Sherlock Holmes’s face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback by this new development.

“I must admit both your points,” said he.  “I confess that this notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views which I may have formed.  I had come to a theory of the crime in which I can find no place for this.  Have you endeavoured to trace any of the securities here mentioned?”

“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the complete register of the stockholders of these South American concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse before we can trace the shares.”

Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his magnifying lens.

“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain.  I told you that I picked the book off the floor.”

“Was the blood-stain above or below?”

“On the side next the boards.”

“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the crime was committed.”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes.  I appreciated that point, and I conjectured that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight.  It lay near the door.”

“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among the property of the dead man?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

“No, sir.  Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case.  Then there was a knife, was there not?”

“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath.  It lay at the feet of the dead man.  Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s property.”

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and have a look at it.”

Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

“Thank you, sir.  That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he.  “But even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless.  Watson, if you can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company.  If you will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay—­the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of Britain.  Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled to smelt the ore.  Now the richer fields of the North have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves and great scars in the earth show the work of the past.  Here, in a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low, stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the fields.  Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our direction.  It was the scene of the murder.