Kabanata Kabanata 5 · Three Broken Threads

. Three Broken Threads

Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of

detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in

which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was

entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters.

He would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the crudest

ideas, from our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at

the Northumberland Hotel.

“Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you,” said the

clerk. “He asked me to show you up at once when you came.”

“Have you any objection to my looking at your register?” said

Holmes.

“Not in the least.”

The book showed that two names had been added after that of

Baskerville. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle;

the other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.

“Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know,” said

Holmes to the porter. “A lawyer, is he not, grey-headed, and

walks with a limp?”

“No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active

gentleman, not older than yourself.”

“Surely you are mistaken about his trade?”

“No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very

well known to us.”

“Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the

name. Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend

one finds another.”

“She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of

Gloucester. She always comes to us when she is in town.”

“Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have

established a most important fact by these questions, Watson,” he

continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. “We know

now that the people who are so interested in our friend have not

settled down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as

we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious

that he should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive

fact.”

“What does it suggest?”

“It suggests—halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the

matter?”

As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir

Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and

he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was

he that he was hardly articulate, and when he did speak it was in

a much broader and more Western dialect than any which we had

heard from him in the morning.

“Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel,” he

cried. “They’ll find they’ve started in to monkey with the wrong

man unless they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can’t find

my missing boot there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the

best, Mr. Holmes, but they’ve got a bit over the mark this time.”

“Still looking for your boot?”

“Yes, sir, and mean to find it.”

“But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?”

“So it was, sir. And now it’s an old black one.”

“What! you don’t mean to say—?”

“That’s just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the

world—the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers,

which I am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones,

and today they have sneaked one of the black. Well, have you got

it? Speak out, man, and don’t stand staring!”

An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.

“No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear

no word of it.”

“Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I’ll see the

manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel.”

“It shall be found, sir—I promise you that if you will have a

little patience it will be found.”

“Mind it is, for it’s the last thing of mine that I’ll lose in

this den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you’ll excuse my

troubling you about such a trifle—”

“I think it’s well worth troubling about.”

“Why, you look very serious over it.”

“How do you explain it?”

“I just don’t attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest,

queerest thing that ever happened to me.”

“The queerest perhaps—” said Holmes thoughtfully.

“What do you make of it yourself?”

“Well, I don’t profess to understand it yet. This case of yours

is very complex, Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your

uncle’s death I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of

capital importance which I have handled there is one which cuts

so deep. But we hold several threads in our hands, and the odds

are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may

waste time in following the wrong one, but sooner or later we

must come upon the right.”

We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the

business which had brought us together. It was in the private

sitting-room to which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked

Baskerville what were his intentions.

“To go to