Les pastiches des Dix Sept Marches

Cette nouvelle a reçu le premier prix du grand concours Sherlock Holmes et l'an 2000, qui a été organisé par le Cercle des Sites Holmesiens Francophones

The adventure of the Threatening Clock

by Katre TALVISTE

Original text (traduction française)

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The last days of December 1899 found my friend Sherlock Holmes in an irritated mood. That was not unusual for the season, since Holmes, ever scornful of the slightest sentimentalism, was not too enthusiastic about Christmas which he, that afternoon, had just called "the reign of sincere hypocrisy". "Come now, Holmes," I protested, "anything hypocritical can hardly be sincere." "Perhaps not from the linguistic point of view," he replied, filling his pipe and obviously shifting from annoyed to conversational, "but psychologically it is more than possible. Surely you agree that throughout the year innumerable representatives of the human race meet or manifest the darker sides of their nature. I don't have in mind only real, serious crimes, but all the little, mean, thoughtless things that perhaps only a few of us are able to avoid. I'm sure you recall the Sutherland case, which, I am afraid, may be exceptional only for it's more imaginative and elaborate design, not for its deeper nature. "You may be right there, but why resent people's attempts to change for the better? That is the general idea of the Christmas spirit, I believe." "Because once the Christmas is over, the spirit is gone, too. I'm not saying that everybody is only pretending to get into that spirit, to the contrary, that attempt is usually a sincere one. Unfortunately it is all forgotten by New Year's Eve. If all the goodwill that is positively flooding right now even the streets of London were distributed evenly over the year, that could really cause a change for the better." "True," I said, "but could it be, Holmes, that it is, to some extent, professional dissatisfaction speaking in you now? You have not had a case since before Christmas and that's what is troubling you with the season." He sent me a half-annoyed, half-amused glance. "I cannot deceive a man that knows me as well as you do, Watson. But I doubt very much if the lack of cases is the work of your Christmas spirit. There is always somebody who rather takes advantage of it than is carried away with it. And that, if I may say so, is another disturbing characteristic of the season. Therefore, I'm quite surprised this Christmas has not brought us any problems to solve so far. Then again," he glanced reproachfully at a newspaper he had dropped on the floor some minutes ago, "if such trifles as a common burglary in a jeweller's shop in Sussex and Germans' celebrating the turn of the century have found their way to the metropolitan press, what intriguing problems could we hope for? The only concern in this country seems to be the fact that the Kaiser cannot count to hundred." Before I could say anything in return, we heard the bell and our landlady answer the door. The person she let in showed his agitation by not waiting for Mrs. Hudson to deliver his card instead of rushing straight up the stairs to our sitting room. Except that, the middle-aged gentleman now standing at our door and peering at us through his steamed pince-nez seemed to have a good hold of himself, although his face was worried. "Forgive my intrusion, gentlemen," he said, freeing himself of his hopeless pince-nez to dry it, "but I need very much to consult with Mr.Sherlock Holmes." "I am at your service, sir," my companion answered, motioning him at the same time to the warming fire and a chair, "and so is my friend and colleague Dr Watson." Our visitor bowed slightly to me, removed his heavy coat and took the chair Holmes had offered him. Holmes studied him thoughtfully. "The fact that you are a teacher gives me some hope that perhaps you have not come to ask me to look for the lost jewels, although you obviously come from Sussex." His knowledge about the man's origin he owed, no doubt, to the mud stains on the man's boots, although I couldn't have told them from any other mud stains in England. But the local newspaper thrust carelessly into his coat pocket was a clear enough clue even for me. Holmes had been following my glance. "Notice the hands, Watson," he said. "They can show you our visitor does a lot of writing and, I daresay, not little of it with red ink. And only a constant use of chalk can have such effect on skin and nails. There are other details, of course, but as there is no walking stick bearing a monogram nor a textbook with a label on it comfortably at sight, I'm afraid I must inquire after your name, sir." "Forgive my rudeness, Mr. Holmes. My name is Robert Herriott and I am a teacher as you have so correctly pointed out. I work in Sussex, in a small town near Bexhill, in a private school owned by Mr. Jedediah West. And, although I have no idea how you came to think of it, my problem has to do with the lost jewels." A flash of rather self-mocking disconsolation crossed my companions face. The next moment he was all attention and interest. "Pray tell us about your problem, Mr. Herriott," he said and leant back in his chair. "As I said," the teacher began, "I work at West's private school. It is holidays now and most of the boys have gone home. Some stay at school, one of them is Jeremy Forrester. He is fifteen years old, a very talented boy and hard-working as well, which is what brought him to our school. Coming from a rather poor family, he is able to study at West's because he won a scholarship Mr. West has created for the disadvantaged boys in his own home town, Rye. Young Forrester has been with us for four terms now, since last autumn, and I, for one, have been very pleased with him. So have my colleagues. 'This summer there was a tragic event in the boy's life: his father died, leaving him completely alone in the world, for his mother was already dead. After returning from home in autumn, he was quite different from his earlier self. He did not stop working, his results were not much worse than before, but the devotion he had earlier was gone. He stopped coming to the science club I have for boys more deeply interested in science where he had been most eager to work before. He kept mostly to himself, but assured everybody who asked that he was all right, although there clearly were things he left unsaid. 'I thought it was the natural grief over the loss of his father and I tried to bring him back to his earlier interests, hoping it might help him to get over it more easily. But I didn't succeed and I never found out what was really on his mind. Now I have begun to fear it was more than just grief. I will explain. 'Last night there was a burglary in the town. Our school is in the countryside, a couple of miles from Bexhill, but not too far. I read about the burglary in the morning paper, but I didn't think much about it. Then I found out during breakfast that Jeremy Forrester was missing. I thought he might be ill and I went to his room but he was not there. His hadn't slept in his bed. He had been gone since the last evening." "How can you be so sure of it? "He asked for a new candle last night. It wasn't even half burnt. He must have used it only for a short time and I don't think he just sat in the dark after that. If he didn't try to sleep, he must have left." "Excellent, Mr. Herriott! What did you do when you found the boy missing?" "My first thought was to go to the police. But then I found this." He put his hand in his pocket and gave Holmes a piece of blotter. It had been used to dry some writing in blue ink. Most of the text had only left some blue spots, but at the bottom of the paper some words were legible: three thousand six hundred: 6 gang gold get the gold ? The word "gang" was a bit smeared at the end but the rest was clear enough. "Where was it?" Holmes asked. "On his desk. It brought the morning news back to my mind. I had just been reading about a crime, stolen gold and treasures and it suddenly occurred to me he may have had something to do with it." "What do you mean?" "I am not sure! The boy has been acting strangely for the entire term. I understand it must have been of grief, but people have done stupid things out of grief. And then the burglary is a most disturbing coincidence with his disappearance. And this writing in an even more disturbing coincidence with the burglary. It is not clear to me what to think of all this. But I know for sure I don't want the boy to lose all his chances because of the trouble he's got himself to in a period of emotional crisis." "Are you suggesting he may be responsible for the burglary?" "Not alone, I don't believe that. But he may have got under the influence of some rascals in town." "Do the boys often go to town?" "Generally, no, but they help the local church with some charity work, caring for elderly people and such. On these occasions they are allowed to go to the town. Jeremy Forrester did a lot of that kind of work." "It is also possible," I suggested, "that he was not himself involved with the crime. Perhaps he just knew something about it." "Indeed," the teacher agreed eagerly. "I have thought so myself. I believe the words on this blotter are from a letter he was writing. I didn't find the writing itself, so I thought he must have taken it with him, probably to mail it or to deliver it himself. Don't you think so, Mr. Holmes?" "It may be so." "If it was a letter, it could be meant as a warning." "It could." "Either way, Mr. Holmes, you have to find the boy. If he has information about the criminals, he could be in danger. I can't go to the police, for I don't know what they will find once they start looking for him. If we find him fast, everything could perhaps be amended, whatever it was that made him run away." "Had he taken anything with him?" "His warm clothes, his rucksack, I believe. I don't know what he had in it." "Did he have any money?" "No, boys do not have money, they hand it over when they come to school and Mr. West keeps count of it. They are allowed to buy things for as much as they do have on their account when a merchant comes to the school. And they get some money when they need to travel home." "So he couldn't have taken the train? He must have gone on foot, then." "I suppose so. Nobody had seen him at the station either, as I learned by asking some discrete questions here and there when I set off for London myself. He could have asked somebody for a ride, but not before he was far enough from school." "Was he any different from usual last night?" "I wouldn't say so. When he came to ask me for a candle, it gave me the impression he was going to stay up late and read in his room. I even had to remind him he was supposed to go to sleep at ten o'clock like everybody else." Holmes sat for a while staring intensely into the fire, his pipe in his hand. Then he seemed to have made up his mind. "It would be a mistake to decide to any course of action or to form any theory here and now, Mr. Herriott," he said and rose from his chair. "We must come back to Sussex with you and see to ourselves what can be discovered there. Give us a quarter of an hour and we shall be ready to accompany you." In the late afternoon we found ourselves at West's private school in Sussex. The big house was quiet, those few boys that had not left for home were nowhere to be seen. Mr. Herriott led us to the left wing of the building where the bedrooms were. Jeremy Forrester's room was quite small and plain: a bed, a desk, a stool and an empty peg. Holmes quickly examined the room, paying most of his attention to the desk. "You said he asked for a new candle last night?" "He did." "At what time was it?" "Around nine o'clock. I gave him the candle and told not to stay up for too long." "It hasn't been burning for more than an hour, as you observed yourself. So he must have left around ten. How did he get out? He has not used the window." "The doors should be locked at ten, but this rule's only certain effect is that around that time there is a lot of bustle downstairs and the custodian cannot keep an eye on everything. It was not impossible for him to sneak out." "The paper you showed us was on the desk?" "Yes, right here beside the inkwell. And this pen was here, too." Holmes studied the desk for one more moment and opened its only drawer. There were some books in it and a small pile of white paper. "Was he studying during the holidays? Even at night in his room?" "It would not surprise me. As I told you, he was a hard-working student. Very interested in everything. It would be a shame if he left school, or were expelled, for that matter." Holmes had taken algebra, geometry and history from the drawer and put them aside. He reached for the next one. "Ha! This certainly seems extra-curricular. Or is there a class of modern French literature?" "No, Mr. Holmes. West's a good school, but not very innovative in it's ways. The curriculum is a very traditional one." "I thought as much. So Rimbaud must be his free time reading material. There's the name of a Theodore Forrester written in it. His father, I trust?" "That's right. His father, as I have understood by his words, was a librarian, and quite fond of literature. Jeremy must have brought some of his books to school with him after he died." "Indeed. What was his relationship with his father?" "I don't know much about it, but it seems to me they were quite fond of each other. Mr. Forrester was a simple, quiet man. He thought his son getting a good education was very important. And, I believe, Jeremy's work for the church here had something to do with their being good church-going people." While listening, Holmes had removed the papers from the drawer and I saw a glint of interest in his eye. There had been a small writing book in the bottom, which he now opened. "What is it, Holmes?" I asked. "The eternity is the sea and the sun walking hand in hand," he answered matter-of-factly. Both Robert Herriott and I stared at him. "He has translated his French poets," Holmes explained. He turned the pages. "Mostly Baudelaire, then Rimbaud, Verlaine. Some verses are not too bad, by the way." He took the last book from the drawer. That, too, had belonged to Mr. Forrester senior and was titled Les Romances sans paroles. The drawer was empty now. Holmes stood, fingering the two poetry books, his eyes fixed on the horizon behind the window. These long moments of reflection I had become so used to were too trying for the poor science teacher's patience. "Well, what do you say, Mr. Holmes? What are we going to do? Hadn't we better go and try to find some traces of him instead of standing in this room that tells us nothing!" "To the contrary, it has told us several things. And I'm afraid these are also the only traces we are going to find. I wouldn't have too many hopes for footprints on the road dozens of people, horses and carriages must have used since he left. He didn't get any letters yesterday, did he?" "No, he got only one letter last term, and that was at the beginning of November. Earlier, he used to get letters from his father only." "Do you know whom this last letter was from?" "No, I'm afraid not. But it was sent from Rye. He hasn't got any more of them, though." "Very well, I think I have seen all there is to be seen here. Is there good a library in town?" "Er ... yes, there is. But it's Sunday, and the last day of the year. It is closed" Mr. Herriott looked puzzled. "Where can I find the librarian?" "His quarters are in the same building." "Good. We shall leave you then." "But what about Jeremy Forrester?" "I have some ideas, but I may be wrong. I have to verify some matters and make sure there are no other reasonable solutions. I shall let you know whether there is any important news." He turned and walked out. I followed him, leaving the confused teacher behind. The cab that had brought us from the station, took us to town. Holmes was quiet and lost in thought all the way, his brows knitted as if there was something troubling him. He didn't say a word before we reached the library. There he persuaded the librarian to let us in spite of what day it was, promising him that our visit would be a very short one. "We have only a little time," he said to me. "If you'd be as kind as to see if they have later editions of today's papers than the one Mr. Herriott had with him this morning, I shall go and borrow a book." "I am to find out what the news of the burglary is?" "Precisely. It must be a real treat for papers. I'm sure we can bring ourselves up to date with their assistance." While he was talking to the librarian, I leafed through the papers on a table in the other end of the room. The great news of the burglary in the morning paper was followed by another story in the afternoon, claiming that the police have formed their theory which they were reluctant to comment on. But an Inspector Harrows who had arrived from Bexham was quoted to say that arrests could be expected soon enough. Back in the street, I reported the results of my readings to Holmes. "That means we still shall have to go and talk to the police. I know that man Harrows from an earlier case. No, I think you were busy elsewhere at the time. It was quite a pretty little problem in its own way, I recall. Harrows turned out to be a very capable detective, one of the best in the Force I had met. I suspect he can actually be after somebody when he tells the papers he is." "You think then that Jeremy Forrester's disappearance had anything to do with the crime?" "I think it highly unlikely, Watson, but I cannot make up my mind before I do two other things, and one of them is talking to Harrows." "But the boy's writings, Holmes! Surely the paper pointed to what he was doing or to what he knew?" "The paper only points to what he wrote, as paper always does, not to what he did." "But the mention of gold, the figures ... Couldn't they have meant a sum of money?" "Three thousand six hundred - pounds? Isn't there anything about these figures that intrigues you, Watson?" "I've been wondering what the ": 6" stands for? And the "gang"? He may have overheard some men planning the burglary when he went to town. Or he could have become involved with the gang himself. I guess, he was trying to warn somebody, perhaps the police, or the owner of the shop." "Watson, I beg you, never "guess" anything," Holmes groaned. "But, assuming he knew about the burglary, there is a possibility that he was trying to communicate his knowledge to the proper authorities or to somebody else. Then what? Why did he disappear?" "If he was somehow involved with them, he might have been afraid he would be charged, too. Don't you think so?" "I think, Watson, that both you and Mr. Herriott are making the mistake of forcing all the pieces of the puzzle together because, unfortunately, the picture seems to make sense. But you haven't even ascertained how many puzzles there really are." "What is your theory then, Holmes?" "I don't have one. As I have said many times before, it is dangerous to build theories before one has all the facts. I don't have them yet. Ah, here's the police station. Let us see what Inspector Harrows has to tell us." Inspector Harrows was a small man with everything grey about him - hair, suit, even his skin was somewhat greyish. But there was a spark of intelligence and wisdom in his eye. He was glad to see my friend and greeted us heartily. "Working late, Harrows, I see," my friend remarked when the Inspector had offered us a seat. "No holidays then?" "No holidays in this line of work, as you know, 'though it has been quiet enough for a while." "So it must be the burglary the papers have written about all day that keeps you in your office tonight. Any clues?" "Oh, that would be the Christmas gang. I have my men on their trail right now, that's why I have not said much to the papers." "The Christmas gang!" I exclaimed. Holmes' eyes were sparkling with amusement, but he was also waiting for an explanation. "That's how we call them, a group of three rascals, led by a former locksmith called Jeffreys. Last year two shops and a bank were broken into at the end of December. They were seen last time, but not identified then. Fortunately, they didn't get much, for the shops had sold out of almost everything and the money was not left for them to find. The bank was guarded and they were scared off. But they were foolish enough to continue this year. You know, with everybody celebrating they think it's safe enough to break in into shops. They were seen, first in a pub nearby and afterwards leaving the street where the jeweller's shop is in a great hurry. They were gone from town by morning, but the police in the whole area and the railway are on alert. I'm expecting our men to catch the gang soon." "It certainly is a pleasure to hear how you handle things here, Inspector," Holmes said, smiling. "This is a simple enough case," Harrows answered modestly. "By the way, Mr. Holmes, what brings you here? Do you have a little holiday problem yourself?" "No, I can hardly say so. A holiday without a problem is more like it. I thought to step in and wish you luck with your burglars." "Well, it was nice to see you gentlemen. Good night to you."   "Now, Watson," Holmes said when we had left Inspector Harrows, "I believe an establishment where they serve tolerable food by a hot fire, is what we need to resume our forces and to do the last thing I need before forming a theory about where to look for Jeremy Forrester." "What is that?" I asked. "To read a book." "A book?" "A book young Mr. Forrester would have called The Flowers of Evil. I hope you don't mind eating in a place called The Blue Cat?" The Blue Cat had both items Holmes had mentioned to offer, although I was the only one to enjoy them properly, for Holmes sat, his nose buried in Baudelaire's Fleurs du mal, until his food on the table had got quite cold. Finally he looked up, grinning: "Well, Watson, what do you make of this? I would especially recommend verses nine, fifteen and sixteen." I took the book and read: L'HORLOGE Horloge! Dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible, Dont le doigt nous menace et nous dit: «Souviens-toi!» Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton coeur plein d'effroi Se planteront bientôt dans une cible; Le plaisir vaporeux fuira vers l'horizon Ainsi qu'une sylphide au fond de la coulisse; Chaque instant te dévore un morceau du délice A chaque homme accordé pour toute sa saison. Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la Seconde Chuchote: Souviens-toi - Rapide avec sa voix D'insecte, Maintenant dit: Je suis Autrefois, Et j'ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde! Remember! Souviens-toi! prodigue! Esto memor! (Mon gosier de métal parle toutes les langues.) Les minutes, mortel folâtre, sont des gangues Qu'il ne faut pas lâcher sans en extraire l'or! Souviens-toi que le Temps est un joueur avide Qui gagne sans tricher, a tout coup! c'est la loi. Le jour décroît; la nuit augmente; souviens-toi! Le gouffre a toujours soif; la clepsydre se vide. Tantôt sonnera l'heure où le divin Hasard, Où l'auguste Vertu, ton épouse encore vierge, Où le Repentir même (oh! la dernière auberge!) Où tout te dira: Meurs, vieux lâche! il est trop tard! "Really, Holmes, I don't see what use this can be to us. I admit my French is not as good as yours, so if there is a hidden meaning in these lines I may easily have missed it." "No, Watson, there is no hidden meaning. But there is a meaning one has to interpret." "And what's your interpretation of it?" "That we must hurry. There is a train to from Bexham to Rye in forty minutes and if we are able to catch it I sincerely hope we may be able to find Jeremy Forrester before the year is over." His hopes were failed in a way, for it was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached Rye. After making a telephone call from Bexham station Holmes had spoken no more and watched the night rush by behind the window. I had kept wondering about his theory and what it was that made him so sure Jeremy Forrester was in his home town and that he was not involved with the burglary. Reviewing in my mind the events and discoveries of the day, I couldn't find the evidence that had led him to his conclusions. Yet I knew there had to be something, for his theories were never built of thin air. I thought I knew his method of observation and deduction well enough to understand at least where and when he used it, but I could not think of anything we had seen that would have had something to observe in it. By the time we reached Rye, the whole affair was as obscure to me as it had been when we arrived at West's private school in the afternoon. "Where do we go now, Holmes?" "We shall pay a visit to Reverend Leonard Hailey. Mr. Herriott kindly gave me his address which he was able to find out because Reverend Hailey is the person responsible for finding candidates for the West's scholarship." It was late and the Reverend was at home. A sleepy and sullen housemaid who hadn't probably intended to stay up to welcome the New Year showed us to his sitting room. The Reverend had fortunately not yet retired for the night. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asked calmly as a man used to being knocked up at odd hours. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Dr Watson. We thought you might have some information about Jeremy Forrester. One of his teachers at West's private school is quite worried." "Oh dear!" the elderly clergyman exclaimed. "I was going to send a telegram when he arrived in the afternoon, but then Mrs. Robbins sent for me, her grandfather was dying, he was over ninety, of course, and then ... I completely forgot it, I must have thought I'd done it already. Tomorrow, then. But how did you know to come here? Oh, please, take a seat. A coffee, tea perhaps? I shall ask..." He drifted off the room without finishing his sentence in his absent-minded and clumsy manner, leaving us no opportunity to accept or deny his kind offer. The idea of a hot drink after our journey certainly was not an unwelcome one and after a while, when Mr. Hailey had returned and sat down, the maid brought the tea and, drinking it, Holmes gave us the explanation of the solution of Jeremy Forrester's puzzling disappearance. "Your young friend, Reverend, disappeared from his school last night around ten, although it was not discovered until this morning. And, I hasten to say, the discovery has been treated most discretely, so I hope the consequences will not be too grave. There seemed to be no reason for his leaving, although some ideas were formed that caused Mr. Herriott, the science teacher, a deep concern. From his recollection of the events of the night before, it appeared that Jeremy Forrester had not planned his escape, but had left quite à l'improviste. There must have been an impulse that made him do so, and Mr. Herriott was quite sure it hadn't been a letter, for none had arrived recently. He must have had something else in his room that gave him the idea of leaving. We found books and a most interesting writing book of translations in that room. The writing book showed that he was most interested in Baudelaire, but there was no Baudelaire among his books. On the other hand, Rimbaud and Verlaine, his other favourites were there. If Baudelaire wasn't, it was possible he had taken it with him. 'He had been writing some time before he left. Some words of that writing were preserved on a piece of blotter. Now, it is natural that not all the writing isn't legible on a blotter, only the most recent that has been written right before blotting. But once it's legible, why only in fragments? Partly because the pen keeps running dry, of course, but this couldn't cause the fragments being so short and so much out of context, unless the writing is only a draft that consists only of fragments. It could have been a draft for a letter, for anything, but given his interest in translation and the fact that he often practised it, it could have been a translation he had been working on. If that was the case and if he had taken the book and apparently the draft of translation with him, the text could have given us some clues where to look for him. The kindness of the local librarian provided us with a copy of the book, Les Fleurs du mal by Baudelaire, that is. I had to find the poem containing certain figures - remarkable figures, by the way, Watson, three thousand six hundred brings the remnants of the sexagesimal system, the measuring of time to one's mind -, then the words "gold" and "gang". The latter proved to be the "gangue" really, of course. It took me some time to find the poem, but it wasn't too difficult. 'It is a poem about time, about its fleeing, about losses, death and the need to live intensely, extracting all the gold from life that rushes by. And it tells the reader to remember, remember the passing of time, of course, but the word brings the idea of memories inevitably to his mind. 'Jeremy Forrester, a bright youngster, interested in intellectual matters that were probably as much of reality to him as bricks in a wall; at the same time a boy going over a difficult period in his life, looking for answers in the books left to him by his father, was reading this poem in the night of 30th December 1899. Kaiser Wilhelm even believes it to be the end of the century, but for those, too, who know arithmetic better, changing of all four figures is a significant event. As significant as the poetry is for Jeremy Forrester. Remember, Watson, the writing book began with the Eternity, quite soon after the death of his father. When he concentrated on a poem warning of letting precious minutes uselessly go by, and realised he was letting the whole last year of the 1800-series go by, sitting in his small bedroom, he probably decided not to let it happen. Where else would he go to look for all that gold and memories, if not to Rye, which was the only place he had memories of and which may have had some promise of that metaphorical gold. And a sylphide, perhaps. But Jeremy Forrester was an intelligent boy and after walking quite unprepared through the winter night all the way to Rye, he must have realised he had to return to the reality, find a place to stay and a confident to advise him what to do about the problems what he probably had caused himself at school. We were told his father was a church-going man and Jeremy himself worked for the church. So I thought it would be reasonable to turn to the priest of their congregation in Rye. Mr. Herriott knew your name, Reverend, so it was very easy to find you. That's how we arrived here to find out that Jeremy Forrester is all right and our client can have his peace of mind back." "That's right, sir," the Reverend said. "The boy is fine, he's not here right now, although I said he could stay with me for the night. He's out somewhere, waiting for the new year, you know it's always different, going to meet it on the half-way, but he promised he'd be back soon after midnight and that he'd keep to himself, no getting in trouble with folks celebrating. He's as good as his word, I'm sure ... I shall send him back to school tomorrow, of course." "Good," said Holmes, rising and shaking his hand. "He has some explaining to do to Mr. Herriott, but otherwise he should have no great trouble. The teacher would gladly avoid everything of the sort which has, I suspect, something to do with his fondness of his student and, on the other hand, with the fact that he was actually responsible for him. Good night and a happy New Year, Reverend." We managed to find rooms in a small hotel, although it was New Year's Eve and the time was well over midnight. When we parted in the hall to retire to our rooms, I remarked: "I have never known, Holmes, that you had such a bent for literary studies. This certainly is a new side in you to me." "Hardly that, Watson," he answered. "It is much the same as footprints. People leave a trace of their thoughts, you only need to observe and deduce what you can and that can lead you to the truth, if there is any, quite easily." "But there is one thing you haven't explained about the blotter and the writing ..." "The mysterious ": 6"? I suspect he had counting syllables." Holmes turned to go, then stopped, smiling to himself. "That poor science teacher, he'll never understand any of it, I'm afraid. He said in the morning that this business wasn't clear. In the sense he uses the word it will never be clear. I suppose, one cannot expect that of anything any more. It is even a bit ironic. This morning I was complaining about there being no real problems, only the turn of century and some lost jewels. Yet by now both of them have peripherally touched our own little case, which could be taken even less seriously than the two others. You know, Watson, I shall not join the discussion about when the new century begins, but I do have a feeling that the old one is about to end."   END