Chapter V
A Formidable Hunter

My mind dwelt upon the sweet face and voluptuous charms of Peony Chubb as we walked home from the inn. Her face had neither the sensitivity of expression not refinement of beauty that Belinda possessed in abundance, and yet I had never looked upon a countenance which gave a clearer promise of an innocent and sympathetic nature. Even upon so short an acquaintance it grieved me that such a sweet-natured young girl should have fallen into the clutches of so vile a scoundrel as Lotho Bolger. Her dainty limbs and petite bosom were made to be adored and cherished by a lover who would wring sighs of delight from her pouting lips, not defiled by the brutish appetites of a moral degenerate. I shuddered, and turned to Holmes with a thoughtful mien.
“What an attractive lass!” I exclaimed.
Holmes lit his pipe and regarded me with an impassive face.
“Is she?” he said, languidly; “I did not observe.”
“You really are an automaton!” I cried. “You have the mind of an abacus and the sensibilities of a block of wood!”
He smiled gently.
“It is of the first importance to me,” he said, “not to allow my judgement to be swayed by a prepossessing person. A woman is a mere unit to me; a factor in a problem. Personal emotions are antagonistic to clear reasoning. The most attractive woman I ever knew was the madam of a bawdy-house who was hanged for murdering eight of her customers for their pocket-watches, and the ugliest hag of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent almost a quarter of a million in gold upon the poor of the city where I was born.”
“But Peony is —”
“Addicted to Lovewort, and no better than a common strumpet.”
“That is a little harsh, Holmes. The girl is little more than a child and is clearly dominated by her mother and her vile ambitions. I think you are allowing your singular prejudices to influence your better judgement.”
“Perhaps, Bingo, but the fact remains that she is part of the gang we are pursuing, however unwilling, and cannot be trusted any more than her odious mother. It is clear that Mrs Chubb and her daughters are terrified of Mr Brockhouse, yet he is not the author of this vile conspiracy.”
“I am more confused than ever,” said I.
“I am not surprised, Bingo,” Holmes replied.
“If Mr Brockhouse is not the murderer, then who is?”
“Someone has put the fear of god into that woman, Bingo,” said he. “Does Brockhouse strike you as the sort of hobbit who would violently threaten a woman?”
“No,” said I. “He is a man of action, not threats.”
“My sentiments exactly,” said Holmes. “Which leaves us with Lotho Bolger.”
“Then why don’t we simply arrest him?” I asked.
“We do not have enough evidence, Bingo. Mrs Chubb is plainly terrified out of her wits and will say no more. Belladonna cannot. All the evidence we have gathered is worthless without their testimony or that confounded account book!”
“Then we must find it.” I said.
“I fancy it will find us, Bingo.”
“I do not follow you, Holmes?”
“Think, Bingo!” said he. “We know that Mr Brockhouse stole the book and has not handed it in to the authorities. Why? The only possible reason can be that he does not trust them. Plainly Proudfoot or some of his constables have been bought off. Milo Brockhouse’s only hope of clearing his name is to produce the one piece of evidence that can exonerate him.”
“By Jove, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Then he has no choice but to reveal it to us!”
“Exactly.”
“What do you propose to do now?” I asked.
“Wait for Mr Milo Brockhouse to call on us,” said Holmes with a smile. “If I am not mistaken that is supper that I can smell wafting out of our kitchen window. I have a ravenous appetite for mushrooms and bacon accompanied by fried potatoes and white beer, Bingo!”
Ten minutes later we sat down to supper and Holmes was in the most cheerful and frivolous humour. “My dear Bingo, when I have rounded up those last few mushrooms and exterminated that fourth rasher I shall be ready to put you in touch with the whole situation. I don’t say that we have solved the mystery — far from it — but when we have located the missing camiknickers—”
“— Camiknickers!”
“Dear me, Bingo, it is possible that you have not penetrated to the fact that the mystery hangs upon Belladonna’s missing lingerie? Well, well, I had hoped that a hobbit of your amorous inclinations would have nosed the camiknickers as the most significant of all the clues so far presented to us. Consider a woman of taste and refinement without any camiknickers! Picture to yourself the discomfort, the draught, and the ever-present danger of an accidental leakage. Shocking, Bingo, shocking!”
He sat with a mushroom impaled on his fork and his eyes sparkling with mischief, revelling in my intellectual misery. Finally he pushed back his plate, emptied his glass and lit his pipe.
“We are confronted with lies and half-truths, Bingo. Lotho’s whole story is a tissue of lies from beginning to end. How do I know that he is lying? Because his story does not stand up to scrutiny. According to the account given to us, the family were playing ‘hunt the ring’ in high spirits when Lotho left them. Where is this ring? I found no trace of it when I searched the room. Lotho fabricated the story to support his claim that the family were in high spirits. The full port decanter and the poison in their glasses plainly showed that they were in very low spirits when they were drugged; a lie! Neither did they dine together, as I discovered when Mrs. Tipplebottle revealed that Belladonna would rather dine with the devil, than Odo and Drogo — another lie. Why had the fire been lit on a warm night? To destroy the fragments of the canister of marsh gas that Lotho had thrown upon it to render his victims unconscious. More lies, Bingo. The marks on Belladonna’s wrists and thighs prove that she was tied to the chaise longue for some considerable while, presumably to give the poison time to enter her bloodstream through the wounds the murderer inflicted on her thighs.”
“Why not simply pour it down her throat?” I asked
“Too quick, Bingo. The murderer needed time to make his preparations and wished to prolong her agony while he violated her one last time.”
“The beast!” I exclaimed, dropping the potato that was halfway to my mouth.
“The creature entered the room soon afterwards through the library windows. You may argue — but I have too much respect for your judgement, Bingo, to think that you will do so — that the windows are too small to admit the creature we encountered yesterday. The fact that they were both much burned and scraped shows that it did, or at least thrust its head or wings into the room, which would have been quite sufficient to drive Odo and Drogo out of their senses; of that I have no doubt. The cynoerotica was the poison that did for them as it nearly did for Belladonna. The fire was an additional touch of the murderer’s to maintain the fiction of the Balrog.”
“If this is so, how are we to explain that Lotho’s footprints led away from the burrow to the inn, where we know he spent the entire night with Mrs Chubb and her daughters?”
“I am convinced myself,” said he, “that there is an understanding between the murderer and this creature. If it was Lotho, he could easily have walked to the inn and there summoned the creature to carry him back to Sharkey’s End; where he completed his foul work. It could also have returned him to the inn afterwards. From what we saw it is large and strong enough to carry a hobbit with ease, and could complete the trip between Longbottom and Sharkey’s End in a few minutes.”
“And how do you propose to prove all this?” I asked, laying down my knife and fork.
“Well, if this creature can be captured that would help. Belladonna’s Will provides the motive. Assuming she recovers her memory her testimony would be invaluable as she can identify the murderer. Finally, if we can find this secret account book that would be the most effective of all proofs.”
“And the camiknickers?”
“If I am not mistaken,” said Holmes gleefully; “the man who can solve the mystery of their disappearance has just tied his horse to our gatepost!”

As he spoke there was firm knock on the door. Holmes rose from the table and settled into his armchair by the fireplace while I lit my pipe and made myself comfortable on the sofa.
“Mr Milo Brockhouse,” announced Belinda.
“Come in!” cried Holmes effusively. “There is beer upon the table and I believe that there may still be some bacon on the hob.”
Belinda shook her head apologetically.
“Ah, well, beer then, Mr Brockhouse?”
“Thank you, no, Mr Holmes,” said the explorer, taking the dining chair Holmes indicated. “I have already dined.”
“Mushrooms?”
“No.”
“Bacon, then?”
“No, soup.”
“Soup! Dear me, Mr Brockhouse, soup is hardly the fuel for a redoubtable warrior like yourself. It is evident that your domestic arrangements are in urgent need of a woman’s intervention!”
“It is largely about a woman that I have come.”
Belinda rose to go, but Holmes caught her wrist, and pushed her gently back into her chair.
“This is our housekeeper, Belinda Beaverburrow.”
“Does she indeed!” said our visitor, raising his eyebrows. “I fail to see what that has to do with the matter I have come to discuss?”
Belinda blushed furiously and I hastened to correct our distinguished visitor. “Beaverburrow is her name, sir. You may say anything before this lady that you would say to us,” I explained.
“I beg your pardon, madam. Please forgive me, I am under something of a strain at present.”
“I am aware of that,” said Holmes drily.
“My life is in danger and I have to take every precaution. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the leading inhabitants of this area.”
“I am also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself more comfortably down in his armchair and closing his eyes. Our visitor glanced with some surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had the reputation of possessing the finest mind and most energetic manner in Middle-Earth.
Holmes slowly re-opened his eyes and looked enquiringly at the explorer. “If you would be so kind as to explain how you came into possession of the facts of this matter,” he remarked softly, “I should be better able to advise you.”
“It is not for advice that I have come, Mr Holmes.”
“No?” murmured Holmes, “Then what have you come for?”
“To demand you release the body of Belladonna Bolger to me!”
“That is not in my power, Mr Brockhouse.”
“Then you leave me no alternative but to take it by force!” growled the explorer, rising from his chair with clenched fists.
“That will not be possible.”
Belinda whispered to me and I coughed noisily. Holmes ignored my interruption and shut his eyes again.
“You would do well, Mr Holmes, not to forget that I have hunted Orcs; I have no wish to do you an injury!” said Brockhouse, controlling himself with an effort.
“Nor have I any desire to do you an injury, Mr Brockhouse,” said Holmes quietly.
Brockhouse sat down abruptly with an oath, overawed for, perhaps the first time in his adventurous life. There was a calm assurance in Holmes’ face and manner, which could not be withstood. Brockhouse hesitated for a moment, his fists opening and closing in his agitation.
“What do you mean?” he asked at last. “If this is some game on your part, Mr Holmes, you have chosen the wrong man to play it with. I am a plain man and will thank you to speak plainly.”
“There is no body.”
Brockhouse sprang from his chair in a towering rage and waved his fists in the air.
“What! Do not tell me the fiend has given it to his master!”
“Belladonna is not dead,” said Holmes quietly.
Brockhouse sat down abruptly and passed his hand over his forehead.
“She lives? Do not play with me sir, or by God it will be the worse for you!”
“The facts are briefly these,” murmured Holmes, without opening his eyes. “Belladonna was poisoned on Sunday night by an unknown assailant. I administered an antidote and revived her. Doctor Lightfoot then spirited her away to his house in the town. When last I saw her she had recovered the power of speech and something of the memory of the assault upon her.”
Brockhouse leapt from his chair with an inarticulate cry and paced the room in uncontrollable agitation, his face contorted with the most violent emotion, the more striking in him as he was evidently a hobbit of strong character, with an immense capacity for self-restraint. Belinda burst into tears and rushed from the room. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the shock, I hastened to help him to his chair and poured out a glass of Holmes’ apple brandy. He seized it in his hands and drained it at one gulp.
“Good heavens, Mr Holmes!” he gasped while I refilled his glass.
“She lives! She truly lives?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must see her at once!” said Brockhouse, starting from his chair. Holmes languidly waved our visitor back to his chair and opened his eyes.
“That would not be wise whilst Lotho is still at large.”
“Lotho?” cried the explorer.
“Do you think I fear that miserable scoundrel?”
“No, but I think you fear the singular creature he is in league with. Until it is captured I am not prepared to put Miss Belladonna’s life in any further danger.”
Brockhouse turned pale and slumped back in his chair.
“Lotho is unaware that his sister is still alive?”
“For the moment,” said Holmes. “But the fact cannot be concealed from him indefinitely. He has repeatedly pressed the Doctor to proceed with the funeral arrangements. If you should be seen entering Doctor Lightfoot’s house, any advantage we have gained will be lost, and the lady’s life will be in the gravest danger.”
“What do you advise me to do?” asked Brockhouse.
“You might begin by explaining how you came into possession of the facts of this matter.”
“It is a long story, Mr Holmes which began many years ago.”
“I am aware of that,” said Holmes, closing his eyes once more. “The salient facts will do.”
“Lotho is the centre of a monstrous conspiracy.”
“I am also aware of that,” said Holmes with a faint smile. “He began by preying upon young women to pander to the prurient desires of dissolute young hobbits and sybaritic old lechers, but quickly moved on to more degenerate practices once he discovered how to manufacture Lovewort. You might call it an aphrodisiac, and that is no doubt how he described it to the satiated wretches he drew into his net. But unlike Elvish Fly and the other drugs long known to excite the baser passions, Lovewort at first suspends, and then utterly destroys, the moral judgement, leaving its victims in the grip of an ungovernable lust which they can only gratify through algolagnia. Eventually their depravity compels them to embrace practices so abhorrent, I cannot bring myself to recount them.”
Brockhouse groaned. “How the devil do you know all this?” asked he, rising from his chair.
“I have my methods,” said Holmes. “Also I followed you to the tower of Isengard after you called on us last Sunday, and visited the chambers where the gang and their acolytes keep the drug, and transact their vile business.”
“I saw no one!”
“That is what you may expect to see when I follow you.”
“But how did you get in?”
“With your key, Mr Brockhouse, or rather the copy I made of it.”
Brockhouse drained his glass and sat down with a gasp. “Upon my word, Mr Holmes,” said he. “Do all your successes depend on these prodigious sharp practices?”
“Not all,” laughed Holmes, opening his eyes and sitting up.
“Do you have any more surprises for me?” asked Brockhouse.
Holmes drew the letter Proudfoot had given him from his pocket and handed it to the explorer. “Only one,” he said.
Brockhouse muttered an oath as he read the letter and threw it to the ground with a shaking hand.
“It is a forgery!”
I picked it up and read the following:

My Dearest Milo,

I can still feel your lash upon my belly, and hear the screams your cruelty wrung from my lips. Lotho and Odo will be back at any moment so I must be brief. Oh, I long to escape this dreadful nightmare and return to their safe and loving arms.
My love, I cannot bear the shame and torment of my existence any longer, and have decided to accept Lotho’s offer to stay with him and my brothers at Sharkey’s End for the little time that is left to me. The terrible wounds your cruelty has inflicted upon me have done for my poor heart.
Odo says that if you try to see me again you will surely kill me. I know it is so, and beg you for the sake of the love we once held for one another not to risk my life any further.

Your own Belladonna.

“This is monstrous, Mr Brockhouse!” said I “If this is a forgery then I beg you to produce the proofs that will convince me you are not that woman’s murderer!”
“The proofs are under your very nose, Bingo,” said Holmes, clasping his hands behind his neck, and settling himself more deeply in his chair.
Brockhouse stared at Holmes with astonishment. “You believe me, sir?”
“Naturally,” said Holmes languidly, once more closing his eyes.
“I familiarised myself with Miss Bolger’s handwriting when I examined the private papers in her bedroom. I also took the liberty of getting her to sign her name when I visited her yesterday. As Bingo will tell you, I have made a study of handwriting, and concluded that this letter was a forgery the moment I set eyes upon it.”
“Then this letter does not match Belladonna’s handwriting?” I asked.
“On the contrary, Bingo,” said Holmes softly; “they match almost perfectly; as Mr Brockhouse will no doubt confirm.”
Brockhouse nodded his assent and continued to stare dumbfounded at Holmes.
“This is too much!” I exclaimed. “Explain yourself Mr Brockhouse!”
“I cannot,” said the explorer, clutching at the arms of his chair. “That letter condemns me as a murderer and had it remained in Proudfoot’s hands I would be a dead man. Yet I swear to you by all that is holy that it is a forgery.”
“Take my glass and hold it up to the light, Bingo,” said Holmes, opening his eyes.
I did so and saw nothing that I had not seen before. “It seems completely genuine to me, Holmes,” I said. “I can see no evidence that it has been tampered with in any way. It has a faint floral watermark at the bottom left that I take to be the maker’s mark, and Miss Bolger’s address is pre-printed in three lines at the top, in gold ink. It was evidently written on her own, personal stationery. I admit that the hand is a trifle laboured, and the lines uneven, but given the poor woman’s state of mind at the time she wrote it, that is hardly surprising, and is not, of itself, an indication that the letter is not her own work.”
“You are mistaken,” said Holmes. “It is a forgery.”
“How the devil do you deduce that?” asked Brockhouse.
“Tilt the letter on edge, Bingo, so as to shorten the lines.”
I did so and squinted at the letter.
“What do you see?”
“There appears to be some slight irregularity in the word-spacing, Holmes. Some words seem to have narrower or wider gaps between them than others.”
“Excellent!” ejaculated Holmes, leaning forward and rubbing his hands. “Which words, precisely?”
“The word your in the first line,” said I. “The first instance has a wide space after it, and the second a very narrow one. There is another, similar narrow space, after the word your in the second line. There is almost no space after the words; decided to accept Lotho’s, in the second line of the second paragraph. By Jove, Holmes, this letter was traced from an original, or a copy, and certain words altered to change the meaning!
“Splendid, Bingo! You have excelled yourself!”
Brockhouse mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “Had I not seen this performance with my own eyes, I would never have believed it was possible!” he exclaimed.
“It is the science of detection,” said Holmes lightly. “I imagine that you use similar methods when you track the spoor of your quarry, do you not?”
“Indeed, Mr Holmes,” replied the explorer, gazing at Holmes with unabashed awe, “But never one so fiendishly cunning as this!”
“Of that I have little doubt,” said Holmes.
“Do you know what the original letter said?” I asked.
“Do you not?” asked Holmes with a smile.
“I would hazard a guess that the first your was originally Lotho’s; it cannot have been Odo, or his, as that would leave too much space around the words.”
“Carry on,” said Holmes, “You are doing splendidly.”
“The second your must then have been his; the entire sentence might then have read:
I can still feel Lotho’s lash upon my belly, and hear the screams his cruelty wrung from my lips. The second sentence is probably unaltered as it makes sense in either case. Obviously she would not wish to return to their safe and loving arms, so the altered word is your; to return to your safe and loving arms. The word you in the final sentence must have been he, and not you — he will surely kill me. The very loose spacing around my would also suggest that my life, was originally written, your life. The complete letter might then have read:

I can still feel Lotho’s lash upon my belly, and hear the screams his cruelty wrung from my lips. Lotho and Odo will be back at any moment so I must be brief. Oh, I long to escape this dreadful nightmare and return to your safe and loving arms.
My love, I cannot bear the shame and torment of my existence any longer, and have decided to accept Lotho’s demand to stay with him and my brothers at Sharkey’s End for the little time that is left to me. The terrible wounds their cruelty has inflicted upon me have done for my poor heart.
Odo says that if you try to see me again he will surely kill me. I know it is so, and beg you for the sake of the love we once held for one another not to risk your life any further.

“Astonishing!” exclaimed Brockhouse.
“You made one mistake, Bingo,” said Holmes. Belladonna did not accept Lotho’s demand, but decided to resign myself to Lotho’s command to stay with him.”
“If you say so, Holmes,” said I, not without a tinge of irritation at his annoying habit of belittling the smallest of my triumphs by picking holes in my deductions.
“I do not suppose that you have the original, Mr Brockhouse?” I asked.
“No, I am afraid not,” said he sadly. “I destroyed all her letters years ago; the memories they held were too painful for me.”
“That alone would prove this to be a wicked forgery,” said I, “Not that Proudfoot would set much store by your admission. The man clearly had you marked as the murderer. One thing puzzles me, Holmes; why go to the laborious trouble of fabricating this forgery and then make the stupid mistake of not matching the word spacing to the original?”
“Would you have spotted the discrepancy if I had not pointed it out to you, Bingo?”
“No, I confess that you are right, as usual, Holmes,” said I glumly.
“Also,” added Holmes, “I fancy this letter was an afterthought of Lotho’s; written in some haste when he realised that we had not been taken in by his clumsy attempts to incriminate Mr Brockhouse.”
“Then Lotho is our quarry?” I asked.
“Or another.”
“What do you mean by that, Holmes?”
“Something that Mrs Chubb said, and has also been echoed by others; I tell you, Bingo, that we have never had a foe more worthy of our mettle.”
“What do you propose to do now?” asked Brockhouse.
“Bingo will return to the ‘Blue Tit’ to wait for Lotho.”
“Why should he come to the inn?” asked Brockhouse.
“Once he learns of my visit to Mrs Chubb he will undoubtedly conclude that she has betrayed him to us, and will make an attempt to silence her; then we will get to grips with him at last!”
“And what will you be doing, Holmes?” I asked.
“I should very much like to have a look at the book Mr Brockhouse took from the tower.”
Brockhouse gave a violent start and stared at Holmes in astonishment.
“I believe you are the very devil, sir!” he cried. “I am beginning to regret that I did not seek you out sooner.”
Holmes laughed. “My sentiments exactly,” said he. “I take it that the book is the reason why Lotho’s business is now all but ruined?”
Brockhouse smiled grimly. “As you know, I am a hunter, Mr Holmes. Once I had the names of the principle conspirators it was not difficult to persuade them to give up their evil work. Those that refused did not live long enough to warn the others.”
“You are a formidable hunter,” said I.
“I face a formidable foe,” said he.
“What can you tell us of that foe?” asked Holmes.
“That it is more deadly than you can possibly conceive,” said Brockhouse, with a pained expression. “Twice I have cornered it, and twice it has eluded me. On the last occasion I was hard put to it to escape with my life. It is altogether evil.” He shuddered and bent his head.
Holmes was silent for some time, and then rose from his chair and crossed to the window.
Presently he re-filled his pipe, and lit it. “Is it a Balrog?” he asked softly.
“I am convinced of it,” said Brockhouse.
“I feared as much,” said I.
“One more question, if I may,” said Holmes, stifling a yawn.
“What can you tell us about a pair of black silk camiknickers?”
Brockhouse sprang from his chair with a terrible sob that shook his great frame.
“What do you know of those?” he cried.
“That they were taken from Miss Bolger and hold the key to this entire mystery.”
Brockhouse sat for some time in thought with his face sunk in his hands. Then with a sudden, impulsive gesture, he plucked the mysterious undergarments from his coat pocket, and laid them reverently upon the table with a trembling hand.
“Lotho sent these to me on the night of the murder,” said he.
“For years I have loved her. For years she has loved me. There were two children — one Mr Bracegirdle met this morning, the other Lotho foully murdered in it’s infancy. That is the secret Belladonna kept from me for more than twenty years. Under the laws of our kind she could not marry without Lotho’s consent until she was eight and twenty. I went away. When I returned he had corrupted her.” His shoulders heaved with emotion and he clenched his hands. Then with an effort he mastered himself and spoke on:
“Mrs Tipplebottle knew of our love. She would tell you Bella was an angel upon earth. It was she who wrote to me to warn me that my beloved was in grave danger. But I returned too late; alas! Too late!”
Holmes studied languor evaporated, and he darted forward, his lens in his hand, his eyes alight with a sudden and eager excitement.
“Hullo! What’s this,” he cried as he pounced on the camiknickers. I leaned over his shoulder and recoiled in horror. The gusset of the garment was pierced with a neat row of holes, evidently made with a cigar, and spelled out the letter ‘B’.
“Good gracious!” I exclaimed.
“Look at this, Bingo!” said Holmes, carefully teasing out a visiting card that lay inside with the stem of his pipe. It bore the arms of the Bolgers — a barrel of Pipeweed between two rampant cocks surmounted by a golden ring. Beneath it, a florid hand had scrawled this note:
‘A small memento of my regard. The whore who wore these begged me not to soil them, so I was obliged to express my copious affection between her wide-spread thighs. You will be delighted to hear that the caress of your riding crop upon her writhing posterior caused her to shamelessly spend herself while she expired.
“The monstrous Fiend!” I cried.
“Remarkable!” ejaculated Holmes. “Did I not tell you that the garment bore a monogram? I hardly dared hope it would be after such a manner, or so deeply incriminating!”
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“Really, Bingo! How much plainer could it be? Lotho branded his sister with his mark and then sent this odious note to Mr Brockhouse to serve as a reminder of his total domination of her.”
“Mr Holmes is quite correct,” growled Brockhouse. The camiknickers were a present from me — handmade in Old Gondor from Elvish silk, and embroidered with a small flower in gold thread. No doubt it amused Lotho to vent his spleen upon them. They represented the one thing he could not befoul; Belladonna’s love for me. They arrived on Monday, and had my son Rollo not restrained me, I would have done for the blackguard that very night!”
“My word,” I exclaimed, “How that woman has suffered at the hands of that monster. He cannot be allowed to live, Holmes!”
“No doubt,” said Holmes grimly, “But he is not yet in our hands. I must away with Mr Brockhouse and you have an appointment at the inn. Be on your guard! Trust no one, especially Mrs Chubb’s lecherous daughters. They are steeped in vice and will stop at nothing to protect the vile gang they serve!”
With that warning, Holmes snatched up his hat and coat and bounded from the room with Brockhouse at his heels.

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