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There upon a
shelf was the row of formidable scrap-books and books of refer-
ence which many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad
to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack -- even
the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco -- all met my
eyes as I glanced round me. There were two occupants of the
room -- one, Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we
entered -- the other, the strange dummy which had played so
important a part in the evening's adventures. It was a wax-
coloured model of my friend, so admirably done that it was a
perfect facsimile. It stood on a small pedestal table with an old
dressing-gown of Holmes's so draped round it that the illusion
from the street was absolutely perfect.
"I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?" said
Holmes.
"I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me."
"Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you
observe where the bullet went?"
"Yes, sir. I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it
passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall.


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