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“I think you might fetch your revolver, old fellow. We may need it before the night is out. I have some provisions in my greatcoat pocket so we shall not go hungry.”

“In that case I will bring my whisky flask,” said I.

A quarter of an hour later we left the hotel and made our way inconspicuously through side streets, as though taking an innocuous afternoon stroll. Though there was still an hour or so of daylight the sky was dark and sombre as we cleared the outskirts of Parvise Magna and a pallid mist was rising from the drenched fields which skirted the rounded hills. We were both silent as we continued our walk and presently Holmes turned aside to avoid approaching our client’s cottage from the front. When we could just see the roof of the property through the bare branches of leafless trees, we diverged from the path and in a few moments found ourselves on the overgrown track that led to the quarry. It was a grim place at that late time of day and we both paused as though possessed of the same impulse, and gazed down over the hundred foot drop.

“An awful spot, Holmes.”

“Indeed, Watson. But I think there is a more agreeable approach yonder.”

He pointed forward and I then saw what appeared to be a white thread which turned out to be a shelving part of the quarry that led downward in gentle slopes. Our feet gritted on the loose shale and after we had descended about halfway my companion gave a sharp exclamation.

He led the way across the face of the quarry to where a dark hole gaped. It was obviously man-made and had perhaps provided shelter for the quarrymen in years gone by. I followed him in and saw that the cavern was about ten feet across and some twenty feet deep. There was a narrow shelf of rock on the left-hand side, about five feet in.

“Hulloa”, I said. “Here is a candle, Holmes.”

I bent closer.

“And recently used, I should say, judging by the spent matches which are perfectly dry and not wet as they would be had they been there a long time.”

Holmes came to look over my shoulder.

“You are constantly improving, my dear fellow. You are not far out.”

He went back into the rear of the cave which the failing daylight still penetrated.

“Someone has made a fire,” I said, as he stirred the blackened ashes on the rough floor with his boot. “A tramp has been living here, perhaps.”

“Perhaps, Watson,” he said, as though his thoughts were far away.

Then he stooped to pick up a small slip of cardboard from the remains of the fire. I went across to see what he had found. I made out the faint white lettering on a blue background: carroll and co.

“What does it mean, Holmes?”

“I do not yet know,” he said reflectively. “Time will tell. I think I have seen enough here to confirm my tentative theories. In the meantime we must get back to the cottage before it is completely dark.”

And he led the way up the quarry at a swift pace. He put his finger to his lips as we drew close to our destination and bending down behind the large boulder our client had indicated, he brought out the massive wrought-iron key. It was the work of a moment to open the cottage door and re-lock it from the other side. The key turned smoothly so it was obvious why Smedhurst’s mysterious intruder had been able to gain entry so easily.

“Could we have a light, Holmes?” I whispered.

“There is a dark lantern on the table yonder, which I observed on our previous visit. I think we might risk it for a few minutes to enable us to settle down. If he is coming at all tonight our man will not move until long after dark. I have baited the trap. Now let us just see what comes to the net.”

I could not repress a shudder at these words, and I felt something of the terror that Smedhurst had experienced in that lonely place. But the comforting feel of my revolver in my overcoat did much to reassure me. I lit the lantern, shielding the match with my hand, and when we had deposited our sandwiches and made ourselves comfortable in two wing chairs, I closed the shutter of