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“And Pendleton-Smythe …”

“Another Professor Moriarty, pulling the strings of this society for his own personal gain? Fortunately, no. He is, I believe, a pawn in a much larger game, although only a few squares on the board are yet visible to me. More than that I cannot say until I have questioned Pendleton-Smythe.”

“What do these ‘amateur mendicants’ do? Are they beggars or not?”

“Quickly!” Holmes said, pulling me behind a stopped Hansom cab. “He’s turning!”

Pendleton-Smythe had stopped before a small rooming house. As we peered out at him, he paused on the steps to look left then right, but did not see us. He entered the building and shut the door behind himself.

“Interesting,” Holmes said. “But it confirms my theory.”

“That he’s a beggar?” I asked, feeling a little annoyed for all the rushing about. “If so, he is surely a well-lodged one.”

“Pendleton-Smythe has gone into hiding out of fear for his life. Why else would a man who owns a house choose to rent a room in such shabby surroundings as these?”

“Are we to question him here, then?” I asked.

He paused, lips pursed, deep in thought. After a minute I cleared my throat.

“No, Watson,” he said, turning back toward Baker Street. “I think that can wait until tomorrow. I have much to do first.”

The next morning Holmes knocked loudly on my door until, bleary eyed, I called, “What is it, Holmes?”

“It’s half past six,” he said. “Mrs Hudson has the kettle on and breakfast will be ready at seven sharp.”

“For heaven’s sake,” I said, sitting up. “Tell me, why have you awakened me so early?”

“We have an appointment!”

“Appointment?” I asked, still cloudy. I rose and opened the door. “Ah. Pendleton-Smythe and his amateur beggars, I assume. But that’s not until nine o’clock sharp – you said so yourself!”

“Exactly!” He had a fevered look to his eye and I knew he’d been up most of the night working on the mysterious colonel’s case – although what the actual nature of the case was, I still hadn’t a clue. Yet Holmes seemed to place singular importance on it.

When I had shaved and dressed, I emerged to find an excellent repast set out for us by Mrs Hudson. Holmes had barely touched his plate. He was rummaging through stacks of old newspapers strewn across the floor and every flat surface of the room.

“Here it is!” he cried.

“What?” I asked, helping myself to tea, toast, and orange marmalade.

“A pattern is emerging,” he said softly. “I believe I have all the pieces now. But how do they fit?”

“Explain it to me,” I said.

He held up one hand. “Precisely what I intend to do, Watson. Your clarity of thought may be what I need right now.” He cleared his throat. “In 1852, Oliver Pendleton-Smythe and six of his schoolmates were expelled from Eton. They were involved in some scandal, the nature of which I have yet to ascertain – official reports tend to be vague on that sort of matter.”

“Rightfully so,” I murmured.

“Young Pendleton-Smythe found himself shipped off to South Africa after six months of knocking about London, and there his career proved unexceptional. When at last he retired and returned to London, taking charge of his family’s house, things seemed to go well for him. He announced his betrothal to Dame Edith Stuart, which you may also remember from the society pages.”

“A step up for an army colonel,” I commented.

“I suspect she may have been involved in the Eton scandal, but that is mere conjecture at this point,” Holmes said. “Yes, to all appearances it is a step up for him. However, two weeks later he broke off the engagement, and the next day – three days ago, in fact – he disappeared.”

“Until he showed up on our doorstep.”

“Just so.”

“Where does this Amateur Beggar Society fit in?” I asked.

“The Secret Mendicant Society, as it is more properly called, was part of a network of spies set up by the Emperor Constantine. The Roman Empire had more than its share of beggars, and Constantine realized they heard and saw more than anyone gave them credit for. Originally,