“Then that will simplify matters.”  We descended, and started off once more for Briony Lodge.

“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.

“Married!  When?”

“Yesterday.”

“But to whom?”

“To an English lawyer named Norton.”

“But she could not love him.”

“I am in hopes that she does.”

“And why in hopes?”

“Because it would spare your majesty all fear of future annoyance.  If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your majesty.  If she does not love your majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your majesty’s plan.”

“It is true.  And yet—­Well, I wish she had been of my own station.  What a queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps.  She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.

“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze.

“Indeed!  My mistress told me that you were likely to call.  She left this morning, with her husband, by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross, for the Continent.”

“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise.

“Do you mean that she has left England?”

“Never to return.”

“And the papers?” asked the king hoarsely.  “All is lost!”

“We shall see.”  He pushed past the servant, and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the king and myself.  The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves, and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight.  Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter.  The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress; the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq.  To be left till called for.”  My friend tore it open, and we all three read it together.  It was dated at midnight of the preceding night, and ran in this way: 

“MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—­You really did it very well.  You took me in completely.  Until after the alarm of the fire, I had not a suspicion.  But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think.  I had been warned against you months ago.  I had been told that if the king employed an agent, it would certainly be you.  And your address had been given me.  Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know.  Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman.  But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself.  Male costume is nothing new to me.  I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives.  I sent John, the