The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim to claim; tools were
dropped, and the town swarmed toward the center of interest. A man
passing out at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat Riley,
whose claim was the next one to Flint Buckner's. At that time Fetlock
Jones seemed to turn sick. He muttered to himself:

"Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it!--that he should come just when..."
He dropped into a reverie, and presently said to himself: "But what's the
use of being afraid of him? Anybody that knows him the way I do knows he
can't detect a crime except where he plans it all out beforehand and
arranges the clues and hires some fellow to commit it according to
instructions.... Now there ain't going to be any clues this time--so,
what show has he got? None at all. No, sir; everything's ready. If I
was to risk putting it off--No, I won't run any risk like that. Flint
Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for sure." Then another trouble
presented itself. "Uncle Sherlock 'll be wanting to talk home matters
with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid of him? for I've got
to be at my cabin a minute or two about eight o'clock." This was an
awkward matter, and cost him much thought. But he found a way to beat
the difficulty. "We'll go for a walk, and I'll leave him in the road a
minute, so that he won't see what it is I do: the best way to throw a
detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along when you are
preparing the thing. Yes, that's the safest--I'll take him with me."


Meantime the road in front of the tavern was blocked with villagers
waiting and hoping for a glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room,
and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake Parker the blacksmith, and
Ham Sandwich had any luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great
scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-baggage lockup, which