Holmes had disappeared.
“Wait here an instant,” said young Alec Cunningham. “The fellow is off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he has got to!”
They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and me staring at each other.
“’Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Master Alec,” said the official. “It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to me that—”
His words were cut short by a sudden scream of “Help! Help! Murder!” With a thrill I recognised the voice of that of my friend. I rushed madly from the room on to the landing. The cries, which had sunk down into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the room which we had first visited. I dashed in, and on into the dressing-room beyond. The two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the three of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his feet, very pale and evidently greatly exhausted.
“Arrest these men, Inspector!” he gasped.
“On what charge?”
“That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan!”
The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. “Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes,” said he at last, “I’m sure you don’t really mean to—”
“Tut, man, look at their faces!” cried Holmes, curtly.