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Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his
whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a
leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a tremen-
dous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow drum-
ming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door with
his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into the hall,
rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant later a wild-eyed
and frantic young man, pale, dishevelled, and palpitating, burst
into the room. He looked from one to the other of us, and under
our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that some apology was
needed for this unceremonious entry.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "You mustn't blame me.
I am nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector
McFarlane."
He made the announcement as if the name alone would ex-
plain both his visit and its manner, but I could seel by my
companion's unresponsive face, that it meant no more to him
than to me.
"Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane," said he, pushing his case
across.


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