“Well?” he asked.  “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my friend explained.  “We have seen both the retailers and also the wholesale manufacturers.  I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning.”

“The busts,” cried Lestrade.  “Well, well, you have your own methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them, but I think I have done a better day’s work than you.  I have identified the dead man.”

“You don’t say so?”

“And found a cause for the crime.”

“Splendid!”

“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the Italian Quarter.  Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from the South.  Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him.  His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the greatest cut-throats in London.  He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society, enforcing its decrees by murder.  Now, you see how the affair begins to clear up.  The other fellow is probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia.  He has broken the rules in some fashion.  Pietro is set upon his track.  Probably the photograph we found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knife the wrong person.  He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own death-wound.  How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried.  “But I didn’t quite follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”

“The busts!  You never can get those busts out of your head.  After all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most.  It is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am gathering all the threads into my hands.”

“And the next stage?”

“Is a very simple one.  I shall go down with Hill to the Italian Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on the charge of murder.  Will you come with us?”

“I think not.  I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way.  I can’t say for certain, because it all depends—­well, it all depends upon a factor which is completely outside our control.  But I have great hopes—­in fact, the betting is exactly two to one—­that if you will come with us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the heels.”

“In the Italian Quarter?”

“No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him.  If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I’ll promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be done by the delay.  And now I think that a few hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I do not propose to leave before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back before morning.  You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start.  In the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an express messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is important that it should go at once.”