Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the glowing embers.  For half an hour he was silent and still.  Then, with the gesture of a man who has taken his decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into his bedroom.  A little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the street.  “I’ll be back some time, Watson,” said he, and vanished into the night.  I understood that he had opened his campaign against Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed the strange shape which that campaign was destined to take.

For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire, but beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and that it was not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing.  At last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind screamed and rattled against the windows, he returned from his last expedition, and having removed his disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward fashion.

“You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”

“No, indeed!”

“You’ll be interested to hear that I’m engaged.”

“My dear fellow!  I congrat——­”

“To Milverton’s housemaid.”

“Good heavens, Holmes!”

“I wanted information, Watson.”

“Surely you have gone too far?”

“It was a most necessary step.  I am a plumber with a rising business, Escott, by name.  I have walked out with her each evening, and I have talked with her.  Good heavens, those talks!  However, I have got all I wanted.  I know Milverton’s house as I know the palm of my hand.”

“But the girl, Holmes?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You can’t help it, my dear Watson.  You must play your cards as best you can when such a stake is on the table.  However, I rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut me out the instant that my back is turned.  What a splendid night it is!”

“You like this weather?”

“It suits my purpose.  Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton’s house to-night.”

I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the words, which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated resolution.  As a flash of lightning in the night shows up in an instant every detail of a wild landscape, so at one glance I seemed to see every possible result of such an action—­the detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at the mercy of the odious Milverton.

“For heaven’s sake, Holmes, think what you are doing,” I cried.

“My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration.  I am never precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and, indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were possible.  Let us look at the matter clearly and fairly.  I suppose that you will admit that the action is morally justifiable, though technically criminal.  To burgle his house is no more than to forcibly take his pocketbook—­an action in which you were prepared to aid me.”