With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her mistress and led her from the room.

“She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins.  “Nursed her as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left Australia, eighteen months ago.  Theresa Wright is her name, and the kind of maid you don’t pick up nowadays.  This way, Mr. Holmes, if you please!”

The keen interest had passed out of Holmes’s expressive face, and I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had departed.  There still remained an arrest to be effected, but what were these commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands with them?  An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he has been called in for a case of measles would experience something of the annoyance which I read in my friend’s eyes.  Yet the scene in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was sufficiently strange to arrest his attention and to recall his waning interest.

It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling, oaken panelling, and a fine array of deer’s heads and ancient weapons around the walls.  At the further end from the door was the high French window of which we had heard.  Three smaller windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold winter sunshine.  On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with a massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece.  Beside the fireplace was a heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the bottom.  In and out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord, which was secured at each side to the crosspiece below.  In releasing the lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which it had been secured still remained.  These details only struck our attention afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by the terrible object which lay upon the tigerskin hearthrug in front of the fire.

It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of age.  He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white teeth grinning through his short, black beard.  His two clenched hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick lay across them.  His dark, handsome, aquiline features were convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his dead face in a terribly fiendish expression.  He had evidently been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected from his trousers.  His head was horribly injured, and the whole room bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck him down.  Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by the concussion.  Holmes examined both it and the indescribable wreck which it had wrought.

“He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall,” he remarked.

“Yes,” said Hopkins.  “I have some record of the fellow, and he is a rough customer.”

“You should have no difficulty in getting him.”