“That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor, Norfolk, is very anxious to know.  This little conundrum came by the first post, and he was to follow by the next train.  There’s a ring at the bell, Watson.  I should not be very much surprised if this were he.”

A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later there entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear eyes and florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of Baker Street.  He seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh, bracing, east-coast air with him as he entered.  Having shaken hands with each of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye rested upon the paper with the curious markings, which I had just examined and left upon the table.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?” he cried.  “They told me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don’t think you can find a queerer one than that.  I sent the paper on ahead, so that you might have time to study it before I came.”

“It is certainly rather a curious production,” said Holmes.  “At first sight it would appear to be some childish prank.  It consists of a number of absurd little figures dancing across the paper upon which they are drawn.  Why should you attribute any importance to so grotesque an object?”

“I never should, Mr. Holmes.  But my wife does.  It is frightening her to death.  She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes.  That’s why I want to sift the matter to the bottom.”

Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon it.  It was a page torn from a notebook.  The markings were done in pencil, and ran in this way: 

GRAPHIC

Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully up, he placed it in his pocketbook.

“This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case,” said he.  “You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, but I should be very much obliged if you would kindly go over it all again for the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said our visitor, nervously clasping and unclasping his great, strong hands.  “You’ll just ask me anything that I don’t make clear.  I’ll begin at the time of my marriage last year, but I want to say first of all that, though I’m not a rich man, my people have been at Riding Thorpe for a matter of five centuries, and there is no better known family in the County of Norfolk.  Last year I came up to London for the Jubilee, and I stopped at a boarding-house in Russell Square, because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in it.  There was an American young lady there—­Patrick was the name—­Elsie Patrick.  In some way we became friends, until before my month was up I was as much in love as man could be.  We were quietly married at a registry office, and we returned to Norfolk a wedded couple.  You’ll think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a good old family should marry a wife in this fashion, knowing nothing of her past or of her people, but if you saw her and knew her, it would help you to understand.