“At what address?”

“American Exchange, Strand — to be left till called for. They are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to return to New York.”

“Have you made any inquiries as to this man Stangerson?”

“I did it at once, sir,” said Gregson. “I have had advertisements sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American Exchange, but he has not returned yet.”

“Have you sent to Cleveland?”

“We telegraphed this morning.”

“How did you word your inquiries?”

“We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be glad of any information which could help us.”

“You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to be crucial?”

“I asked about Stangerson.”

“Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?”

“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in an offended voice.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to to make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a discovery of the highest importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a careful examination of the walls.”

The little man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his colleague.

“Come here,” he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. “Now, stand there!”

He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.

“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.

I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word —

RACHE

“What do you think of that?” cried the detective, with the air of a showman exhibiting his show. “This was overlooked because it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there. The murderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear where it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of the wall.”

“And what does it mean now that you have found it?” asked Gregson in a depreciatory voice.

‘Why?’ he repeated, in his strange, soft, penetrating voice.

She looked round at him, rather defiantly.

‘Because I said I was going to be married tomorrow, and he bullied me.’

‘Why did he bully you?’

Her mouth dropped again, she remembered the scene once more, the tears came up.

‘Because I said he didn’t care—and he doesn’t, it’s only his domineeringness that’s hurt—’ she said, her mouth pulled awry by her weeping, all the time she spoke, so that he almost smiled, it seemed so childish. Yet it was not childish, it was a mortal conflict, a deep wound.

‘It isn’t quite true,’ he said. ‘And even so, you shouldn’t SAY it.’

‘It IS true—it IS true,’ she wept, ‘and I won’t be bullied by his pretending it’s love—when it ISN’T—he doesn’t care, how can he—no, he can’t–’

He sat in silence. She moved him beyond himself.

‘Then you shouldn’t rouse him, if he can’t,’ replied Birkin quietly.

‘And I HAVE loved him, I have,’ she wept. ‘I’ve loved him always, and he’s always done this to me, he has—’

‘It’s been a love of opposition, then,’ he said. ‘Never mind—it will be all right. It’s nothing desperate.’

‘Yes,’ she wept, ‘it is, it is.’

‘Why?’

‘I shall never see him again—’

‘Not immediately. Don’t cry, you had to break with him, it had to be—don’t cry.’

He went over to her and kissed her fine, fragile hair, touching her wet cheeks gently.

‘Don’t cry,’ he repeated, ‘don’t cry any more.’

He held her head close against him, very close and quiet.

At last she was still. Then she looked up, her eyes wide and frightened.

‘Don’t you want me?’ she asked.

‘Want you?’ His darkened, steady eyes puzzled her and did not give her play.

‘Do you wish I hadn’t come?’ she asked, anxious now again for fear she might be out of place.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I wish there hadn’t been the violence—so much ugliness—but perhaps it was inevitable.’

She watched him in silence. He seemed deadened.

‘But where shall I stay?’ she asked, feeling humiliated.

He thought for a moment.

‘Here, with me,’ he said. ‘We’re married as much today as we shall be tomorrow.’

‘But—’

‘I’ll tell Mrs Varley,’ he said. ‘Never mind now.’

He sat looking at her. She could feel his darkened steady eyes looking at her all the time. It made her a little bit frightened. She pushed her hair off her forehead nervously.

‘Do I look ugly?’ she said.

And she blew her nose again.

A small smile came round his eyes.