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Holmes informed our
client that we would return to London via the afternoon train and
that he would make inquiries as to the presence in England of a
second-story man who had come from or had been in the Argentine. He
used the word
gaucho
in connection with the suspect and said,
in an encouraging manner, that a thief with a particular
aptitude that was unusual was much easier to find. Deets seemed
heartened by this fact, and we took our leave of Mayswood.

The click of wheels on
rails along with the burgundy caused me to sleep much of the way
back. When I did rouse myself on the outskirts of London, Holmes
anticipated my question.

"Of course he
knows, Watson."

"What?"

"What the intruder
was after. I suspect we do, too. In response to my direct question
you noted that Deets said 'I can't tell you.' By that, I assumed that
he was bound by a promise, perhaps a fear. Then, too, the
stationmaster at Litchfield who directed us to the carriage and the
driver both knew our names, and I felt they were aware of the reason
for our visit. It would seem that Deets enlisted our services as
window dressing. 'Look you, beware, for Holmes and Watson are on the
scene.'"

"Come now, that's
stretching it a bit, is it not?"

"Possibly, but
consider the matter of the horses and the dogs before them."

"You'll have to
explain that."

"Captain Spaulding,
retired from his explorations, settles down in England and raises
dogs. Not the racing breed but Doberman pinschers, the fiercest
watchdogs in the world. A reaction to canine hair causes him to drop
this activity, and he turns to horse-breeding."

"What is unusual
about that?"

"Nothing, until you
consider the way Mayswood is laid out. Deets did say it was somewhat
like a fortress. In addition, it is surrounded by fenced
pastures containing, on all sides, high-spirited stallions and
skittish yearlings. Were I intent on approaching the Deets ménage
surreptitiously, I would think twice before crossing a field at the
risk of being run down by a temperamental thoroughbred. When track
champions are set out to stud, they evidence frisky ways. Captain
Spaulding was intent on protecting something, and with his passing,
his son has remained true to the task."

Holmes had given me
plenty to think about. He was, as was his custom, diligently turning
his theory this way and that in his mind to allow the light of reason
to reflect on its various facets.

The remainder of our
trip to Baker Street was made in silence.

Chapter
Six

The
Call to Colors

I well knew what twists
and turns were in store at this point. The world's only consulting
detective had involved himself in two matters, not unusually, for at
times he had as many as a dozen cases that he handled simultaneously.
His "calling out the reserves," as it were, merely
signified that one or both ranked as a major challenge, and I had
seen the sheaf of cables that Billy had dispatched two nights before.
The harvest they produced had to be reaped.

Returning to our
chambers was a signal for Holmes to depart after reading messages
that had been delivered in our absence. In olden times I had chafed
at being suddenly out of things, but I now realized that this was
standard procedure in certain of Holmes's investigations. The cables
had been dispatched to that ragtag army that his brother had referred
to. Some Holmes met elsewhere, like Porlock, the informer, formerly
connected with Moriarty of infamous memory. I had never seen the man,
and Porlock was not his real name. But Holmes used him along with
others whom I did know, some well.

They fell into two
camps, this heterogeneous crew with strange backgrounds and unusual,
specialized talents. The outside group were seldom spoken of. On rare
occasions, an unidentified person of either sex might make a
surreptitious visit to Baker Street because of the exigencies of a
situation. I took pains not to make note of their features and, as
much as possible, to wipe them from my mind's slate lest an unwitting
slip of the tongue would cause harm.

The inside group were
known by name to Billy, Mrs. Hudson, and myself. They appeared at our
chambers frequently and on most occasions I was privy to their
conferences with the master sleuth.

I pictured my friend,
possibly in one of the many disguises he used so well, now
involved with the outside group. Certainly he would be loosening his
hounds on the scent of Chu San Fu, and the memory of the Chinese
criminal caused me to spend part of the dying day oiling my
trusty Webley and checking its load. Holmes had a seeming
disregard for his personal safety, which I tried to counterbalance
by being as prepared as I could.

When nightfall came, I
ate a solitary meal and tried to cushion Mrs. Hudson's concern about
the eating habits of her famous tenant. The nutritive needs of the
detective were one of the many worries of the dear lady and revealed
her extreme patience. When Holmes disappeared, one never knew when he
would return, and when he did, he would like as not decide to have a
bite, which might range from a nibble of cheese to half a joint of
beef. When frustrated by a case, and on the premises, he frequently
sat brooding at the table, his meal untouched, and our landlady's
wheedling was to no avail. But if Holmes has a problem, Mrs. Hudson
had some cause to feel pride in her skill with stove and skillet.
Even in those early days when I was still recovering from my wartime
wound and subsequent illness, I had been blessed with a good
appetite and consistently did justice to her provender.

The dishes had been
cleared away and, possibly spurred by our trip to the Mayswood stud,
I had made some check marks against entries in the Southgate Plate
due to be run over the weekend. Our news dealer, who delivered copies
of all editions, included a biweekly racing sheet that I fancied.
I had narrowed my choice to Vortex out of Grand Dame by Nurania when
there were footsteps on the stairs.

Before I could arise,
Holmes opened the door and Slim Gilligan, a valise in one hand,
followed him in. The former master-cracksman was our most frequent
visitor from the inside group. His lock-and-key establishment,
originally financed by Sherlock Holmes, was a successful
business venture, small wonder since his workmen, mostly
graduates of Dartmoor or Princetown, were skillful indeed. Installing
a lock on a front door or making a new key for a file case was
child's play to one who has opened a Mills-Stroffner safe in the dead
of night by the light of a bull's-eye lantern. It was bruited about
in certain circles that Holmes was a silent partner in Gilligan's
business, which must have acted as a deterrent should any of the
employees consider resuming their wayward paths.

Holmes favored me with a
quick nod as he crossed to the desk, unlocking the cash drawer.
Gilligan, his cloth hat at a jaunty angle and an unlit cigarette
stuck behind one ear, winked in my direction. His expression
indicated, "We're at it again."

"There is an inn in
the village, Slim," my friend was saying, "and I'm sure you
can work out a good cover story."

"A breeze, Guv,"
was the abnormally thin man's response.

Holmes removed some
currency from the desk, placed it in an envelope, and handed it to
Gilligan.

"A cable here will
reach me or Watson. If not, Billy will find us. I don't know of any
other problems save those we've discussed. How about Styles?"

Oh ho! I thought.
Slippery Styles, the human shadow, is involved.

"'E's at Waterloo,
waitin' fer me. You'll 'ave yer cable, Guv—in jig time."

With a cheerful wave in
my direction, the cracksman was gone. I did not hear the downstairs
door open or close, but when Slim came or went I never did. He just
seemed to materialize like a genie at Holmes's call and then vanish.
For a time, I had thought that by night he came and went via the
roof. Gilligan was a great fancier of rooftops. Of late, it had
crossed my mind that he might know about the house next door and the
secret entrance to our establishment. I refrained from bringing
this matter up. If Holmes wanted me to know, he would tell me. One of
my friend's catch phrases was: "I tell as much or as little as I
choose." Usually, he modified this somewhat cavalier statement
with the additive: "That is the advantage of being unofficial."
The years had taught me that this was an elastic phrase meaning that
he alone possessed carte blanche. In truth, he had on occasion chosen
to appoint himself as the prosecution, judge, and jury as well,
but no harm had come of it.

During my musings,
Holmes had gotten his pipe going and now saw fit to break his
silence.

"Any visitors,
Watson?"

"None. Nor
messages, either."

"No matter."

Followed by a trail of
smoke, he began to pace our sitting room with that purposeful
manner. Holmes was tall and amazingly strong, the best amateur boxer
I had ever seen. As a result, his movements were graceful and his
footfall light. Had it not been so, I imagine there would have been
paths worn in our carpets, for he did like to think on his feet. I
imagined that his mind, so capable of absolute concentration, was
completely immersed in the Deets matter and whatever errand he had
sent Gilligan on. Slim's mention of Waterloo had led me to associate
the cracksman with the Mayswood affair. As usual, Holmes surprised
me.

"I agree with your
selection, Watson. Vortex should win the Plate with ease."

There must have been
exasperation on my face as I followed his moving figure. My
racing sheet was on the end table, though how he spotted it and my
pencil work I could not fathom.

"Look here, Holmes,
I checked at least four of the horses."

"But you underlined
Nurania, Vortex's sire, said former champion being the leading stud
at Mayswood Farm. Your final choice is obvious, is it not?"

I suppressed a sigh.
Everything was obvious, once Holmes explained it.

Having produced his
surprise, which gave him joy, the sleuth switched to the matter at
hand. His words, presumably directed at me, might well have been
delivered to the walls in my absence. But I was a fixture like the
commonplace books and his voluminous files, a sounding board
that he had become accustomed to.

"Chu San Fu has
been positioned for me and there is no undue activity in his lair,
which means he hasn't heard, as yet, of our trip to Mayswood."

"You think he has
an information source in Surrey?"

"If I read the
signs right. One, there was an intruder at Mayswood. That ornamental
lion's head gave us a corroborating clue there. Two, the nighttime
visitor was not a robber but a one-man survey team. Getting the lay
of the land, as 'twere. Three, the Chinaman is after the Sacred
Sword."

"Hold on!"
Occasionally I rebelled in my role of Greek chorus, a fact that did
not nettle Holmes. In fact, he welcomed it since it gave him the
opportunity to test the steel of his reasoning. "Your first two
statements had a foundation of fact, but now are you not moving
a bit out on a limb? Do we know that this sword that intrigues you so
is not just a myth?"

"Touch
é
,
Watson. We must visit Sir
Randolph Rapp to secure an opinion."

An expert one, I
admitted to myself. Sir Randolph had figured in a previous adventure
of Holmes's and was the
dernier cri,
to my way of thinking.

"One thing Rapp
will mention is that most myths and folklore are not just flights of
fancy. The Midas legend for one—"

Whatever other tales,
lost in time, Holmes intended to cite I did not learn, since there
were sounds from without and he crossed to the door and flung it
open. Filling the aperture was the robust form of Burlington Bertie.

"'Ere we be, Guv.
Mite late but I did me best."

"Ah, Bertie. Do
come in."

As Holmes stood to one
side, I fear my eyes must have of a sudden resembled saucers, for
behind Bertie there was another figure.

I'm sure it was an
illusion, but when this apparition followed in Bertie's
footsteps, it seemed that he had to step sidewise to make his way
through our substantial doorway. He was no taller than Holmes, but
his width dwarfed the burly Bertie. His hair, so blond as to be
almost white, topped a round face devoid of wrinkles with no traces
of a beard. It was the face of a child set on a sturdy neck that
terminated in a huge upper frame. He was, almost literally, as broad
as tall. His legs were short but had to be like the trunks of oak
trees to support him. There was a smile seemingly painted on his
face, and his wide blue eyes had a dreamy quality as though he had
just awakened.