He stood smiling in frustration and amusement and irritation and admiration and love. She was so quick, and so lambent, like discernible fire, and so vindictive, and so rich in her dangerous flamy sensitiveness.

‘I’ve not said it at all,’ he replied, ‘if you will give me a chance to speak.’

‘No, no!’ she cried. ‘I won’t let you speak. You’ve said it, a satellite, you’re not going to wriggle out of it. You’ve said it.’

‘You’ll never believe now that I HAVEN’T said it,’ he answered. ‘I neither implied nor indicated nor mentioned a satellite, nor intended a satellite, never.’

‘YOU PREVARICATOR!’ she cried, in real indignation.

‘Tea is ready, sir,’ said the landlady from the doorway.

They both looked at her, very much as the cats had looked at them, a little while before.

‘Thank you, Mrs Daykin.’

An interrupted silence fell over the two of them, a moment of breach.

‘Come and have tea,’ he said.

‘Yes, I should love it,’ she replied, gathering herself together.

They sat facing each other across the tea table.

‘I did not say, nor imply, a satellite. I meant two single equal stars balanced in conjunction—’

‘You gave yourself away, you gave away your little game completely,’ she cried, beginning beginning at once to eat. He saw that she would take no further heed of his expostulation, so he began to pour the tea.

‘What GOOD things to eat!’ she cried.

‘Take your own sugar,’ he said.

He handed her her cup. He had everything so nice, such pretty cups and plates, painted with mauve–lustre and green, also shapely bowls and glass plates, and old spoons, on a woven cloth of pale grey and black and purple. It was very rich and fine. But Ursula could see Hermione’s influence.

‘Your things are so lovely!’ she said, almost angrily.

‘I like them. It gives me real pleasure to use things that are attractive in themselves—pleasant things. And Mrs Daykin is good. She thinks everything is wonderful, for my sake.’

‘Really,’ said Ursula, ‘landladies are better than wives, nowadays. They certainly CARE a great deal more. It is much more beautiful and complete here now, than if you were married.’

‘But think of the emptiness within,’ he laughed.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I am jealous that men have such perfect landladies and such beautiful lodgings. There is nothing left them to desire.’

‘In the house–keeping way, we’ll hope not. It is disgusting, people marrying for a home.’

‘Still,’ said Ursula, ‘a man has very little need for a woman now, has he?’

‘In outer things, maybe—except to share his bed and bear his children. But essentially, there is just the same need as there ever was. Only nobody takes the trouble to be essential.’

John Watson, M.D.

Our prisoner’s furious resistance did not apparently indicate any ferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself powerless, he smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his hopes that he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. “I guess you’re going to take me to the police-station,” he remarked to Sherlock Holmes “My cab’s at the door. If you‘ll loose my legs I’ll walk down to it. I’m not so light to lift as I used to be.”

Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances, as if they thought this proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner at his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound round his ankles. He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure himself that they were free once more. I remember that I thought to myself, as I eyed him, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man; and his dark, sunburned face bore an expression of determination and energy which was as formidable as his personal strength.

“If there’s a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you are the man for it,” he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at my fellow-lodger. “The way you kept on my trail was a caution.”

“You had better come with me,” said Holmes to the two detectives.

“I can drive you,” said Lestrade.

“Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor. You have taken an interest in the case, and may as well stick to us.”

I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made no attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been his, and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the horse, and brought us in a very short time to our destination. We were ushered into a small chamber, where a police inspector noted down our prisoner’s name and the names of the men with whose murder he had been charged. The official was a white-faced, unemotional man, who went through his duties in a dull, mechanical way. “The prisoner will be put before the magistrates in the course of the week,” he said; “in the meantime, Mr. Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you wish to say? I must warn you that your words will be taken down, and may be used against you.”

“I’ve got a good deal to say,” our prisoner said slowly. “I want to tell you gentlemen all about it.”

“Hadn’t you better reserve that for your trial?” asked the inspector.

“I may never be tried,” he answered. “You needn’t look startled. It isn’t suicide I am thinking of. Are you a doctor?” He turned his fierce dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.

“Yes, I am,” I answered.

“Then put your hand here,” he said, with a smile, motioning with his manacled wrists towards his chest.

I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing and commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest seemed to thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when some powerful engine was at work. In the silence of the room I could hear a dull humming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same source.