In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round off my narratives, and to give those final details which the curious might expect.  Each case has been the prelude to another, and the crisis once over, the actors have passed for ever out of our busy lives.  I find, however, a short note at the end of my manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune, and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians.  Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault, the former getting seven years the latter ten.  Of the fate of Carruthers, I have no record, but I am sure that his assault was not viewed very gravely by the court, since Woodley had the reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think that a few, months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL

We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small stage at Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more sudden and startling than the first appearance of Thorneycroft Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc.  His card, which seemed too small to carry the weight of his academic distinctions, preceded him by a few seconds, and then he entered himself—­so large, so pompous, and so dignified that he was the very embodiment of self-possession and solidity.  And yet his first action, when the door had closed behind him, was to stagger against the table, whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that majestic figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin hearth-rug.

We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared in silent amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which told of some sudden and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life.  Then Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head, and I with brandy for his lips.  The heavy, white face was seamed with lines of trouble, the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were leaden in colour, the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the corners, the rolling chins were unshaven.  Collar and shirt bore the grime of a long journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from the well-shaped head.  It was a sorely stricken man who lay before us.

“What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

“Absolute exhaustion—­possibly mere hunger and fatigue,” said I, with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life trickled thin and small.

“Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north of England,” said Holmes, drawing it from the watch-pocket.  “It is not twelve o’clock yet.  He has certainly been an early starter.”

The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of vacant gray eyes looked up at us.  An instant later the man had scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.