As my faithful readers will recall, I described the amazing events of Mr. Sherlock Holmes' return in the story I called "The Adventure of the Empty House". I was overjoyed to see my old acquaintance once more, and henceforth visited him frequently, occasionally taking part in one of his mmorable cases.

Once Colonel Sebastian Moran had been arrested by Scotland Yard, it was a well-known fact that my famous friend was again available for consultation, and the subsequent year after that adventure would prove to be one of the busiest for the detective.

Therefore it came as no surprise to me when, on the eighteenth of May, I received a message from Holmes requesting my presence at Baker Street. Not the words nor the phrasing of the message were particularly urgent, and seemed not extraordinary; however, as I was to find out, the circumstances of the coming case were anything but regular.

When I arrived at 221B, I found Holmes sitting languidly by the fireplace, an old pipe dangling from his lips and a halo of smoke about his head. Not unusually, he looked as if sleep had evaded him, and an untouched tray on his table informed me that he had not eaten, either.

I gave a start as his voice, sober and quiet as he continued to gaze into the fire, broke the heavy silence of the room. "My dear Watson," he said, "it is good of you to come on such short warning."

"I had no more patients waiting at my practice," I explained, "so I came from Kensington without delay."

"That is well," he replied, standing and discarding his pipe, "for I fear we must take a trip down to the Whitehall. I have had a message from my brother, Mycroft, and he asks for our arrival to be immediate."

The walk from Baker Street to the Whitehall was conducted in silence, for Holmes was deep in thought, and I could tell it was so. His eyes had a watery, far away appearance which could only mean that he was examining details in his mind.

When we did indeed reach the street in question, a tall, corpulent individual came out of the Diogenes Club to join us. Although stout in both face and body, he managed to retain some of his brother's sharpness, and his grey eyes consistently held the far off expression. This, of course, was Mycroft Holmes.

"Doctor Watson," said the large man, "I wish I could bid you well, but the entire country is covered by storm clouds of the worst kind. I have been dislocated from my club, and that might steer the entire course of history from its proper track." So saying, he opened a door and ushered us into his offices at Whitehall.

"You will recall, Doctor," said Mycroft, leading us down a corridor, "that my brother was recently the target of an assassination attempt by one Colonel Sebastian Moran. Now, it seems, the life of an even more influential person may be jeopardised." He turned briefly, and smiled in a grotesque fashion. "My own, should I need to continue these impromptu visits."

At this point, Mycroft turned into a large, windowless room, taken up mostly by an immense desk covered in official letters and documentation. He closed the door behind us, sat down in a comfortable chair behind the desk, and began to search through his papers. "My father," he remarked, "would have never allowed such clutter in his home when I was a boy. Time is so short, and details so very trivial..."

"And, of course," said Holmes, stepping forward, "so much of that time must be used to further your eternal luxury of living, dear brother."

Mycroft looked up in some surprise, as if he had not known his brother to be there. "Oh, Sherlock," he said, "I was not aware you had come with Doctor Watson to pay me a call."

"How very ironic, Mycroft," replied Holmes. "No-one could possibly make that mistake of you." I was beginning to become alarmed at this quiet feud between brothers, but fortunately Holmes decided to change the subject of the conversation. He took Mycroft's message from his coat, and handed it to his brother. "You required us to be here for a reason?"

For once, Mycroft Holmes looked completely blank. "Why, no, dear Sherlock. I had not expected either of you until merely an hour ago. You see," he said, "I have a message here from you." He drew it from his own pocket as he spoke, and read it aloud. "'Coming to consult you on a case. Will expect you at Whitehall by five-thirty.'" He handed the piece of paper to Holmes. "I had expected you to consult me on the Briersly affair, which is why I have been sorting through my documentation. I have a very interesting piece of information on Briersly."

"I know," said Holmes. "It was his sister, who masqueraded as her brother to commit the crime."

Mycroft sighed, indicating his disappointment. "Quite so. I had not thought you would solve the case."

I coughed politely. "Surely, though, we must consider these messages. As they were not sent by either of you, something must be in the air!"

"We know, Watson," said Holmes simply.

"And we will wait," added Mycroft, "for the person who has sent them. Naturally, they must mean to give us both some sort of important information of a highly secret variety."

At that very moment, a loud knock came from the door. "It seems," said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "that we shall not have a long amount of time in suspense." I instinctively drew out my service revolver as Holmes turned and opened the door. "Mr. Mac!" he said pleasantly, as Inspector MacDonald entered the office. "I regret to say Watson had not expected your company."

"Oh, that's quite all right, sir," said the Scotsman cheerfully as I put away the gun. "I know you weren't aware I would be coming. Neither was I, in fact, but this gentleman said he'd an appointment with you, and I felt I should join him." He gestured towards the corridor, and a moment later a tall young man entered the office behind him. "This is Mister Jules Dulpin, sir. He's the one with the appointment."

The young man came forward and shook hands, first with my friend, then with his brother and finally with myself. He had a rich, dark complexion with a small moustache, and was dressed like a man of some stature and nobility. When he spoke, it was with an equally rich, deep voice. "You must excuse my little charade, Monsieurs Holmes and Watson, but what I have to say is of the utmost secrecy. I could take no chances that another would learn of my audience with you."

"Reasonable, Monsieur, if unnecessary," said Holmes. "I had not any more pressing plans. Nor did my brother, did you, Mycroft?" That person merely coughed.

"I will come quickly to the point, Monsieurs," said Dulpin, "and you must understand that I speak for the President of France, Jean-Paul-Pierre Casimir- Perrier, when I tell you this. As part of the British Government, Monsieur Mycroft, you will have heard of the recent completion of the Franco-Russian Alliance."

"Indeed," said Holmes' brother dryly.

"You will also know that the Alliance came to be more than partially from the dissolution of our German relations, spurred by the unfortunate actions of Baron von Holstein."

"Yes."

"At the turn of this year, just before the Alliance was completed, an attempt was made on our President's life, along the Boulevard in Paris. The assassin escaped, but left behind two things: a message, and this walking stick." He handed his stick and a small piece of paper to my friend.

Holmes read the note aloud, consisting of a short threat that the assassin would strike again, and signed 'L'Avengeur'. He handed it to his brother, and examined the walking stick. At the bottom tip of the stick was a hole...a gun- barrel.

"An air-gun," deducted Holmes calmly. "Of the same variety used by Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"Yes," replied MacDonald, nodding. "I thought the same, sir."

"Indeed," confirmed Dulpin, "this is the type of weapon used by Colonel Moran when he tried to kill you, Monsieur Holmes. The French police have beliefs that he has carried out a number of murders with the same variety of tool, but we have no conclusive evidence."

"Why have you come to us, Mr. Dulpin?" asked Holmes. "I sincerely doubt that your object is merely to tell us Moran has committed mass murder on the Continent."

"No, Monsieur," said the Frenchman. "After many months, I managed to trace this air-gun back to the original maker, a weapons specialist in Germany. When I found him, he was lying in a pool of blood; I believe L'Avengeur had arrived minutes before and shot him to prevent my knowing the truth. However, the old man managed to tell me something very interesting before he died."

"He told you," said Mycroft Holmes, "that Queen Victoria was in mortal danger."

Dulpin seemed surprised. "How did you know?"

"I did not, at first," said my friend's brother, "but it was simple to build a sound knowledge off of what you have told me. Allow me to explain: L'Avengeur's aims are certainly very grand, if he attempted to kill your President. Since you are coming to both Sherlock and I, this matter not only involves a British individual but the security of the entire nation. Finally, since the assassin struck France just before the completion of the Franco- Russian alliance, it is safe to assume that the potential Franco-British alliance would provide another source of consternation for such an individual. I believe I can also say with some certainty that your President is afraid, should Queen Victoria die, of an uprising in France. That could possibly lead to a more successful attempt on the President's life. "

"You are exactly right," said Dulpin. "Therefore, I have come to you. I had planned only to speak to Monsieur Mycroft, but shortly before I came we learned of the return of Monsieur Sherlock. President Casimir-Perrier was pleased that such an expert might be called upon in these circumstances, particularly as that meant two of our three contacts would be of French heritage. And so, gentlemen," he concluded, "that is why I have come. I hope that I can return to my country encouraged by your efforts."

At this point, Inspector MacDonald checked his watch and suggested we all return home and get some sleep. Mycroft agreed with him, and before an hour had passed a cap deposited me at my home. I found it hard to sleep, however; and sat in my chair smoking and thinking of this new case until my eyes forced themselves closed.

I did not see my friend again for many days. Then, on the twenty-third, I received another message from him, reading, 'My dear Watson, it has come to my attention that our great Queen's birthday parade shall take place tomorrow, culminating in her arrival at Westminster Abbey for services. Please meet me at quarter past ten o'clock, tomorrow morning, at the far end of Birdcage Walk, as I fear this is when and where the assassin may strike. Do not bring your revolver. Sherlock Holmes.'

Although the last command struck me as unusual, I committed Holmes' message to memory, and arrived at Birdcage Walk the next day at exactly quarter past ten. I had not brought my revolver, and was dressed in the gayest suit I could find for the occasion of the Queen's birthday. I did not, however, see any sign of Holmes.

I decided that the only thing to do would be to wait for him, so I stood amongst the crowd and watched for the Queen's carriage in the distance. Before any long amount of time, the vehicle came into view, directly followed by the Queen's Royal Guard.

Victoria herself sat, clothed in black, within the carriage. As she came closer, the crowd of loyal Britons cheered, and I added my voice to theirs. I must admit, however, my heart was not in the cry, for I was haunted by the thought of what black fate might take the Queen that day.

I was interrupted from my thoughts by a loud noise beside me. A dirty, ragged old man stinking of gin stood there, waving his fist in the air and screaming insults at the Queen. It struck me suddenly that he might have some part in the plot, and reached out to restrain him, for he was becoming very hysterical. "Down with Victoria!" he screamed. "Down with the black-hearted woman who enslaves all of Britain!"

I took the man by the shoulders and shook him heartily. "You must stop this show of emotion, or I will be forced to restrain you..." I took a deep breath. "...In the name of the Queen!"

The old man laughed spitefully at me, showing his rotting, blackened teeth; before I knew what had occurred, he had given me a horrible punch in the face and sent me sprawling. He cackled hideously as the entire crowd turned to look at us, an evil gleam in his eye. In my daze, I wondered why no police were nearby to assist us.

However, this thought did not remain with me long, for I saw the old man draw something small and spherical from his dingy coat. I jumped up to stop him too late, for he had already throw it out into the crowd.

The loud report that followed, like the explosion of a small bomb, confirmed my suspicions of the old man. I meant to take him by the arm and hold him back until the police came, but he had mysteriously vanished into smoke which had surrounded us all. The crowd, in general, were panicked, for they assumed as I that the Queen had been killed. There was a rush of people falling over each other, but so many were thinking the same thought that none of them made any progress at all.

Soon, the smoke cleared, and the panic-stricken citizens saw an amazing sight. The carriage, as well as the rest of the parade, were completely undamaged. Many Britons began to cheer as they realised the danger had merely been a smoke bomb. Then, suddenly, some of them began to scream.

One member of the Queen's Royal Guard stood apart from the others, a determined look on his face. He had removed his sword and sheath, and appeared to be balancing them over his shoulder. His sheath belt lay in rags at his feet, and he was slowly turning from side to side, allowing the crowd to see his weapon plainly.

For it was a weapon, indeed: not a ceremonial sword, nor sheath, but some form of advanced gun. The curved hilt of what was believed to be a sword served as a shoulder grasp, allowing the man to hold the bulk of the gun with both hands; one over it, and one below. It could be easily conjectured that the assassin had kept his ammunition within the sheath belt, and that he had taken advantage of the smoke and panic to load his weapon.

"Do not move," he yelled out to the crowd, identifying himself as French by his accent, "or people will die." He paused a moment to make sure everyone had heard, and then resumed. "I am known as L'Avengeur. My intentions to come today were not mainly to avenge, but to prevent, for the good of my country. You will no doubt be interested to know that this prevention involves your Queen..." He spat on the ground. "Victoria Regina.

"Some of you may have known that already," the assassin continued, "but here is an interesting something you do not. In setting this prevention up, I took certain measures which would enable me to 'kill two birds with one stone', as you might say."

All through this speech, I had been watching the assassin, and did not notice a dirty figure creeping slowly around the carriage. When I did catch sight of him, he was situated at the back of vehicle, trying to do something with the coachman. It was the very man who had thrown the smoke bomb.

In one sudden movement, L'Avengeur whirled around and aimed the gun at the head of the old man. "The second bird is one you may recognise; at least, when he removes his disguise. You may now stop this ridiculous game, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

The old man reached up to his face, and peeled off his shaggy, white eyebrows. Then he removed his false teeth, his mane of hair, and his cheek plumpers. When this was done, I could clearly see that my friend had, indeed, been disguised, and my heart was saddened to know that he had been found out.

"Yes, Monsieur Huret," spoke my friend loudly, "I am Sherlock Holmes. Tell me, however did you discover my identity?"

"Simple. I set Voitel up to throw a smoke bomb for the very purpose of you taking his place. None of these good Guardsmen, save myself, would have allowed anyone to cause such disturbance unless they had been forewarned.

"So now, you see," said Huret, "I have you just where I need you. You will die, and I shall honourably avenge the death of my father." He lifted the gun slightly, and steadied it. "Say goodbye to your beloved Britain, Mr. Holmes."

"Wait, Huret," said Holmes calmly. "You have not seen what I need you to see." He looked at the carriage beside him. "With your permission?"

Huret snorted. "If this is a trick, Monsieur Holmes, not only you but over twenty other people will lose their livesin mere seconds."

"I can assure you it is not a trick, Huret," replied Holmes. "Instead it is something which you will find of intense interest. If I might allow this fine coachman to assist me?" Huret nodded his consent. As the coachman turned to one side of the carriage, I could see that the figure was none other than Mycroft Holmes. It must be a serious situation, if Holmes' brother had been called away from Whitehall.

Holmes and his brother reached to each upper corner of the caravan's back wall, and undid a latch. They then slowly drew out the false wall on a hinge, as if it were a drawbridge, and revealed what was inside.

Within a small space, breathing from their recent enclosure between the two carriage walls, were Inspector Alec MacDonald and his handcuffed prisoner, Colonel Sebastian Moran. The Colonel was red in the face, as if found in an angry mood during a particularly embarrassing situation.

The effect on Huret was instantaneous. His jaw was open, and his eyes stared at the angry old man with what might have been pity, or disappointment. His fingers relaxed only slightly on the trigger of his weapon. A very slight movement, indeed, but enough to use advantageously.

In moments, another of the Guard pushed the assassin from behind, throwing the man into his own weapon. His head connected with the butt of the rifle, and in a moan of pain he let it drop, for he could see the Guard beginning to surround him.

He ran towards the crowd, drawing a pistol from his coat and firing shots in the air. The gathered Britons made a path for him, and he escaped easily. As the Guard came after him, I thought I recognised some of their faces as those of local policemen, and soon Holmes' ruse was entirely apparent to me. Sensing that it was my duty to assist in whatever way necessary, I followed them as quickly as possible.

I realised soon that the police were not making progress in hindering Huret, and I decided to try an attempt of my own. I began to run from them, out, far to the side and away. The plan could not have worked better had Holmes planned it out.

In a minute, the police and Huret came about in a circle, and were aiming directly for me. Praying that I would be delivered in the end, I rushed forward, mentally calculating that Huret had used all the bullets in his pistol to worry the crowd.

I saw him lunge at me, and felt pain as a cracking noise came from my head. Then, all was dark as I drifted into unconsciousness.

When I came to, I found myself in the comfortable surroundings of 221B Baker Street, with Inspector MacDonald hovering over me. "Took a wee nap, didn't you, Doctor?" he laughed.

I struggled to come to a sitting position. My head ached, but not overly so, and I knew it was all right to move about. "Whatever happened, Holmes?" I asked my friend. He was standing next to MacDonald, smoking his pipe.

"It would seem, Watson, that in your brave and patriotic act of preventing the assassin from escaping, he gave you a blow to the head with his pistol butt. However, as he had no more bullets, it was a sufficient enough distraction to allow the police to make a formidable gain on Monsieur Huret."

"What happened to the man?"

"He took his own life, Watson, by giving them further chase and ultimately diving into the Thames, without ever returning to the surface of the water. A disturbingly final action, but one he no doubt found necessary. I believe he considered it an honourable death, as opposed to a mere life imprisonment."

"Not entirely surprising, Doctor," added the Inspector. "Mr. Holmes tells me that he was a German extremist, and believed that surrender was completely dishonourable."

Holmes inhaled deeply. "Indeed."

Ah," I said, understanding, "that is why he was so surprised at the site of Colonel Moran -- whom I gather is his father -- for he was not executed."

"Quite, Watson," confirmed my friend. "He believed totally in the false rumour of his father's death at our hands, and I used it against him. It was the first fact I discovered in my investigation of the man."

"Whatever do you mean by that, Holmes?"

"Initially, I believed that our L'Avengeur was attempting to imitate Colonel Moran. This seemed unlikely, unless the news had yet to reach France that Moran was arrested in April. After some thought, I concluded that L'Avengeur was from a more distant country; Germany or Russia seemed the most probable. I recalled, however, that Professor Moriarty had extensive business relations on the Continent, and that any such news would be circulated quickly. At that time, another possibility became apparent to me."

"What was that, Holmes?"

"That, in a hurry to relay the message through Moriarty's contacts, one or more of them exaggerated the report. When our assassin did hear the news, it had been falsified to contain details of Colonel Moran's death, organised if not performed by myself and Scotland Yard."

"Holmes, you do continue to astound me," I told my friend, "but tell me: how did you discover that our man was the Colonel's son?"

"Oh, I played some part in that, Doctor," said the smiling MacDonald. "You see, I was speaking with Monsieur Dulpin after our encounter at Whitehall, and he gave me some very interesting information. It appears that at one point, nearly twenty-five years ago, Moran came to France to head one of the Professor's many operations. At this time, Moran fell in love with a young French girl named Marie Huret, and she later bore his illegitimate child, Francois Huret."

Holmes took up the tale. "Years after this event, Moran would return to France in more of Moriarty's business. When Moran came to her home and demanded her hospitality, Marie turned on him. Originally having had no wish for a child, she blamed him for Francois' even being alive, and forced him to take the boy with him when he left."

I was confused. "How do you know all this?"

"From this book," said MacDonald, handing me a bloodstained, dirty old journal. "Two years after Francois left with Moran, Marie's body was found in a gutter; she had this diary in her cape when she died. It is obvious that a trained assassin such as Moran did not kill her, as he would have taken the evidence. Clearly, the work was that of an amateur."

"Then...?"

"Yes, Watson," my friend replied. "It is natural to assume that she met her fate at the hands of her adolescent son."

"He must have been completely mad!"

"Possibly, Watson, but not necessarily. While travelling with his father, Francois grew more and more to think of Moran as some variety of hero, while his memory of Marie blackened with hatred. It is only natural to assume that he returned to France after two years and, driven by his intense hate, found and slew his own mother."

"Ghastly, Holmes."

"Very," agreed the detective, "especially when you consider how much he was in awe of his father." He returned to his explanations. "After speaking with Mr. Mac, I traced Huret as far back as possible, and learned that in 1886 the boy came to Germany, where he became an assistant of Baron von Holstein. It is entirely likely that it was just before his trip to Germany that he returned to France and killed his mother, but I digress. He continued in the position of assistant to von Holstein until midway through this past year, when he returned to his homeland, angered at news of the certainty of the Franco- Russian alliance. He came with several interesting weapons, manufactured specially by a master gunmaker: these included a standard air-gun as used by Colonel Moran, as well as a highly sophisticated design concealed by its appearance as a sword sheath."

"Ah yes, the weapon. Whatever sort of air-gun was that?"

"Scotland Yard recovered the thing," said Inspector MacDonald. "A very strange device, capable of mass destruction. It is built so that the air pressure can not only let out the bullets in single shots, but in groups of many at once. Huret was not exaggerating in his threat of killing several people in a few moments."

"An advanced version of the original, Watson," explained Holmes. "Our man concealed a pump within his boot, allowing more air to pump in every step he took. It was attached to a long tube, which ran up his uniform leg, and fell back into his boot when he detached the gun.

"The weapon in itself is something very new. A rapid-fire rifle, able to hold many bullets at once within its cache. After the air pressure built up, Huret could have fired and killed any of us instantaneously, in a single long blast of ammunition. You see, the air-gun was constructed to contain a quick release valve, with a variety of manifold that would release air in spurts, thus exhuding multiple bullets simultaneously from the spring-loaded clip."

"An effective but horrible device, to be sure," I said. "Did the gunmaker construct the smoke bomb as well? I have not heard a smoke bomb to make such a loud noise before."

"Oh, I sincerely doubt it," said Holmes. "It would not take a good deal to add a very loud report to a standard smoke bomb. I would suggest that he constructed the explosive himself, and added a pinch of gunpowder for effect."

"Very ingenious," I remarked, "but pray continue with your tale."

"Thank you. In late January, Huret learned of the completion of the Franco- Russian alliance, and vowed to take political revenge for the Germans. Masquerading as his father, Huret attempted to assassinate President Casimir- Perrier along the Boulevard. Earlier sensing that his goal might prove hard to achieve, Huret had already written out a threatening letter as L'Avengeur, and left this note on the ground with the air-gun before escaping. Unwittingly, he made the police believe that he was Colonel Moran, when in reality he was only imitating his father's very successful techniques to achieve his own political aims.

"Initially, he planned to go back to Germany and wait for a more opportune time to kill Casimir-Perrier. He made the voyage back, but soon heard through reliable sources of Dulpin's search; this was followed almost immediately by news of my return and the falsified rumours of Moran's death. It is possible that he did not have the special gun created until this point, yet unlikely, as the shoulder grip had a French design. No matter why he met with the master gunmaker again, for he killed the craftsman as soon as he learned of Dulpin's journey to speak with the man. Shortly thereafter, he left Germany once more, and came to our country.

"The rest is already known or easily assumed," said Holmes, "so I shall not go to the bother of repeating it to you. However, I must ask you not to submit this case to the Strand magazine, Watson, until French and British diplomats come to an agreement. If you do not accept this condition, you may find that relations between the countries become strained, and that would not be in any of Europe's best interests."

"The facts are safe within my mind, Holmes."

And so, I have kept my pledge, and not released this exciting adventure until now. For it is the year nineteen hundred and four of our Lord, and the French and British have just come to an Entente Cordiale, or 'cordial understanding'.

President Casimir-Perrier was very pleased with Holmes' work in this adventure, and sent him an autographed letter of thanks, which my friend always kept in his private files. Despite the fact that at other times he has not allowed the British government to honour him through knighthood, he accepted the Legion of Honour from the French, and it has remained one of his greatest awards.

Regarding this case, I believe I must leave the final spoken words to my friend Sherlock Holmes. Only days ago, I went and paid him a visit at Sussex Downs, where he has now retired to keep bees. When I informed him that I would be presenting this case for public interest, he gave me a small smile. He then gave me what is perhaps the best compliment I shall ever receive:

"Your public will, no doubt, be very interested in these events, and you will surely express them in your usual dramatic way. However, it must be remembered that I was not responsible for all the success; if I could, I would entreat them to recall the brave actions of my dear friend Doctor John Watson, and think of how he prevented the assassin from taking the life of our Queen, and the pride of our country."