"Yes, and was there all the time for an hour before it happened."

"It's so. And lucky for him, too. He'd have been suspected in a minute
if it hadn't been for that."




III

The tavern dining-room had been cleared of all its furniture save one
six-foot pine table and a chair. This table was against one end of the
room; the chair was on it; Sherlock Holmes, stately, imposing,
impressive, sat in the chair. The public stood. The room was full. The
tobacco-smoke was dense, the stillness profound.

The Extraordinary Man raised his hand to command additional silence; held
it in the air a few moments; then, in brief, crisp terms he put forward
question after question, and noted the answers with "Um-ums," nods of the
head, and so on. By this process he learned all about Flint Buckner,
his character, conduct, and habits, that the people were able to tell
him. It thus transpired that the Extraordinary Man's nephew was the only
person in the camp who had a killing-grudge against Flint Buckner.
Mr. Holmes smiled compassionately upon the witness, and asked, languidly:

"Do any of you gentlemen chance to know where the lad Fetlock Jones was
at the time of the explosion?"

A thunderous response followed: