Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.

“Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique,” said he. “May I ask, sir, what you did then?”

“I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of some absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at Allan Brothers, the chief land agents in the village, and found that it was from this firm that the villa had been rented. It struck me that the whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of making a fool of me, and that the main object must be to get out of the rent. It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would not work. The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the rent had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went to see Melville, at whose house I I had first met Garcia, but I found that he really knew rather less about him than I did. Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since I gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said when you entered the room, that you can carry the story on, and that some tragedy has occurred. I can assure you that every word I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what I have told you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man. My only desire is to help the law in every possible way.”

“I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles — I am sure of it,” said Inspector Gregson in a very amiable tone. “I am bound to say that everything which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?”

“Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire.”

“What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?”

The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes, almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his pocket.

“It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this out unburned from the back of it.”

Holmes smiled his appreciation.

“You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single pellet of paper.”

“I did, Mr. Holmes. It’s my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?”

The Londoner nodded.

“The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:

‘I think,’ said Hilda, ‘it will be best if she names quite another man as co–respondent and you stay out of it altogether.’

‘But I thought I’d put my foot right in.’

‘I mean in the divorce proceedings.’

He gazed at her in wonder. Connie had not dared mention the Duncan scheme to him.

‘I don’t follow,’ he said.

‘We have a friend who would probably agree to be named as co–respondent, so that your name need not appear,’ said Hilda.

‘You mean a man?’

‘Of course!’

‘But she’s got no other?’

He looked in wonder at Connie.

‘No, no!’ she said hastily. ‘Only that old friendship, quite simple, no love.’

‘Then why should the fellow take the blame? If he’s had nothing out of you?’

‘Some men are chivalrous and don’t only count what they get out of a woman,’ said Hilda.

‘One for me, eh? But who’s the johnny?’

‘A friend whom we’ve known since we were children in Scotland, an artist.’

‘Duncan Forbes!’ he said at once, for Connie had talked to him. ‘And how would you shift the blame on to him?’

‘They could stay together in some hotel, or she could even stay in his apartment.’

‘Seems to me like a lot of fuss for nothing,’ he said.

‘What else do you suggest?’ said Hilda. ‘If your name appears, you will get no divorce from your wife, who is apparently quite an impossible person to be mixed up with.’

‘All that!’ he said grimly.

There was a long silence.

‘We could go right away,’ he said.

‘There is no right away for Connie,’ said Hilda. ‘Clifford is too well known.’

Again the silence of pure frustration.

‘The world is what it is. If you want to live together without being persecuted, you will have to marry. To marry, you both have to be divorced. So how are you both going about it?’

He was silent for a long time.

‘How are you going about it for us?’ he said.

‘We will see if Duncan will consent to figure as co–respondent: then we must get Clifford to divorce Connie: and you must go on with your divorce, and you must both keep apart till you are free.’

‘Sounds like a lunatic asylum.’

‘Possibly! And the world would look on you as lunatics: or worse.

‘What is worse?’

‘Criminals, I suppose.’

‘Hope I can plunge in the dagger a few more times yet,’ he said, grinning. Then he was silent, and angry.

‘Well!’ he said at last. ‘I agree to anything. The world is a raving idiot, and no man can kill it: though I’ll do my best. But you re right. We must rescue ourselves as best we can.’

He looked in humiliation, anger, weariness and misery at Connie.

‘Ma lass!’ he said. ‘The world’s goin’ to put salt on thy tail.’