The Return of Sherlock Holmes | Page 9

"`Journeys
end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says. I don't think I have had
the pleasure of seeing you since you favoured me with those attentions
as I lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall."
The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance. "You
cunning, cunning fiend!" was all that he could say.
"I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes. "This, gentlemen, is
Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army, and the
best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced. I
believe I am correct Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers still
remains unrivalled?"
The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my companion. With
his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was wonderfully like a tiger
himself.
"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a
SHIKARI," said Holmes. "It must be very familiar to you. Have you
not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and
waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree,

and you are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in
case there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of
your own aim failing you. These," he pointed around, "are my other
guns. The parallel is exact."
Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the constables
dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible to look at.
"I confess that you had one small surprise for me," said Holmes. "I did
not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this empty house
and this convenient front window. I had imagined you as operating
from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his merry men were
awaiting you. With that exception, all has gone as I expected."
Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.
"You may or may not have just cause for arresting me," said he, "but at
least there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of this
person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things be done in a legal
way."
"Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade. "Nothing further you
have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"
Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and was
examining its mechanism.
"An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "noiseless and of
tremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic,
who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years
I have been aware of its existance though I have never before had the
opportunity of handling it. I commend it very specially to your
attention, Lestrade and also the bullets which fit it."
"You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, as the
whole party moved towards the door. "Anything further to say?"
"Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"

"What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr.
Sherlock Holmes."
"Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at all. To
you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest which
you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your usual
happy mixture of cunning and audacity, you have got him."
"Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"
"The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain--Colonel
Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an
expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the
second-floor front of No. 427 Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of last
month. That's the charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can
endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an hour in
my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable amusement."
Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of
Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered I
saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all in
their place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained,
deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable
scrap-books and books of reference 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