shirt bore the grime of a long journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from the well-shaped head. It was a sorely stricken man who lay before us.
“What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.
“Absolute exhaustion — possibly mere hunger and fatigue,” said I, with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life trickled thin and small.
“Return ticket from Mackleton, in the North of England,” said Holmes, drawing it from the watch-pocket. “It is not twelve o'clock yet. He has certainly been an early starter.”
The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of vacant, grey eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.
“Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes, I have been a little overwrought. Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a biscuit, I have no doubt that I should be better. I came personally, Mr. Holmes, in order to insure that you would return I feared that no telegram would convince you of the absolute urgency of the case.”
“When you are quite restored —”
“I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how I came to be so weak. I wish you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me by the next train.”
My friend shook his head.
“My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very busy at present. I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Documents, and the Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial. Only a very important issue could call me from London at present.”
“Important!” Our visitor threw up his hands. “Have
