“But how about our investigation in London?” asked Phelps, ruefully.
“We can do that to-morrow. I think that just at present I can be of more immediate use here.”
“You might tell them at Briarbrae that I hope to be back to-morrow night,” cried Phelps, as we began to move from the platform.
“I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae,” answered Holmes, and waved his hand to us cheerily as we shot out from the station.
Phelps and I talked it over on our journey, but neither of us could devise a satisfactory reason for this new development.
“I suppose he wants to find out some clue as to the burglary last night, if a burglar it was. For myself, I don’t believe it was an ordinary thief.”
“What is your own idea, then?”
“Upon my word, you may put it down to my weak nerves or not, but I believe there is some deep political intrigue going on around me, and that for some reason that passes my understanding my life is aimed at by the conspirators. It sounds high-flown and absurd, but consider the facts! Why should a thief try to break in at a bedroom window, where there could be no hope of any plunder, and why should he come with a long knife in his hand?”
“You are sure it was not a house-breaker’s jimmy?”
“Oh, no, it was a knife. I saw the flash of the blade quite distinctly.”
“But why on earth should you be pursued with such animosity?”