As I dressed I glanced at my watch.  It was no wonder that no one was stirring.  It was twenty-five minutes past four.  I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse.

“I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his boots.  “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe.  I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross.  But I think I have the key of the affair now.”

“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.

“In the bathroom,” he answered.  “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he continued, seeing my look of incredulity.  “I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag.  Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.”

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine.  In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head.  We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road.  A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.

“It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop.  “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.  Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street.  Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted him.  One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in.

“Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.

“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”

“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket.  “I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.”  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.  Step into my room here.”  It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall.  The inspector sat down at his desk.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I called about that beggarman, Boone—­the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”

“Yes.  He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”

“So I heard.  You have him here?”

“In the cells.”

“Is he quiet?”

“Oh, he gives no trouble.  But he is a dirty scoundrel.”

“Dirty?”

“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker’s.  Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it.”