the skirting at the other side. I gave a cry, which brought
the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he saw it. The door
was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to it, and
knocked it in. The window of the room was open, and beside
the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his
nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some time,
for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over,
the Boots recognized him at once as being the same gentleman
who had engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson.
The cause of death was a deep stab in the left side, which
must have penetrated the heart. And now comes the strangest
part of the affair. What do you suppose was above the
murdered man?"

I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming
horror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered.

"The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.

"That was it," said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice;
and we were all silent for a while.

There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible
about the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a
fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady
enough on the field of battle tingled as I thought of it.

"The man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy, passing
on his way to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which
leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed