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assurance, or by the depreciating allusion to the detective
police. The former had flushed up to the roots of his flaxen
hair, while the other's beady eyes glistened with curiosity
and resentment. Neither of them had time to speak, however,
before there was a tap at the door, and the spokesman of the
street Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced his insignificant and
unsavoury person.

"Please, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the
cab downstairs."

"Good boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you introduce
this pattern at Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair
of steel handcuffs from a drawer. "See how beautifully the
spring works. They fasten in an instant."

"The old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade,
"if we can only find the man to put them on."

"Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may
as well help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."

I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he
were about to set out on a journey, since he had not said
anything to me about it. There was a small portmanteau in
the room, and this he pulled out and began to strap. He was
busily engaged at it when the cabman entered the room.

"Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said,
kneeling over his task, and never turning his head.

The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air,
and put down his hands to assist. At that instant there was
a sharp click, the jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes
sprang to his feet again.

"Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce
you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and
of Joseph Stangerson."

The whole thing occurred in a moment -- so quickly that I had
no time to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that
instant, of Holmes' triumphant expression and the ring of his
voice, of the cabman's dazed, savage face, as he glared at
the glittering handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic
upon his wrists. For a second or two we might have been a
group of statues. Then, with an inarticulate roar of fury,
the prisoner wrenched himself free from Holmes's grasp, and
hurled himself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave
way before him; but before he got quite through, Gregson,
Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon him like so many staghounds.
He was dragged back into the room, and then commenced a
terrific conflict. So powerful and so fierce was he, that
the four of us were shaken off again and again. He appeared
to have the convulsive strength of a man in an epileptic fit.
His face and hands were terribly mangled by his passage
through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect in
diminishing his resistance. It was not until Lestrade
succeeded in getting his hand inside his neckcloth and
half-strangling him that we made him realize that his struggles
were of no avail; and even then we felt no security until we

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