“Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with a smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended in the slam of the front door.  “What was the fair lady’s game?  What did she really want?”

“Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural.”

“Hum!  Think of her appearance, Watson—­her manner, her suppressed excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions.  Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show emotion.”

“She was certainly much moved.”

“Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us that it was best for her husband that she should know all.  What did she mean by that?  And you must have observed, Watson, how she manoeuvred to have the light at her back.  She did not wish us to read her expression.”

“Yes, she chose the one chair in the room.”

“And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable.  You remember the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason.  No powder on her nose—­that proved to be the correct solution.  How can you build on such a quicksand?  Their most trivial action may mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon a hairpin or a curling tongs.  Good-morning, Watson.”

“You are off?”

“Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our friends of the regular establishment.  With Eduardo Lucas lies the solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an inkling as to what form it may take.  It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the facts.  Do you stay on guard, my good Watson, and receive any fresh visitors.  I’ll join you at lunch if I am able.”

All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which his friends would call taciturn, and others morose.  He ran out and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin, sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him.  It was evident to me that things were not going well with him or his quest.  He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of the deceased.  The coroner’s jury brought in the obvious Wilful Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever.  No motive was suggested.  The room was full of articles of value, but none had been taken.  The dead man’s papers had not been tampered with.  They were carefully examined, and showed that he was a keen student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer.  He had been on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several countries.  But nothing sensational was discovered among the documents which filled his drawers.  As to his relations with women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial.  He had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one whom he loved.  His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive.  His death was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.