“But when will that be?”

“The time has come.  You will now be present at the last scene of a remarkable little drama.”

There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it.  He was a very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy step, which showed that the huge frame was as active as it was strong.  He closed the door behind him, and then he stood with clenched hands and heaving breast, choking down some overmastering emotion.

“Sit down, Captain Crocker.  You got my telegram?”

Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the other of us with questioning eyes.

“I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said.  I heard that you had been down to the office.  There was no getting away from you.  Let’s hear the worst.  What are you going to do with me?  Arrest me?  Speak out, man!  You can’t sit there and play with me like a cat with a mouse.”

“Give him a cigar,” said Holmes.  “Bite on that, Captain Crocker, and don’t let your nerves run away with you.  I should not sit here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common criminal, you may be sure of that.  Be frank with me and we may do some good.  Play tricks with me, and I’ll crush you.”

“What do you wish me to do?”

“To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey Grange last night—­a true account, mind you, with nothing added and nothing taken off.  I know so much already that if you go one inch off the straight, I’ll blow this police whistle from my window and the affair goes out of my hands forever.”

The sailor thought for a little.  Then he struck his leg with his great sunburned hand.

“I’ll chance it,” he cried.  “I believe you are a man of your word, and a white man, and I’ll tell you the whole story.  But one thing I will say first.  So far as I am concerned, I regret nothing and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be proud of the job.  Damn the beast, if he had as many lives as a cat, he would owe them all to me!  But it’s the lady, Mary—­Mary Fraser—­for never will I call her by that accursed name.  When I think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life just to bring one smile to her dear face, it’s that that turns my soul into water.  And yet—­and yet—­what less could I do?  I’ll tell you my story, gentlemen, and then I’ll ask you, as man to man, what less could I do?

“I must go back a bit.  You seem to know everything, so I expect that you know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was first officer of the rock of Gibraltar.  From the first day I met her, she was the only woman to me.  Every day of that voyage I loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship because I knew her dear feet had trod it.  She was never engaged to me.  She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man.  I have no complaint to make.  It was all love on my side, and all good comradeship and friendship on hers.  When we parted she was a free woman, but I could never again be a free man.