My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker’s knee.  When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took down letter “S” of his commonplace book.  For once he dug in vain into that mine of varied information.

“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he, “and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is a new name to me.”

It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he.  “I suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you don’t know Cyril Overton either?”

Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

“Great Scott!” cried the athlete.  “Why, I was first reserve for England against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ’Varsity all this year.  But that’s nothing!  I didn’t think there was a soul in England who didn’t know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals.  Good Lord!  Mr. Holmes, where have you lived?”

Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naive astonishment.

“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton—­a sweeter and healthier one.  My ramifications stretch out into many sections of society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the best and soundest thing in England.  However, your unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do.  So now, my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly and quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire that I should help you.”

Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

“It’s this way, Mr. Holmes.  As I have said, I am the skipper of the Rugger team of Cambridge ’Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man.  To-morrow we play Oxford.  Yesterday we all came up, and we settled at Bentley’s private hotel.  At ten o’clock I went round and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team fit.  I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in.  He seemed to me to be pale and bothered.  I asked him what was the matter.  He said he was all right—­just a touch of headache.  I bade him good-night and left him.  Half an hour later, the porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for Godfrey.  He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to his room.  Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed.  The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfrey