“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last.  “It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride.  It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang.  That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.

“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last.  “How could they have decoyed him down there?  The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station.  The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose.  Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run.  I am going out now!”

“To the police?”

“No; I shall be my own police.  When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not before.”

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street.  Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet.  It was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale and worn.  He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water.

“You are hungry,” I remarked.

“Starving.  It had escaped my memory.  I have had nothing since breakfast.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a bite.  I had no time to think of it.”

“And how have you succeeded?”

“Well.”

“You have a clue?”

“I have them in the hollow of my hand.  Young Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged.  Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them.  It is well thought of!”

“What do you mean?”

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table.  Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope.  On the inside of the flap he wrote “S.  H. for J. O.”  Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun, Barque ‘Lone Star,’ Savannah, Georgia.”

“That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling.  “It may give him a sleepless night.  He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him.”

“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”

“The leader of the gang.  I shall have the others, but he first.”

“How did you trace it, then?”

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names.

“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ’83.  There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months.  Of these, one, the ‘Lone Star,’ instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union.”