“Don’t I?  Well, perhaps I don’t.  But I am sure that it will interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate.  Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and rather complex day’s work before us.  I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six o’clock this evening.  Until then I should like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man’s pocket.  It is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken to-night, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct.  Until then good-bye and good luck!”

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been purchased.  A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a newcomer, who could give us no information.  Holmes’s face showed his disappointment and annoyance.

“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,” he said, at last.  “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr. Harding will not be here until then.  I am, as you have no doubt surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in order to find if there is not something peculiar which may account for their remarkable fate.  Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any light upon the problem.”

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s establishment.  He was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.

“Yes, sir.  On my very counter, sir,” said he.  “What we pay rates and taxes for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and break one’s goods.  Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.  Disgraceful, sir!  A Nihilist plot—­that’s what I make it.  No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues.  Red republicans—­that’s what I call ’em.  Who did I get the statues from?  I don’t see what that has to do with it.  Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in Church Street, Stepney.  They are a well-known house in the trade, and have been this twenty years.  How many had I?  Three—­two and one are three—­two of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broad daylight on my own counter.  Do I know that photograph?  No, I don’t.  Yes, I do, though.  Why, it’s Beppo.  He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop.  He could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs.  The fellow left me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since.  No, I don’t know where he came from nor where he went to.  I had nothing against him while he was here.  He was gone two days before the bust was smashed.”

“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,” said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop.  “We have this Beppo as a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is worth a ten-mile drive.  Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder & Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts.  I shall be surprised if we don’t get some help down there.”