“Oh, no.  A favorite game in these parts is snatching loaves and bottles of milk from the doors, first thing, as they’re delivered.  There’s been an extra lot of it lately.  My mate who relieves me has got special instructions to keep his eye open in the mornings!” The man grinned.  “It wouldn’t be a very big case even if he caught anybody!” “No,” said Smith absently; “perhaps not.  Your business must be a dry one this warm weather.  Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir,” replied the constable, richer by half-a-crown—­“and thank you.”

Smith stared after him for a moment, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his ear.

“I don’t know that it wouldn’t be a big case, after all,” he murmured.  “Come on, Petrie.”

Not another word did he speak, until we stood at the gate of Maple Cottage.  There a plain-clothes man was standing, evidently awaiting Smith.  He touched his hat.

“Have you found a suitable hiding-place?” asked my companion rapidly.

“Yes, sir,” was the reply.  “Kent—­my mate—­is there now.  You’ll notice that he can’t be seen from here.”

“No,” agreed Smith, peering all about him.  “He can’t.  Where is he?”

“Behind the broken wall,” explained the man, pointing.  “Through that ivy there’s a clear view of the cottage door.”

“Good.  Keep your eyes open.  If a messenger comes for me, he is to be intercepted, you understand.  No one must be allowed to disturb us.  You will recognize the messenger.  He will be one of your fellows.  Should he come—­hoot three times, as much like an owl as you can.”

We walked up to the porch of the cottage.  In response to Smith’s ringing came James Weymouth, who seemed greatly relieved by our arrival.

“First,” said my friend briskly, “you had better run up and see the patient.”

Accordingly, I followed Weymouth upstairs and was admitted by his wife to a neat little bedroom where the grief-stricken woman lay, a wanly pathetic sight.

“Did you administer the draught, as directed?” I asked.

Mrs. James Weymouth nodded.  She was a kindly looking woman, with the same dread haunting her hazel eyes as that which lurked in her husband’s blue ones.

The patient was sleeping soundly.  Some whispered instructions I gave to the faithful nurse and descended to the sitting-room.  It was a warm night, and Weymouth sat by the open window, smoking.  The dim light from the lamp on the table lent him an almost startling likeness to his brother; and for a moment I stood at the foot of the stairs scarce able to trust my reason.  Then he turned his face fully towards me, and the illusion was lost.

“Do you think she is likely to wake, Doctor?” he asked.

“I think not,” I replied.

Nayland Smith stood upon the rug before the hearth, swinging from one foot to the other, in his nervously restless way.  The room was foggy with the fumes of tobacco, for he, too, was smoking.