“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride.  This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door.  Stepping out into the dark, I nearly fell over a dead man, who was lying there.  I ran back for a light and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole place swimming in blood.  He lay on his back, his knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open.  I shall see him in my dreams.  I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman standing over me in the hall.”

“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade.  “You shall see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now.  He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty.  He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer.  A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him.  Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know.  There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph.  Here it is.”

It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera.  It represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face, like the muzzle of a baboon.

“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful study of this picture.

“We had news of it just before you came.  It has been found in the front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road.  It was broken into fragments.  I am going round now to see it.  Will you come?”

“Certainly.  I must just take one look round.”  He examined the carpet and the window.  “The fellow had either very long legs or was a most active man,” said he.  “With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window.  Getting back was comparatively simple.  Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out already with full details.  It’s like my luck!  You remember when the stand fell at Doncaster?  Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of it, for I was too shaken to write it.  And now I’ll be too late with a murder done on my own doorstep.”

As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the foolscap.

The spat where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a few hundred yards away.  For the first time our eyes rested upon this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown.  It lay scattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass.  Holmes picked up several of them and examined them carefully.  I was convinced, from his intent face and his purposeful manner, that at last he was upon a clue.