across it. What the phrase meant, or who our secret visitor may
have been, we never knew. As far as we can judge, none of my
father's property had been actually stolen, though everything had
been turned out. My brother and I naturally associated this
peculiar incident with the fear which haunted my father during
his life; but it is still a complete mystery to us."

The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed
thoughtfully for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed,
listening to his extraordinary narrative. At the short account
of her father's death Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and
for a moment I feared that she was about to faint. She rallied
however, on drinking a glass of water which I quietly poured out
for her from a Venetian carafe upon the side-table. Sherlock
Holmes leaned back in his chair with an abstracted expression and
the lids drawn low over his glittering eyes. As I glanced at him
I could not but think how on that very day he had complained
bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here at least was a
problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost. Mr. Thaddeus
Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious pride
at the effect which his story had produced, and then continued
between the puffs of his overgrown pipe.

"My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may imagine, much
excited as to the treasure which my father had spoken of. For
weeks and for months we dug and delved in every part of the
garden, without discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to
think that the hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment
that he died. We could judge the splendor of the missing riches
by the chaplet which he had taken out. Over this chaplet my