“Dumb-bell—there’s only one. Where’s the other?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Holmes. There may have been only one. I have not noticed them for months.”
“One dumb-bell” Holmes said seriously; but his remarks were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
A tall, sun-burned, capable-looking, clean-shaved man looked in at us. I had no diffculty in guessing that it was the Cecil Barker of whom I had heard. His masterful eyes traveled quickly with a questioning glance from face to face.
“Sorry to interrupt your consultation,” said he, “but you should hear the latest news.”
“An arrest?”
“No such luck. But they’ve found his bicycle. The fellow left his bicycle behind him. Come and have a look. It is within a hundred yards of the hall door.”
We found three or four grooms and idlers standing in the drive inspecting a bicycle which had been drawn out from a clump of evergreens in which it had been concealed. It was a well used Rudge-Whitworth, splashed as from a con-
