When I made my
way round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves.
"That you, Watson?" he cried.
"Yes."
"This is the place. What is that black thing down there?"
"A water-barrel."
"Top on it?"
"Yes."
"No sign of a ladder?"
"No."
"Confound the fellow! It's a most breakneck place. I ought to
be able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe
feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow."
There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come
steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he
came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth.
"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stock-
ings and boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and
in his hurry he had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as
you doctors express it."
The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or
pouch woven out of coloured grasses and with a few tawdry
beads strung round it. In shape and size it was not unlike a
cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood,
sharp at one end and rounded at the other, like that which had
struck Bartholomew Sholto.
"They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't
prick yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are
that they are all he has.
Pages:
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86