Hmm, yes …”

He turned to me. “I’ll want your help,” he said. “Can you be ready at ten tonight? Good. See you then. Oh, and Dr. Watson. Do you have your gun? You had better bring it along.”

He waved his hand. Then he disappeared.

I got back to Baker Street just before ten o’clock that evening. Two horse-drawn cabs were waiting outside. Inside, I found two men with Holmes.

“Ah! We are all here now!” Holmes said. “You know Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard, don’t you, Watson? And this is Mr. Merryweather.”

Mr. Merryweather was long, thin, and sad-faced. He wore a very shiny top hat. He did not look at all happy. “This had better not be a wild-goose chase,” he said. “I’m missing my Saturday night card game. First time in twenty years.”

Holmes laughed. “You’ll play a more exciting game tonight,” he said. “You, Mr. Merryweather, stand to win or lose thirty thousand pounds. And you, Mr. Jones? You stand to get your man.”

“That’s right!” cried Inspector Jones. “John Clay. Killer. Robber. He’s a young man. But he’s at the top of the crime heap.

“Yes—he’s quite a man, John Clay. The grandson of a duke. Went to the high-class schools.