Chapter 13. Fixing the Nets

ebadegood-byetoourruefulfriend,andacoupleofhoursafterwardswewereatthestationofCoombeTraceyandhaddispatchedthetrapuponitsreturnjourney.Asmallboywaswaitingupontheplatform. “Anyorders,sir?” “Youwilltakethistraintotown,Cartwright.ThemomentyouarriveyouwillsendawiretoSirHenryBaskerville,inmyname,tosaythatifhefindsthepocketbookwhichIhavedroppedheistosenditbyregisteredposttoBakerStreet.” “Yes,sir.” “Andaskatthestationofficeifthereisamessageforme.” Theboyreturnedwithatelegram,whichHolmeshandedtome.Itran: Wirereceived.Comingdownwithunsignedwarrant.Arrivefive-forty.Lestrade. “Thatisinanswertomineofthismorning.Heisthebestoftheprofessionals,Ithink,andwemayneedhisassistance.Now,Watson,Ithinkthatwecannotemployourtimebetterthanbycallinguponyouracquaintance,Mrs.LauraLyons.” Hisplanofcampaignwasbeginningtobeevident.HewouldusethebaronetinordertoconvincetheStapletonsthatwewerereallygone,whileweshouldactuallyreturnattheinstantwhenwewerelikelytobeneeded.ThattelegramfromLondon,ifmentionedbySirHenrytotheStapletons,mustremovethelastsuspicionsfromtheirminds.AlreadyIseemedtoseeournetsdrawingcloseraroundthatlean-jawedpike. Mrs.LauraLyonswasinheroffice,andSherlockHolmesopenedhisinterviewwithafranknessanddirectnesswhichconsiderablyamazedher. “IaminvestigatingthecircumstanceswhichattendedthedeathofthelateSirCharlesBaskerville,”saidhe.“Myfriendhere,Dr.Watson,hasinformedmeofwhatyouhavecommunicated,andalsoofwhatyouhavewithheldinconnectionwiththatmatter.” “WhathaveIwithheld?”sheaskeddefiantly. “YouhaveconfessedthatyouaskedSirCharlestobeatthegateatteno’clock.Weknowthatthatwastheplaceandhourofhisdeath.Youhavewithheldwhattheconnectionisbetweentheseevents.” “Thereisnoconnection.” “Inthatcasethecoincidencemustindeedbeanextraordinaryone.ButIthinkthatweshallsucceedinestablishingaconnection,afterall.Iwishtobeperfectlyfrankwithyou,Mrs.Lyons.Weregardthiscaseasoneofmurder,andtheevidencemayimplicatenotonlyyourfriendMr.Stapletonbuthiswifeaswell.” Theladysprangfromherchair. “Hiswife!”shecried. “Thefactisnolongerasecret.Thepersonwhohaspassedforhissisterisreallyhiswife.” Mrs.Lyonshadresumedherseat.Herhandsweregraspingthearmsofherchair,andIsawthatthepinknailshadturnedwhitewiththepressureofhergrip. “Hiswife!”shesaidagain.“Hiswife!Heisnotamarriedman.” SherlockHolmesshruggedhisshoulders. “Proveittome!Proveittome!Andifyoucandoso—!” Thefierceflashofhereyessaidmorethananywords. “Ihavecomepreparedtodoso,”saidHolmes,drawingseveralpapersfromhispocket.“HereisaphotographofthecoupletakeninYorkfouryearsago.Itisindorsed‘Mr.andMrs.Vandeleur,’butyouwillhavenodifficultyinrecognizinghim,andheralso,ifyouknowherbysight.HerearethreewrittendescriptionsbytrustworthywitnessesofMr.andMrs.Vandeleur,whoatthattimekeptSt.Oliver’sprivateschool.Readthemandseeifyoucandoubttheidentityofthesepeople.” Sheglancedatthem,andthenlookedupatuswiththeset,rigidfaceofadesperatewoman. “Mr.Holmes,”shesaid,“thismanhadofferedmemarriageonconditionthatIcouldgetadivorcefrommyhusband.Hehasliedtome,thevillain,ineveryconceivableway.Notonewordoftru