“If you could have looked into Allardyce’s back shop, you would have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this weapon.  I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied myself that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with a single blow.  Perhaps you would care to try?”

“Not for worlds.  But why were you doing this?”

“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the mystery of Woodman’s Lee.  Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last night, and I have been expecting you.  Come and join us.”

Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age, dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of one who was accustomed to official uniform.  I recognized him at once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose future Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of the famous amateur.  Hopkins’s brow was clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep dejection.

“No, thank you, sir.  I breakfasted before I came round.  I spent the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”

“And what had you to report?”

“Failure, sir, absolute failure.”

“You have made no progress?”

“None.”

“Dear me!  I must have a look at the matter.”

“I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes.  It’s my first big chance, and I am at my wit’s end.  For goodness’ sake, come down and lend me a hand.”

“Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with some care.  By the way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch, found on the scene of the crime?  Is there no clue there?”

Hopkins looked surprised.

“It was the man’s own pouch, sir.  His initials were inside it.  And it was of sealskin,—­and he was an old sealer.”

“But he had no pipe.”

“No, sir, we could find no pipe.  Indeed, he smoked very little, and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”

“No doubt.  I only mention it because, if I had been handling the case, I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point of my investigation.  However, my friend, Dr. Watson, knows nothing of this matter, and I should be none the worse for hearing the sequence of events once more.  Just give us some short sketches of the essentials.”

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

“I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the dead man, Captain Peter Carey.  He was born in ’45—­fifty years of age.  He was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher.  In 1883 he commanded the steam sealer sea Unicorn, of Dundee.  He had then had several successful voyages in succession, and in the following year, 1884, he retired.  After that he travelled for some years, and finally he bought a small place called Woodman’s Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex.  There he has lived for six years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.