson already threw the door wide. Holmes's voice rose from the stage mouth, clear as a prompt: "J. Reginald—come down. The river fog has not lifted, but the obituary can be torn first." Boot-steps hurried down the outer stair; for the first time the bergamot broke ranks.

❦ To be continued.