There's a deed of violence
indicated in that fellow's round shoulders and outstretched
neck. What's this, Watson? The top steps swilled down and
the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well,
there's Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know
all about it."
The official received us with a very grave face and showed us
into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated el-
derly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and
down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house -- Mr.
Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.
"It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade. "You
seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps
you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a
very much graver turn."
"What has it turned to, then?"
"To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen ex-
actly what has occurred?"
The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most mel-
ancholy face.
"It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life I have
been collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of
news has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that
I can't put two words together.
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