A hand came out of the hole. It was a thin, white hand.

The hand felt the floor around the hole. Then everything went dark again.

But not for long. There was a tearing sound. The hole in the floor got bigger. Over the edge peeped the face of a young man. There was a patch of bright white skin on his forehead. The young man pulled himself up into the room.

A second later he pulled a second young man up. The second man was also small and thin. He had a pale face. His hair was bright, bright red.

At that second Sherlock Holmes flashed the light.

“Great Scott!” yelled the first man. “Jump, Archie!”

“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes. “You have no chance at all.”

Inspector Jones had the handcuffs ready.

“Don’t you touch me with your dirty hands,” said John Clay. “I have noble blood, you know.” The cuffs closed around his wrists.

“You see it all now, Watson,” said Holmes. It was early the next morning. We were back at Baker Street drinking tea. “There was only one reason for the Red-headed League. That was to get our old friend Mr. Wilson out of his store. You may think it was an odd way to do it. But I can hardly think of a better one.

“Of course what gave them the idea was Mr. Wilson’s red hair. By chance it happened to be the same color as Archie’s hair. So Archie became …”

“Mr. Duncan Ross!” I cried.

“Quite so. And John Clay became Vincent Spaulding. Remember how he was always in the basement? He said it was for photography. But I knew better as soon as I saw his knees. They were dirty.