“My Dear Watson,—I find this must be counted among my unsuccessful cases. I am under the necessity of admitting that the footmarks I have been following were my own. I traced them all the way to the “Black Dog,” and so up the stairs to my bedroom, where the boots themselves lay under a chair. En passant, why did you never remind me, my dear Watson, that they were a pair of yours which I had borrowed, and put off for some of my own when I went out for the second time? It was that misled me. Make my apologies to our friends. I enclose the half of your third-class return ticket, and am off to Siberia by the night mail. An important political prisoner has escaped from Kara Baigarama. I believe him to be hidden under an ice-floe in the Arctic Ocean. Tell this to nobody.”
Mr Shapter looked across at Dr Watson, who had sunk back in his chair, with a piece of bloater sticking out of his mouth. He gasped and swallowed it.
“I believe,” he said, “that that fall into the river gave him water on the brain.”
CHAPTER XXXII.
RUN TO EARTH
“I have to tell you, Jannaway,” said Mr Shapter, “that your colleague has deserted you.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“He has driven away this morning to catch the early express. Disillusioned for ever, he told me, as to our police methods, disappointed in his one cherished ideal, he has gone to London, to deliver his report and state his case before the court of final appeal as represented by our employer, Mr Dando.”
“Very well, sir. Then, p’raps its time as we got to business.”
“I don’t understand you, Jannaway.”
“Maybe not, Mr Shapter. Maybe it’s a side of my business to be misunderstood, and a side of yours to know it.”