“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger.  He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London.  He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay.  His grandfather was a Royal Duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford.  His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself.  He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.  I’ve been on his track for years, and have never set eyes on him yet.”

“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.  I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession.  It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started.  If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.”

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive, and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon.  We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gaslit streets until we emerged into Farringdon Street.

“We are close there now,” my friend remarked.  “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director and personally interested in the matter.  I thought it as well to have Jones with us also.  He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession.  He has one positive virtue.  He is as brave as a bulldog, and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone.  Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning.  Our cabs were dismissed, and following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage, and through a side door which he opened for us.  Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate.  This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate.  Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked, as he held up the lantern and gazed about him.

“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor.  “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.

“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet,” said Holmes severely.  “You have already imperiled the whole success of our expedition.  Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor, and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones.  A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again, and put his glass in his pocket.