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"

"My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks
very fit and well. It never went better in its life.
I owe you a thousand apologies for having doubted your
ability. You have done me a great service by
recovering my horse. You would do me a greater still
if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John
Straker."

"I have done so," said Holmes quietly.

The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. "You
have got him! Where is he, then?"

"He is here."

"Here! Where?"

"In my company at the present moment."

The Colonel flushed angrily. "I quite recognize that
I am under obligations to you, Mr. Holmes," said he,
"but I must regard what you have just said as either a
very bad joke or an insult."

Sherlock Holmes laughed. "I assure you that I have
not associated you with the crime, Colonel," said he.
"The real murderer is standing immediately behind
you." He stepped past and laid his hand upon the
glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

"The horse!" cried both the Colonel and myself.

"Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say
that it was done in self-defence, and that John
Straker was a man who was entirely unworthy of your
confidence. But there goes the bell, and as I stand
to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a
lengthy explanation until a more fitting time."




We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that
evening as we whirled back to London, and I fancy that
the journey was a short one to Colonel Ross as well as
to myself, as we listened to our companion's narrative
of the events which had occurred at the Dartmoor
training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means
by which he had unravelled them.

"I confess," said he, "that any theories which I had
formed from the newspaper reports were entirely
erroneous. And yet there were indications there, had
they not been overlaid by other details which
concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire
with the conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true
culprit, although, of course, I saw that the evidence
against him was by no means complete. It was while I
was in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer's
house, that the immense significance of the curried
mutton occurred to me. You may remember that I was
distrait, and remained sitting after you had all
alighted. I was marvelling in my own mind how I could
possibly have overlooked so obvious a clue."

"I confess," said the Colonel, "that even now I cannot
see how it helps us."

"It was the first link in my chain of reasoning.
Powdered opium is by no means tasteless. The flavor
is not disagreeable, but it is perceptible. Were it
mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would
undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more.
A curry was exactly the medium which would disguise
this taste. By no possible supposition could this
stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry to be
served in the trainer's family that night, and it is

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