Chapter XVII

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The Lord's in Queer Street

* Illustration by George du Maurier
It is I, Sarah, who must take pen to paper for my dear John is much too modest and insists that the whole affair was of no importance - mon Dieu, a gross understatement if ever I heard one!  He habitually underrates his own value as his friend, the great unsociable detective, will attest to, so it is up to I, Sarah, to set the record straight.

The whole affair started last Saturday, 20th April, 1901 when my dear John escorted me to the Annual Spring Ball at the Wentworth Club, one of the most exclusive establishments in this great city and the most sought-after invitation in town.  However, the annual ball was not the sole reason for our attendance on that particular evening.  It seems that his friend, the great unsociable one, had been contacted by the manager of the club who was in dire need of help.  The manager and the police had reason to believe that a series of robberies in the surrounding streets were connected in some way to the club and its wealthy patrons.  In the last six months there had been no less than eight robberies take place in the nearby streets and it appeared that these robberies all had one thing in common: Those who were waylaid and attacked for their valuables were for the most part journeying home from social soirées and such at the nearby Wentworth Club.  How curious!

John's associate insisted that this case was so obvious that he had already solved it and would not have had anything to do with it but for the fact that the director of the club was an old acquaintance of his for whom he had solved a minor matter some three years ago.  Besides, this case called for someone with style, glamour and, most of all, expensive jewellery.  In other words, a lady like myself who is soft, feminine, alluring - and vulnerable.

My sweet John greeted me most warmly on my arrival at his humble lodgings in Baker Street, taking both of my hands in his own warm ones and touching his lips to them before kissing my cheeks in French fashion and telling me what a heavenly vision I was and how divine was my scent.  He does so love the fragrance of lilac so I always wear it for him.

Ah, but he is such a gentleman - and so very handsome with his manly physique and his attractive moustache.

Alas, John's one and only shortcoming is his masculine failure to properly describe my evening attire, so I shall describe it in detail myself.  I was wearing a lovely hand-made gown of palest cream satin with mauve and green embroidery trimmed with lace and a matching evening cloak.  My accessories were shoes, purse and gloves of the same colours.  My jewellery consisted of an exquisite De Beers diamond and pearl necklace with matching earrings and bracelets.  My hair was swept up on top of my head and held in place by tiny diamond and pearl encrusted clips with curls framing my face.  In other words I appeared both attractive and very, very wealthy - an image I take much pleasure in cultivating!

As always, I rewarded my sweet John for his devotion by giving him a small kiss on the lips, but only a small one, for I knew that he would have more.  However, I can not trust myself in close proximity to him for he is a most desirable specimen of the masculine sex of whom I am far too fond and I can not afford to have my make-up and hair ruined at the start of the evening.  After ensuring that he was properly armed with revolver and cane we left Baker Street for the Wentworth Club.

The Wentworth Club is a very grand affair with its gigantic, curving staircase and enormous, glittering chandeliers.  The façade resembles an over-sized Venetian palazzo and the interior is made up almost entirely of imported Italian marble.  The ballroom itself is gigantic and could easily accommodate 250 people.

Our invitations, courtesy of the director of the club, ensured only the very best of tables which we were promptly ushered to.

As John procured drinks for us I observed the people at the nearby tables and noted many famous names, lords and ladies and knights of the realm.  To my surprise, who should be seated two tables away but the French ambassador, Monsieur Henri De Chardon, whom we had met previously at the Trelawney Hopes, and this time he was with his wife, a somewhat matronly looking woman of approximately eight and forty who likes to read and sew a good deal and who was wearing a diamond necklace not nearly as desirable - or as fashionable - as my own.  As for Madame's gown, it was a deep green affair of oriental silk which I could not help but notice would have been most attractive on a lady of more slender disposition.

Seated at the same table as the De Chardons were none other than the Italian ambassador, Monsieur Gianni Gandolfini, and his wife, Madame Carmelina Gandolfini, whom I had also met at the same soirée.  Like many Italian women Carmelina was a short, plump little woman of about the same age as her French counterpart.  She was wearing a quite ordinary pearl necklace with a rather plain black gown trimmed with a little lace on the bodice.  Her hair was pulled back into a large and most severe bun at the back of her neck and I could not help but think that it was a singularly unflattering style that highlighted her round, plump little face.

Madame Gandolfini noticed me almost immediately - she no doubt remembered me from the previously mentioned soirée.  Her husband was an effusive little man whose one vice was gambling and, as I recall, whose breath smelt of garlic.  At that moment the ambassador saw his wife looking my way and recognised me, smiling and waving to me.  As I pointed them out to John, the French ambassador came over to greet me most affectionately.  When I remarked in all modesty that I was surprised that he remembered me he insisted that I was quite unforgettable.  He made a great show of kissing my hand and made me promise to dance with him later whilst his wife, whom I had not previously had the pleasure of meeting, eyed me in a somewhat unfriendly manner which I must confess I am at a loss to understand.  After all, she has nothing to fear in my direction.

Not to be outdone, the Italian ambassador proceeded to wend his way over and do the same as his wife, who obviously remembered me from our previous encounter, gave me a frosty nod.

The orchestra members took up their instruments and shortly all were invited to take their places on the dance floor for the first dance of the evening.  My dear John, who is such a well-mannered gentleman and such an accomplished dancer - almost as good as myself - rose and came around the table to my side.

"My dearest Sarah, may I have the honour of having the first dance of the evening with you?" he inquired politely.

"With pleasure, mon cher!" I replied, smiling at him as I rose to take his arm.

As John and I took our places beneath the vaulted ceiling with its enormous and glittering chandeliers, I could not help but notice that many women were gazing on my attire - and especially my jewels - with envy.  Of course, this might have had something to do with the fact that many of the men seemed quite taken with me, and they had not yet even seen me dance!  My dear John often says that I am as graceful as a swan and that I should have been a ballerina.  How fortuitous that I did indeed study ballet.

"My dearest Sarah, you are simply breathtaking and the colour of your gown is eminently suited to your pale skin and the rose blush of your cheeks," he remarked.  "Truly, you are a dream come true!"

"Ah, merci, mon chéri!  I am pleased that you like my gown.  It is attractive, is it not?"

"My dear, you look positively divine!" he enthused.

Ah, but his words of praise were music to my ears.  "Ah, chéri, you flatter me!"

The orchestra began to play a waltz and I was in my element as my dearest John took my arms and we began to whirl around to the strains of Tales of the Vienna Woods.  He is really an excellent dancer and never treads on my toes.

As we continued to dance, although I was aware of all the other couples dancing near us and of the men who frequently eyed me, I had eyes only for my handsome partner.  I was also aware of the feel of my gown as the material of the skirt and underskirts swished against my legs, exposing my ankles in their pale silk stockings.  My jewellery glittered in the myriad lights from the chandeliers and I felt so exquisitely feminine.

Oh, but I love to dance, and I do so adore my darling John!  I decided that I should most definitely reward him later by allowing him kiss me, and as he does so he will touch and caress me with his warm and gentle hands in so tempting a manner that I...  Ah, but I must not think about that now!

After three dances we were both in need of refreshment and adjourned to our table.  I took my small fan from my bag and made vigorous use of it as we sipped our champagne.  My sweet John gazed into my eyes with such affection that I wanted to kiss him right then and there - but, of course that would hardly have been proper.

Six tables away a couple arrived whom I immediately recognised.  It was Lord Robert St Simon and his current paramour, the well known actress Flora Miller.  Mademoiselle Miller, who was wearing a somewhat haphazard red, fringed affair, did not look happy, I thought.  I hoped that he would not ask me to dance.  Although he was most handsome, I did not care for him in the least.

After I pointed out the new arrivals to John, he, too, recognised them.

"Bet St Simon asks you to dance!" he remarked.

"Bet you I shall not dance with him!  If he asks me to dance I shall tell him that I have promised the next dance to you, mon cher."  He smiled with pleasure.  "And do you intend to ask any attractive women to dance with you, mon beau chéri?"

John gazed at me most earnestly.  "My dearest Sarah, you know that I only ever dance with you.  You have spoiled me for anyone else.  No other woman has your willowy grace, my dear!"

His heartfelt words of praise humbled me.  "Oh, mon amour, you are too kind!  But you do not mind if I dance with others?"

He smiled and shook his head.  "Enjoy yourself, my dear.  Only promise to let me take you home."

"Always, mon amour," I replied in all sincerity as he gazed into my eyes.  "Always."

At that moment the French ambassador headed our way and I was shortly whisked off to the dance floor once more.  Monsieur De Chardon is so short that the top of his head only just comes up to my shoulder but he was so complimentary as he extolled my virtues, telling me what lovely eyes I had and what a wonderful dancer I was.  His flattery will gain him nothing, except perhaps a bed on the settee tonight if those looks his wife is giving us are anything to go by!  Of course, since I speak fluent French, our conversation was entirely in that most romantic of languages.

The next dance was a quadrille and as I changed partners I met many attractive men, albeit briefly, and many not-so-attractive, however all complimented me on my appearance.  Unfortunately, it was in this manner that I was once again to encounter Lord Robert St Simon.

"I don't know if you remember me, Lady Hawthorne, but we met at the Kensington mansion of the Worthingtons some two years ago.  The occasion was a formal dance."

"Why indeed I do, Lord St Simon," I replied as we stepped back and forth.

I could not help but notice that he greatly admired my diamonds.  Indeed I might say that my jewellery seemed to be all that he admired.  How unflattering!

"Call me Robert.  May I say how pleased I am to see you once more, Lady Hawthorne."

Such was not my intention, nor was I about to give this impudent man permission to address me in such intimate manner.  "And I you, Lord St Simon."  His eyes remained glued to my necklace.

"And may I say how very attractive you are, dear lady."

He really meant that my diamonds were attractive - the cad!  I smiled at him.  "You flatter me, Lord St Simon."

"I am having a small party at my London residence next Saturday," he proceeded to inform me.  "I would be honoured if you would consent to come, dear lady."

"And Mademoiselle Miller?" I inquired.

"Is, unfortunately, appearing in a play that weekend.  In any case, Miss Miller is merely a friend, nothing more," he assured me.

Huh!  His insincerity did him no credit.  Anyone with eyes to see would recognise this for the blatant untruth that it was as Mademoiselle Miller who, at that moment was also on the dance floor approximately twenty feel away from us, glanced our way and gave me a look that resembled daggers.  Speaking personally, she had my sympathy as I did not believe that Lord St Simon was worthy of such single-minded devotion.  In addition, I am of the firm belief that he has no intention whatsoever of marrying her.  He is definitely looking for a woman of considerable means.

"Alas I regret to say that my social calendar is fully booked for many months to come," I informed the mercenary Lord Robert St Simon with false lamentation.

Before he could say more I was whirled away by the next gentleman - and quite relieved to see the back of Lord Robert St Simon.  Mademoiselle Miller need have no concern, at least with regard to myself, for I am no threat to her, though almost any woman of means might fall under that category.

Later, I danced with the Italian ambassador whilst his scowling wife looked on in dismay.  This was followed by several other much more handsome gentlemen including Sir Bernard Fortescue and Sir Anthony Winthrop-Smythe, both of whom were almost as tall as myself.  Ah, but they were lavish in their praise of my skills on the dance floor, not to mention how lovely I looked and how graceful I was!  However, after I had danced with them I resolved to be faithful for the rest of the evening to my loyal John who had been waiting so patiently for me, watching me dance with a tiny, indulgent smile on his lips and admiration in his eyes.  I am so very fortunate that he is tolerant of my flirtatious ways and allows me my freedom.  He knows that I enjoy dancing with other handsome men and yet he still adores me.

After returning to my table I was sorely in need of refreshment and John and I chatted amiably as he inquired about all of my partners in the last hour.  Thereupon I adjourned to check that my hair was still in place and struck up a conversation with some lovely ladies.

It is quite amazing the information one can acquire in such tête-à-têtes.  Indeed it is most wise to keep one's ears open and in ten minutes I learnt more than I could have learnt from reading the agony column in The Times for the next six months.  For instance, Lady Cecilia Winthrop-Smythe, whom I had observed dancing with several handsome gentlemen, informed me in some detail of Sir Bernard Fortescue's - how shall I say - ‘shortcomings'?  Yes, I believe that would be an appropriate term.  So surprising, as he is a tall, handsome and well-built gentleman.  However, I was given the impression that his wife, Lady Caroline, is hardly deprived as she has more than one lover at her beck and call.  A fortunate lady indeed!

Lady Cecilia thereupon remarked that she had observed me dancing with Lord St Simon and inquired of my opinion of the man.  I informed her that I had found him somewhat mercenary and she told me how her husband was well acquainted with the stock exchange and had told her of St Simon's huge losses on experimental gold stocks in which he had invested heavily and that he also gambled a good deal.  The wise Lady Cecilia advised me to "hang on to my diamonds".  Sage advice indeed.  It seemed that the man truly was in queer street.  That being so, I would not put it past him to attempt to steal my diamonds - a most disturbing thought!

Lady Cecilia was a positive fountain of information and after talking with her for some fifteen minutes I learnt who had recently acquired a most virulent form of the pox - mon Dieu! - who was getting engaged, who was getting married and who was buying a new country estate, etc.  Most shocking of all, Lady Cecilia informed me that there were whispers abroad that the young and beautiful Lady Tara St Ives had secretly poisoned her husband - I had read of his recent demise in the papers - as he had refused to grant her a divorce.  How appalling!  Of course, this startling rumour had not been mentioned in the papers which had all carried stories of the poor, grief-stricken Lady Tara whose husband had died suddenly of heart failure.  I decided that perhaps this information might be of interest to the great unsociable detective.

As I made my way back to our table I observed my John waiting patiently for me to return.  Poor dear!  I decided that I should reward him richly later.

He rose to pull out my chair for me but instead I took both of his hands in mine and, smiling openly at him, murmured, "Dance with me, mon chéri?"

"Always, my darling!" he responded with enthusiasm, offering me his arm.

As I was once more escorted onto the dance floor and my dear one took my arms I found myself mesmerised by my handsome partner who, in turn, had eyes only for me.  I saw once again this man's many attractions - and my love for him knew no bounds.  Unfortunately, the hour was growing late and the time had come to test the great unsociable one's theory regarding the armed robberies nearby.

John was shortly a little taken aback as I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Mon amour, you know that I love to dance with you, and you are the most handsome partner that I have had all evening, but would you be so kind as to escort me home now?  I believe that it is time for us to leave."

He smiled at my request.  "My dearest Sarah, I would be honoured to escort you home."

"Merci, mon cher."

"Tired, my dear?" he inquired as we left the dance floor and made our way back to our table.

"Not of you, chéri," I murmured and observed the faint blush colour his cheeks.  Ah, but he gives himself away, my passionate one!

The evening was indeed late now and many people had already left the ballroom as we returned to our table to collect my evening bag.  I nudged John while gazing in the direction of St Simon and his companion who seemed now to be considerably the worse for drink.

"Pretend you are unarmed, mon cher," I whispered.  He nodded.

On our way out we had to pass by the table of Lord St Simon.  As we neared it I remarked, "Chéri, would you be so good as to dismiss Hugh.  It is a lovely night and there is a full moon.  I find that I desire a moonlight stroll."

We were now level with St Simon's table.

"My dear, that is hardly safe!" John declared in some alarm.  "Think of your jewels!"

Only six feet from St Simon's table I stopped and turned to John.  "But I have you to protect me, mon cher, and as for my jewels, I have plenty more where they came from."

"But, my dear, I am unarmed!" John protested.  "I had hardly planned on walking you home!"

"But you are strong, mon beau John, and I am confident that you will be able to protect me from any danger, real or imaginary.  Now dismiss Hugh s'il vous plait and we shall walk home in the moonlight."

John shook his head but none the less went to do my bidding.

Turning to St Simon's table, I observed that he and his companion had heard every word.  St Simon rose to his feet.

"My dear Lady Hawthorne, Doctor Watson is quite correct.  It is not safe for you - either of you - to walk the streets at this hour, especially unarmed."

"You men worry far too much.  I shall be quite safe with John.  Besides I only live just off Portman Square and it is not far."

"None the less, Lady Hawthorne, please allow me to escort you home in my carriage."

"Your generosity and words of caution do you much credit, Lord St Simon, however, my mind is made up and I shall walk home in the moonlight."

"Very well then, Lady Hawthorne.  I will bid you good-night."  I held out my hand for him to kiss.  "Until we meet again, dear lady."

I smiled at him.  "Until then, Lord St Simon."

Mademoiselle Miller also bade us good-night, however, I could not help but notice that her voice was slurred with drink and she did not look in the least happy.

As we stepped out into the chill of the night air I pulled my evening cloak a little closer as John did up his overcoat.  As surreptitiously as possible he removed his revolver from his pocket and took off the safety before replacing it once more.

The full moon was shining brightly from a clear sky as I took John's arm and we began to walk in the direction of Baker Street.  The attacks had all taken place within a three-block radius of the club, the victims being bailed up in their carriages so we were both alert for any small movement in the quiet streets around us.  From the point of view of any would-be robber I suppose you could say that we were making it absurdly simple for them to attack us.  However, the criminal element would not find us as easy a target as they might expect, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding.

The moonlight bathed everything in its silvery glow, lending an almost ethereal quality to the commonplace sights around us.  The occasional vehicle passed, the sound of the horses hooves resounding eerily in the quiet and the street lamps made yellow circles of light on the pavements as we passed beneath them.

In the distance I could see two men walking toward us.  As they grew closer it was obvious to me that they had no intention of robbing us.  However, I felt John tense.

"It is all right, mon cher.  They are iron mongers.  They do not wish to harm us."

John relaxed, though only for a moment.  This case might be lightweight to the great unsociable one but it had the possibility of being hazardous to one's health.  Also, for reasons of propriety we could not involve the police and therefore were quite on our own in this matter.

"Ah, mon cher, c'est romantique!  Is it not beautiful?" I sighed as we strolled along arm in arm.

"Exceedingly, my dear - and exceedingly dangerous!" he added sotto voce.  "We are such an easy target that we are bound to be held up by someone.  How will we even know if it's the right someone?"

"Do not fear, mon cher, we have laid the groundwork.  I am confident that we shall be waylaid by the right people."

"I wish I had your confidence, my dear."

Through our linked arms I could feel the tension in John's body.  We had walked two blocks now and were in South Audley Street.  We both glanced around us as we crossed Grosvenor Square and headed up North Audley Street toward the broad and open thoroughfare of Oxford Street.  We both knew that if anything were to happen, it would surely have to be here.  This part of the street was quite narrow and lay in the shadow of the moon.  Up ahead I could see a particularly dark patch of ground where no street lamp or moonlight shone and I could also see a small lane leading off to the left.
With senses alert for the smallest sound or movement we crossed over the lane and continued our way toward Oxford Street which we could now see about three hundred yards ahead of us.

It was just a soft sound, yet both of us heard it at once; a sound as of something striking the pavement a short distance behind us.  Without pausing in stride John transferred his cane to his left hand and casually put his right hand in his pocket where his revolver was.

At that moment my heart skipped a beat as I heard the sounds of soft footfalls behind us.  As one we whirled around.  Not ten feet away were three ruffians brandishing clubs and revolvers.

"Mon Dieu!" I exclaimed, standing closer to John who had put a protective arm around me.  "They mean to rob us, chéri!"

"Don't worry, my dear.  I doubt if they will harm us."

"I pray that you are right, mon cher," I whispered.

The heavy-set man in front spoke.  "That's right, mister.  All we want are your valuables.  We don't want no killing, see?  So just hand over your money and your lady love's jewellery and we won't give you no trouble, see?"

Faced with such callous effrontery I could not stay silent.

"Monsieurs, you have no right to hold us up!  You will please go on your way as we will on ours."

"You have to be kidding, lady!" a smaller, rat-faced little man scoffed.

"I assure you, Monsieur, I never kid.  Why should John hand over his hard-earned francs to the likes of you?  And why should I hand over my valuable jewellery to a bunch of ruffians?  Such a thing would not happen in Paris!"

"This isn't Paris, lady, this is London and this happens all the time," remarked the rat-faced one.

"C'est infamie!  Why a person is not safe on the streets at night!"

"Ooh la la, get her!" the bearded one sneered.  "Aw, worked hard for them jewels, did you, dearie?"

"Yeah, she worked hard, didn't you, dearie?  On your back!" mocked the rat-faced one.

"How dare you besmirch the name of this kind and gentle lady of impeccable reputation!" declared my outraged John.

"It is all right, mon cher," I soothed.  "C'est scélérat!"

"Aw, shut your cake-hole, lady!  Say, she sure is tall!  What an armful!  I sure would like to see what's under that expensive gown!  Come on, dearie, give us a look!"

He took a step toward me, making lip-smacking noises but before he could advance further the heavy-set man bellowed, "Enough!" and pointed his gun straight at John's heart.  I decided that now was a good time for a distraction.

"Oh, mon cher, I think I am going to faint!" I moaned so that John was obliged to catch me as I pretended to fall.  However, instead of catching me he rolled to the ground, enfolding me in his arms as he did so that I should not fall to the dirty street and ruin my lovely gown.  Simultaneously, he fired straight at the heavy-set man who promptly collapsed to the pavement, moaned softly once then was silent.

As I supposedly fainted I was able to lift my skirts and remove my small pistol from its hiding place.  Both of us stood straight once more, John now aiming his revolver at the rat-faced little man and I my pistol at his bearded companion, both of whom were staring, stupefied, at the body of their leader which now lay quite still and from which no further sound emerged.

"Drop your weapons!" John ordered.

"I would advise you to do as he says, Monsieurs.  He is a crack shot as you can see," I remarked, not that they particularly needed reminding; their leader was now lying dead on the street, a dark stain of blood spreading on his chest.

Reluctantly, both men lay down their guns and clubs.

"Now back away."  They stepped back some three paces.  "My dear, would you be so good as to remove their weapons?" John requested.

"Gladly, mon cher!" I watched the two villains like a hawk as I picked up their weapons.  "You two should be ashamed of yourselves! No self-respecting Frenchman would countenance such behaviour!"

"Aw, shut it, lady!" the bearded one whined half-heartedly.

I returned to John's side.

"Keep your pistol on them, my dear, while I check their leader."

Whilst John felt for a pulse, I observed them keenly.  He shook his head as he stood up once more.

My poor John!  He is a doctor and a man of deep feelings.  He abhors the taking of life - any life - even one such as this.  It was not his fault that the unfortunate man was now dead for he had had no chance to take proper aim before he fired in order to save our lives.  I vowed silently to try and make it up to him later.

"My dear, I think it high time that we disposed of these vermin, don't you?  Back up against that wall!" John demanded.

For the first time they displayed fear on their faces as I saw them exchange glances.

I aimed my pistol at them.  "Against that wall, Monsieurs!" I ordered.

"All right, lady, all right!  Take it easy!" the bearded one muttered as they complied, backing up against the side wall of a house which, judging from its derelict appearance, seemed to be uninhabited.

"Gentlemen, before I put an end to your miserable lives you will tell me how came you to be on this street at this time," John demanded with considerable menace.

"Well, it...  it was Dave's idea," the rat-faced one ventured.

"Dave?"

"You killed him."

"So I did.  Go on," John ordered.  "Tell me how Dave came to have this idea."

"He...  he got a message, you see," the bearded one confessed.

Now we were getting somewhere, I thought.

"Who from?"

The two men looked at each other.  "We don't know his name."

"Come, come now, you can do better than that."

"Dave had dealings with him.  That's all we know," the rat-faced one pleaded.

"‘Dealings'?"

"We don't know, mister.  Dave never told us.  All we know is that now and then Dave would get a message, see?"

"Who from?" John demanded.

"He's telling the truth, mister," the rat-faced one chimed in.

"Dave would get a message from Jim," the bearded one continued.  "Jim Farrow.  He's a cousin of Dave's."

"Ah, I see.  And what does this Jim Farrow do for a living?" John inquired.

"He's a waiter at the Wentworth Club."

John and I glanced at each other, both of us realising the implications of the man's words.  There had been no waiters nearby when I had announced my intention to walk home.  The only people who had overheard the conversation had been Lord St Simon and Mademoiselle Miller.  Therefore, to all intents and purposes, the great unsociable one's theory had proven to be correct.  Not only that but his stratagem had been superb for we had now caught the criminals and knew now with certainty who was really behind this string of robberies.

"Ah, I see.  And it was through this Jim Farrow that you learnt of our intention to walk home in this direction tonight?"

"Yes!  Yes, that's the truth!" the rat-faced one asserted in most vehement manner, his bearded companion promptly agreeing with him.

"But, mon cher, how did this Jim Farrow know of our intentions to walk home tonight?"

"A very good question, my dear.  Gentlemen, I am waiting for an answer."

"Honest, mister, we don't know his name."

"Who's name?" John demanded.

"The gentleman what Jim gets orders from."

"Then what do you know about him?"

"Dave said all Jim ever told him was the geezer was a gentleman who was in debt.  He used to laugh and say that the lord was in queer street because of his gambling."

"Is that all?"

"Yeah, mister, honest!" they chorused.

"Well, my dear, what would you have me do with them?" John inquired casually.  "Of course, we could hand them over to the police..."

"Oh, ces't pitoyable!" I exclaimed in somewhat scathing manner.  "They are not worth the trouble!"

"I quite agree, my dear.  Shall we let them go?"

"Oui, let them go, mon cher.  Their kind are to be condemned, but we shall be merciful."  I addressed the two villains.  "Before we let you go, you will give us your solemn oath by swearing on the bible that you will never again engage in such nefarious acts."

I took a small book from my bag.

The two men apparently had a spark of honour in them for they shuffled their feet and appeared most awkward, even embarrassed by my demand.

"We are waiting..." John muttered with some impatience.

The two men placed their hands on the book, one on top of the other.

"Uh, we promise, lady," the rat-faced one conceded, looking at his companion.

"Yeah, me too," the bearded one agreed, glancing in turn at the rat- faced one.

"That you will never again attack people and rob them?" John insisted.

"We promise!" they chorused.

Satisfied, I put away my book.  As we bade them good-night one of them turned to gaze at the body of their dead companion lying on the pavement.

"What about Dave?" the bearded one asked.

"Was he a friend of yours?" John inquired.

"Yeah, Dave was a good mate," the rat-faced one replied.

"Then I suggest that you start making funeral arrangements.  You can't very well leave him there."

With much bowing and murmurings of gratitude, they sidled away from us, and we observed them as they rather awkwardly picked up the body of their dead friend and trundled up the side lane with it, disappearing shortly into the prevailing darkness.  No doubt they considered themselves extremely lucky to have escaped with not only their persons intact but without even a prison sentence, which they would surely have received had we had them arrested.

"It is time that we, too, departed, my dear," John murmured, offering me his arm.

"C'est ça, chéri.  Let us go!"

"Incidentally, my dear, I was unaware that you were in the habit of carrying a bible around in your bag," John remarked as we strode swiftly up North Audley Street to Oxford Street where my carriage awaited as per my prior instructions to Hugh.

"I don't, chéri!"

"But then what did they swear on?"

"Oscar Wilde!"

Our laughter echoed in the silence around us before abruptly growing silent as we remembered that it was only a few short months ago that we had read of the eminent writer's death in France and had been greatly saddened by the news.

On our way back to Baker Street we stopped at a Telegraph Office so that John could send a message to the club manager to have the waiter, Jim Farrow, detained until morning.

When we reached 221B, as always I allowed my dear John to persuade me to enter his humble lodgings - it is a weakness, I admit - although we had to be sure that the street was clear before I stepped swiftly from the carriage.  After all, it would not do for a lady of my standing to be seen entering gentlemen's quarters at so late an hour.

As we entered the sitting room I saw that his dear concierge, Mrs. Hudson, had left two low-burning lamps on for us.

As John removed his revolver from his pocket I could not help but remark, "Why, Doctor, I see that you keep your weapon at the ready!"

He chuckled as he hung up his coat and proceeded to place his revolver on his writing desk before returning to my side to remove my cloak and drape it over the back of the settee.

In a somewhat husky voice he murmured, "My dear, my weapon is always at the ready!"

As I have frequently noted, John's proximity seems to have a quite remarkable effect on me; for some reason I breathe faster and my heart begins to pound when he is near.

"And is your weapon always loaded?" I inquired whilst allowing my gaze to roam from head to toe and back again, lingering on his lovely eyes, which seemed now to contain a wicked glint.

My dear John leaned even closer and murmured, "My dear, I always keep my weapon fully loaded!"

"Then you are a dangerous man to be around!" I remarked, smiling at him once more.

"Not where you are concerned, my sweet Sarah," he assured, taking my gloved hands with their glittering diamond rings in his own and stroking the backs of them.

"My dear, did you know that a weapon must be regularly maintained?" he continued.

"Indeed?" I queried, gazing deeply into his eyes.  "You intrigue me, chéri!  Pray tell me about this ‘maintaining'?"

"With pleasure, dearest Sarah.  For instance, for a weapon to work at its most efficient and its aim to be straight and true it must be...  oiled."  He glanced at my gloves.  "May I, my dear?"

Silently, I gave my permission and he proceeded to gently remove my gloves, placing them on the dining table before once more taking my hands in his own warm ones and bringing them to his lips to kiss.

The touch of his lips to the bare skin of my hands caused my heart to flutter madly as though it would jump right out of my breast.

"‘Oiled'?" I inquired, somewhat breathlessly I fear.  Surprisingly, the room seemed far too hot.

"Oh, yes!" he replied with a knowing smile.  "Before a weapon can be fired, it must be thoroughly oiled so that it's aim will be true."

He was deliberately - and delightfully - caressing my hands.  "Have I told you that I love your hands, my dearest Sarah?  So smooth- skinned, so sensitive."

"Merci, mon cher.  Your hands, too, are wonderful.  The gentle hands of a healer," I sighed.

Thus encouraged, my darling John proceeded to kiss my palms and each one of my fingers before moving up to the inside of my wrists.  He knows that I love to be treated with kindness, with gentleness, to be treated in every way as a refined lady of delicate breeding.

"And is this ‘oiling' a difficult thing to do, chéri?" I continued.  My face felt flushed.

"No indeed, although it does require a gentle hand and a most delicate touch.  Do you wish a demonstration, my sweet darling?"

His lips moved higher and, with his arms around my waist supporting me, I leaned back, shamelessly enjoying the feel of warm kisses on my neck.

Ah, how wicked!  How delightful!  It is as though I have no will of my own when I am in his masculine embrace.

"Oh, yes, mon amour!" I answered with a sigh.  "Pray show me how this ‘oiling' is done."

"It is a simple technique, my dear, requiring only gentle strokes of the fingers."

"The fingers, mon cher?" I queried, thoroughly revelling in the touch of his ardent lips and slightly ticklish moustache on my neck.  I have long realised that I can never seem to get enough of it.

"Oh, yes, my sweet angel!  Only the fingers must be used to lightly, so lightly, stroke the oil onto the surface of the weapon."

His lips were now covering my cheeks in lovely, warm kisses.  I could barely breathe and the room felt stifling.  My breast was heaving as I ran my fingers through the thick softness of his hair.

"Only the fingers, mon petit ami?" I sighed in somewhat breathless manner.

"Only the fingers, my dear and lovely darling."  His lips were on my cheekbone and temple.  "Close your eyes, sweet angel."

As I did his bidding he proceeded to cover my eyelids with the softest, most delicate of kisses, almost causing me to swoon with rapture in his muscular arms.

"‘She was a woman who was meant to be kissed on the eyes'," he quoted.

"Ah, mon amour, ces't romantique!  You are fond of Tennyson, no?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, my sweet Sarah!"

"But you were saying about how only the fingers must be used, chéri?" I managed to inquire as he kissed my temples and ran his lips over my brow.  Mm, how he does spoil me!

"Oh, the method is a simple one, my dear.  It merely requires a delicate up and down motion of the fingers."

My blood heated to boiling.  "Up and down, mon petit chouchou?"

"Oh, yes, my dearest, up and down."  His tender lips found my ear and deposited tiny kisses on it.  "Very gently...  up and down...  and, of course, around..."

I felt as though I could barely breathe.  "Around, mon cher?"

"Around the shaft, my sweet Sarah."

"‘The shaft'?"

"Yes, my dear.  The thick...  and heavy...  shaft of the weapon."

"‘Thick'?" I barely managed as his lips found my other ear.

"Oh, yes, sweet darling, for this weapon is unique in that the shaft swells and thickens considerably when it is fully armed and ready to fire."

"Oh, chéri, you excite me so!  Tell me, what would this weapon...  the shaft of this weapon...  feel like to touch?  Would it be cold like steel?"

"Oh, no, my dear!  It would be warm.  Warm like human flesh."  He touched his lips to my own.  "So very...  very...  warm..." he kissed me again, "...and heavy..." again, "...and, after it has been thoroughly oiled it will look quite shiny and feel so very slippery."

As we kissed I held him firmly against me, feeling his ‘weapon' intruding between us through the layers of our clothing whilst his sweet tongue pushed gently into my mouth, lingering there to frolic in slippery delight with my own.

"And if I were to oil this ‘weapon' of yours most delicately in an up and down motion, would that be pleasing to you, mon amour?" I inquired when our lips finally parted, opening my eyes to gaze into his own shining ones.

"Oh, yes, sweet darling Sarah, very much!" he enthused.

"It would be pleasurable for you, chéri?"

"God, yes!" he exclaimed in most fervent manner, his excitement at fever pitch.  "I mean most pleasurable," he managed in a somewhat more controlled fashion.  "Oh, Sarah, my sweet, my darling!"

"Oh, show me, chéri!" I exclaimed in most reckless fashion.  "Show me this wonderful weapon of yours that I might oil the shaft most gently with my fingers in an up and down motion."

His smiling eyes gazed most fondly upon me.  "And around?" he inquired, though I can not say with innocence.

"And around!" I promised, more than a match for his wicked intent.

His mouth fell on my shoulder, gentle lips travelling over my collar bone and moving lower.  "Oh, yes, my sweet lady!  Yes, I will show you, my dearest!  The armoury as well," he added.

"The ‘armoury', mon cher?  You have not mentioned that before.  You have me intrigued!  What is this ‘armoury' you speak of?"

His lips moved lower on my breast to the neckline of my gown.  "The ‘armoury', my dearest love, is where the ‘ammunition' is stored."

My body felt as though it were on fire from head to toe, and especially in that one place where I ached to be touched.

"And just where is this ‘armoury', mon amour?  Pray tell me how might I find it?" I implored.
 

"Oh, it is easy to find, my love!" his voice was a husky whisper.  "It is located at the base of the shaft of the weapon."

"And does it, too, require a tender touch, mon cher amour?"  I reached to undo his cravat and removed it completely.

"Oh, yes, my exquisite darling, a most tender and delicate touch! Too firm a touch might cause the weapon to...  misfire."

"‘Misfire'?" I queried.  I removed his suit-coat, letting it slide from his broad shoulders and deposited it on a chair.

"To discharge in a most premature and precipitate manner," he explained.

"I understand, mon cher.  And is there much ‘ammunition' stored in this ‘armoury'?"  I began to unbutton his shirt as he removed his cufflinks.  He now stood before me bare-chested and most handsome.

"Oh, indeed, my darling!  In fact, I might go as far as to say that at present it is full to bursting, the amount of ‘ammunition' more than sufficient for several detonations!"

On that intriguing note John decided that we required substantially more privacy than that afforded by the sitting room and so we adjourned upstairs in order that he could properly demonstrate to me the unique attributes of this remarkable ‘weapon' of his and, of course, its accompanying ‘armoury'.

As he lit a lamp I observed closely his strong masculinity.  When he turned toward me once more I could not help but notice the exceptional proportions of his ‘weapon'.  Briefly, I thought of poor Lady Caroline Fortescue and her ‘small difficulty' with regard to Sir Bernard.  Thankfully, that was one problem that I would never have!

John, who was watching my reactions as I gazed pointedly at it, gave a knowing smile as he returned to my side.  "As you can see, my angel, it is ready and waiting for your inspection."

"Oh, yes, let me see it!" I demanded.

"Your wish is my command, my darling."  He moved over to the bed and proceeded to remove the rest of his clothing until he was totally naked.  As he folded his trousers I could not help but notice that he had a most attractive derrière before he turned once more to face me.

How bold he was! I thought, admiring his masculine physique with his manly chest, slim hips and long legs, and at long last, there...  Yes, there, jutting proudly from a nest of fair curls was the remarkable weapon that he had spoken of!

"Ah, très beau!" I exclaimed in wonder.  "Ces't magnifique!  Oh, chéri, your weapon is truly remarkable!"

He bowed in my direction.  "Why thank you, dear and lovely lady.  I am honoured that it pleases you.  You may touch it if you wish."

"Oh, may I, mon cher?  I promise you I shall be most gentle."

"Be my guest, sweet darling!" he offered generously.

"Then lie back, chéri, that I may see you properly."

He reclined on the bed leaving room for me to sit beside him.  As I reached out to touch this singular object I was so excited that I was literally gasping for breath, and when I took this wonderful ‘weapon' in my hand I could see the pleasure reflected in the expression of bliss on my dear one's face.

My John was right, it was warm to touch and I let my hand encircle the shaft, testing its broad girth and lifting its heavy weight in most tender fashion.

"Truly, my John, you are a sight for sore eyes!" I complimented, observing his shy smile and a faint blush colour his cheeks.  "Now where is this ‘armoury' you spoke of?"  At that moment I spotted it.  "Ah, there!  That is the ‘armoury', no?"  He nodded.  "But, chéri, it is most appealing!  May I touch it also, mon amour?"

"It would be my pleasure, my lovely lady!"

Compared to the hardness of the shaft his ‘armoury' was so very soft and I touched it most delicately, feeling the ‘ammunition' stored within.  Yes, it truly was full-to-bursting, I decided.  How marvellous - and how gratifying!  As I once more returned to feeling the superb shaft of his weapon I noticed that it seemed to have an outer covering and said as much.

"For protection, my dear.  You may push it back from the tip if you wish."

It was truly amazing to peel this outer covering away from the tip and completely expose that which lay within for the tip was a much deeper shade of pink than was the shaft.  It was also quite wet with its own moisture, and I found myself yearning to touch that slippery wetness.

"Oh, chéri, ces't merveilleux!  May I touch?" I begged.

"Of course, sweet Sarah."

As I reached out with two fingers I could only admire this wondrous object.  So soft was the tip that it was almost spongy to the touch, and the moisture was so very silky that I wanted to rub my fingers in it and, as my dear John did not seem to find my touch objectionable in the least - quite the contrary if his gasps and sighs of pleasure were anything to go by - I proceeded to stroke him there most tenderly with my fingers, the lovely and delicate tip with its tiny opening now glistening in the lamplight.

"Oh, my sweet!"  His less-than-steady voice and erratic breathing loudly proclaiming a state of exceeding stimulation.  "Now that you have successfully oiled the tip, my love, would you care to oil the rest of the shaft as well?" he barely managed to gasp.

"But of course, chéri!  Now where is the oil?" I inquired.

He reached over to the bedside table and unscrewed the lid from a floral-patterned pot before offering it to me.  As I took some on my fingers I noticed that it was quite thick and lightly perfumed with rose petals - a lovely scent.

How can I describe the singularly unique feel of ‘oiling his weapon'?  The incredible warmth of the shaft in my hand as I gently stroked the perfumed oil up and down - and, of course, around - was incredibly satisfying as I saw my dear one's eyes close in pleasure and small gasps of delight issue from his lovely pink lips.  Oh, how wondrous a sight he truly was!

My fingers glided over the slippery surface of his lovely ‘weapon' as I took my time, appreciating this ‘oiling' procedure.  I must confess that I lingered for some little time, feeling it throb gently in my hands, and so wanting its ‘aim' to be straight and true.  How warm and alive it felt!  Finally, tall and proud, it glistened in the lamplight as my dear John sat up to kiss me in gratitude for my endeavours, assuring me of my expertise in ‘oiling'.

My dear one took a soft flannel and gently wiped the oil from my fingers, although I must confess that I hardly noticed what he did for I felt as though I were burning up and yet at the same time I felt faint.

"Oh, mon amour, I need air!  Would you be so kind as to loosen my stays!" I implored, turning my back to him so that he might do my bidding.  As he unhooked my satin gown and opened each stay-lace I experienced much relief that I could now breathe easier.

"Better, my dear?" he inquired solicitously.

"Oh, much better, chéri!" I replied with heartfelt gratitude.

He piled the pillows up against the bed-head and leaned back against them.  "Come to me, my darling Sarah," he whispered, holding out his arms and gazing deeply into my eyes.  As I moved closer, he pulled me down for the loveliest kisses, our lips meeting again and again, his sweet and tender tongue entering my mouth to dance an intimate minuet with my own.

Oh, but this warm and slippery visitor was so very welcome and I endeavoured to impart my enthusiasm for its visit by stroking it in delight.  So eager was I for more that when it withdrew I followed it with my own, and then it was my dear one's turn to welcome me into his wet and wonderful warmth, to caress me until I was light-headed with pleasure and gasping for breath.

"Sweet Sarah, your mouth tastes of nectar!" he gasped.

"And you are sweet spice, mon cher amour!"

"My sweet angel, have I mentioned that there is one more thing about this weapon that is unique?"

"Pray tell me what that can be, mon amour," I implored with much enthusiasm.

"In order to be fired it should first be...  sheathed," he murmured, his voice deep and raspy.

"But, mon chéri, surely a weapon should be ‘sheathed' after it has been fired, not before," I protested.

"You are thinking of a revolver, my dear.  My weapon is not a revolver."

"Then pray tell me what can it be, chéri?"

His devilish smile spoke volumes.  "Why an instrument of pleasure, my dearest Sarah!"

"An instrument of pleasure?  Ah, that is unique, mon beau John!  If only all weapons were instruments of pleasure!"

"Oh, indeed."

"And do you have a ‘sheath' for your ‘weapon', mon cher?"

"Alas no," he sighed with regret.

"You have no sheath for it?"  He shook his head.  "How sad for you, mon amour," I sympathised.  "Pray tell me what is required of such a ‘sheath'."

"Well, of course, it has to be just the right size; too small and the weapon will not fit; too large and the weapon will simply slide out."  He nuzzled my ear, a most pleasing sensation.  "So it has to be of the right proportions - and, of course, the right temperature," he added.

"And what might that be, mon chéri?"

"Ninety-eight point four, my dear, so it has to be quite warm."  He leaned closer and kissed me once more.  "And, of course, it has to be willing to have a weapon enter it."  His tongue slipped easily into my mouth.  "It therefore must not only be tight...  but most warm and affectionate..." he murmured in his enticing way between the sweetest, most passionate of kisses.

"Oh, chéri, I understand for I possess such a sheath!" I declared in heated excitement.

"You do?" he gasped.

"Oh, yes, chéri, and it is all of those things; it is very warm, it is tight and..." I whispered in his ear, "...I can assure you that it is truly most affectionate!"

His enthusiasm at my generous offer was plain to see.  "Oh, my sweet darling Sarah!" he gasped.

"And it is one more thing, chéri..." I murmured softly, my lips touching the lobe of his ear.

"Yes, my sweet?"

"It is empty."

"Truly, my dearest?"

"Truly, mon amour, for it has no weapon to fill it.  Of course, it must be a weapon of just the right size, shape and temperature; a weapon that is truly an instrument of pleasure!"

"Oh, my sweet lady, that is excellent!  And is your sheath warm like the rest of you, dear love?"

"Oui, very warm!"

"And tight?"

"Very tight!"

"But is it willing to have a weapon placed within it?"

"Oh, oui, chéri!"

"And is it...  affectionate?" he whispered.

"For you, chéri."

"Oh, Sarah, my angel, show me!  Show me where is this wonderful sheath!"

"Willingly, mon amour!"

As I knelt beside him on the bed he lifted my gown, stroking my thighs in most reverent manner, caressing my hips and rear through my silk undergarments before removing them.  Thereupon he encouraged me to sit astride him, facing him as he embraced me, his hands stroking me through the bodice of my gown as I leaned forward to cover his cheeks in kisses.  His hands strayed lower to lift my skirts much higher and stroke my thighs once more through their silk stockings, feeling my lacy garters and the bare flesh above them.

Oh, but his hands were so very warm that his every touch left a trail of fire in its wake!  He slid lower on the pillows until his lovely ‘weapon' was beneath me and I held my skirts up as he pulled me forward until I was kneeling directly above him.  A moan of pleasure issued softly from his lips as once again he lowered me until I was almost sitting on him, proceeding to cover my upper thighs in kisses.

Oh, but it was wondrous to feel his mouth there and I found myself gasping his name, but I wanted him to move higher.  Yes, much higher, and I moved even closer to him, parting my thighs more as he used his tongue, his hands continuously caressing my legs in the most delightful manner.

"Now tell me, sweet darling, where is this ‘sheath' you mentioned?" His voice floated up from between my thighs.

"A little higher, chéri."

His magical tongue moved closer.  "There, my sweet?"

"Just a little higher, chéri," I moaned in anticipation, estimating that he was no more than two inches from his target.

He moved closer.  "There?"

He was less than an inch away.  "Higher!"

Helplessly I called out his name as his tongue found that one spot that ached so dreadfully for his touch and I was powerless against my dear one's so-tender assault.  Oh, how I longed for him, my sweet and passionate John!

"Ah, yes, there!" he sighed.

"Mon cher, mon amour, oh, I shall die!" I moaned as I allowed his tongue to penetrate the outer defence of my ‘sheath'.

Unarmed and vulnerable, I swayed back and forth, riding the waves of bliss as he endeavoured to hold me steady, all the while continuing to use his tongue in the most flagrantly intimate manner.  My darling John would now know all of my weaknesses, but it mattered not when compared to the pleasure he was bestowing.  Ah, so very sweet!

"Oh, my angel, your sheath is so perfect!" he proclaimed.  "Just perfect, my darling, and so warm and tight!  Oh, I beg of you, sweet love, I implore you, my darling, may I place my weapon within your sheath?" he entreated.

Looking as he did like a small boy at Christmas who is hoping to be given his favourite toy, I could but acquiesce.

"Oh, yes!" I sighed.  "Yes, chéri amour, yes!  Waste no more time but come, sheath your weapon in me that we both may know the bliss of yearning fulfilled."

He sat up once more, lowering me gently toward his lap until I felt something considerably larger than a tongue pushing against the opening of my sheath.

"Mon Dieu, you are big, chéri!" I could not help but exclaim as he lowered me further and I opened to him, permitting his superb ‘oiled weapon' to enter my ‘sheath'.  Only the tip was inside me and yet it felt so enormous, stretching me, but still I ached for more.  Lowering myself a little further I felt it push deeper within.

Slowly, lingeringly, inch by exquisite inch, I lowered myself until I was sitting in his lap, leaning back against his raised knees as his lovely weapon pushed very tenderly all the way inside me, stretching me wide and filling me so full that I knew I would never be empty again.

Mon Dieu, it was ecstasy to hold it there, inside me, to possess this remarkable ‘weapon'.

"Oh, my love, my darling!" he groaned, gazing at me with such complete adoration in his eyes that I was obliged to lean forward to kiss him, our tongues performing a loving duel as his hands worshipped me.

"Oh, you are so wonderful, sweet angel!  So gorgeous!" he praised.  "So warm, so tight, and so loving!  Am I hurting you, darling love?"

"Au contraire, chéri, your ‘weapon' feels wonderful!  It is so deep inside that it feels as though it touches my heart.  You understand, mon cher?"

"Oh, yes, my sweet, yes!" he groaned.  "Oh, my angel love, I do so adore you!  I worship you!"  His hands caressed my upper arms through the sleeves of my gown.  "May I, sweet darling?"

As I gave my consent, he slipped my gown from my shoulders and let it fall to my waist, at the same time removing my corset.  At once his hands found my small nipples and began to stroke them.  They hardened instantly at his touch, yearning for every gentle tug and squeeze of his fingers.  My dearest John pulled me even closer, tender lips covering them, playful tongue swiping back and forth against the very tips.  Finally with his teeth he nibbled gently and delightfully, cherishing each in turn.

The sight of my darling John worshipping me thus brought out such tender feelings in me that I cradled my dear one to my breast, holding him against my heart for long and loving moments.  How I adored this dear and gentle man!  His every touch was so filled with care for me, his tender kisses and touches left my senses reeling and his lovely ‘weapon' was designed solely to fit my ‘sheath' and delight me.  Oh, but my dear John was bliss personified! I reflected, running my hands through his hair as, with his splendid mouth, he continued his tender assault on my nipples.  Mon Dieu, how could I not love him!  How utterly exquisite it was to be so adored by the one that you cherish!  Surely there is no manner of joy in this world to compare!

At that moment John's hand slipped under my dress and began to stroke my sex and I could no longer stay still.  Leaning back against his knees, he pushed his wonderful weapon deeper into me, withdrawing a little as I rose before the lovely soft tip once more burrowed tenderly within me as I again subsided onto his lap.

Oh, how sweet were our labours of love!  My dearest John moaned softly in his ecstasy, calling me his sweet angel and his gorgeous love among other endearments until the pleasure became too much for us both and, together, our senses reeling, our hearts pounding, our bodies annihilated in leaping flames that devoured all reason, we fell into that sweetest of raptures.  If the world had come to an end during those prolonged moments of incredible bliss we neither would have known nor cared.  My dear one was all to me, as I was to him.

Alas, the following morning we learned that John's telegraph to the club director had arrived too late and the waiter, Jim Farrow, had already departed for the night.  John and his friend, Mr. Holmes, obtained his address and called at his place of abode only to find him dead, shot through the head apparently by a small calibre pistol.  Of course, there were no witnesses and the police could learn little.

Although there was absolutely no doubt in our minds as to who was behind these robberies, not to mention the murder of the waiter, we had no proof, merely our own convictions.  All we could do was watch and wait for we knew that Lord Robert St Simon was deeply in debt to a Curzon Street pawnbroker and that sooner or later he would have to make a substantial move to bolster his dwindling fortunes especially now that he had been deprived of his main source of income.  However, we were convinced that the attacks on wealthy members of the Wentworth Club would now at least cease though we resolved to keep a close eye on Lord St Simon as the man had little or no other means to repay his debts and would therefore have to look elsewhere, perhaps to a wealthy heiress, for the fortune that he so desperately needed.

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