Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional manner until our visitor had left us, although it was easy for me, who knew him so well, to see that he was profoundly excited.  The moment that Hilton Cubitt’s broad back had disappeared through the door my comrade rushed to the table, laid out all the slips of paper containing dancing men in front of him, and threw himself into an intricate and elaborate calculation.  For two hours I watched him as he covered sheet after sheet of paper with figures and letters, so completely absorbed in his task that he had evidently forgotten my presence.  Sometimes he was making progress and whistled and sang at his work; sometimes he was puzzled, and would sit for long spells with a furrowed brow and a vacant eye.  Finally he sprang from his chair with a cry of satisfaction, and walked up and down the room rubbing his hands together.  Then he wrote a long telegram upon a cable form.  “If my answer to this is as I hope, you will have a very pretty case to add to your collection, Watson,” said he.  “I expect that we shall be able to go down to Norfolk tomorrow, and to take our friend some very definite news as to the secret of his annoyance.”

I confess that I was filled with curiosity, but I was aware that Holmes liked to make his disclosures at his own time and in his own way, so I waited until it should suit him to take me into his confidence.

But there was a delay in that answering telegram, and two days of impatience followed, during which Holmes pricked up his ears at every ring of the bell.  On the evening of the second there came a letter from Hilton Cubitt.  All was quiet with him, save that a long inscription had appeared that morning upon the pedestal of the sundial.  He inclosed a copy of it, which is here reproduced: 

GRAPHIC

Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and then suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise and dismay.  His face was haggard with anxiety.

“We have let this affair go far enough,” said he.  “Is there a train to North Walsham to-night?”

I turned up the time-table.  The last had just gone.

“Then we shall breakfast early and take the very first in the morning,” said Holmes.  “Our presence is most urgently needed.  Ah! here is our expected cablegram.  One moment, Mrs. Hudson, there may be an answer.  No, that is quite as I expected.  This message makes it even more essential that we should not lose an hour in letting Hilton Cubitt know how matters stand, for it is a singular and a dangerous web in which our simple Norfolk squire is entangled.”

So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of a story which had seemed to me to be only childish and bizarre, I experience once again the dismay and horror with which I was filled.  Would that I had some brighter ending to communicate to my readers, but these are the chronicles of fact, and I must follow to their dark crisis the strange chain of events which for some days made Riding Thorpe Manor a household word through the length and breadth of England.