For the first few critical moments I stood frozen, my unbelieving eyes watching the murderer Richard Lawrence race after my friend. My mind was a whirlwind of confusion, and, by the time I had resolved to jump out after Holmes and Lawrence, the train was already moving too fast to make that proposition anything more than an expedition in futility and injury. Cursing my momentary indecisiveness, I slumped dejectedly into my seat to wait out the journey to Dover. Holmes' entire plan had depended upon secrecy and surprise, and, now that he was being tailed by the younger Moriarty's henchmen, this ever-important veil of secrecy had been lifted wide for all to see. While I certainly felt concern for the health and safety of my friend, what I felt more was disappointment that this upstart criminal had out-thought Holmes. I pushed these unpleasant thoughts from my mind and tried to concentrate on what I could, or should, do to help. I glanced down at the unconscious charge I had been entrusted to deliver to the Dover constabulary. He was a youngish man, with a full, round face and a pair of wire eyeglasses. He was well-dressed without being pretentious, and his hair was a sandy blond. He was at least an inch shorter than I, and of a slighter build, so I had little worry that he could overpower me should he awaken from the unwilling slumber Holmes had put him in. Nevertheless, I thought it best I should restrain him in some way to avoid any complications. Fortunately, the cord from the window curtains was readily available, and proved remarkably easy to remove and loop around the rascal's wrists, thus rendering him incapacitated. I quickly searched his lifeless body and was rewarded by a small stiletto- like knife, which I quickly took and placed in my coat pocket, trying hard not to think of for what foul purpose the knife was intended.

I began to consider the options that lay open to me. The train was off at full steam, so there was no chance of egressing before I reached Dover. But what to do there? The thought of merely sitting in a hotel while Holmes was in grave danger was ludicrous to me. Should I telegraph Holmes? For a moment I pondered that line of action, but quickly dismissed it. Surely, attempting to operate surreptitiously in London, the very last place Holmes would go would be our rooms in Baker Street, which would almost certainly be watched. I could send the telegram, but he would not receive it.

Perhaps, I thought, I could telegraph Lestrade and the Yard. They might be able to reach Holmes, or at least put out a bulletin to the constables to be on the alert for him. However, that idea as well soon dissipated. Alerting Lestrade would mean alerting all of official London, and, almost certainly, Moriarty would hear of it. That might force the Professor's prot‚g‚ to attempt more drastic actions against my friend.

Then the answer occurred to me. When Holmes had woven his nets around the Professor four years ago, his brother Mycroft had played a role. Was it not possible that Mycroft was also privy to this reenactment? The more I thought about it, the more certain it seemed to me to be. I thought of all of the important personages who would be at the concert at the Lyceum Theatre on the twenty-third. I had every confidence the Home Office would have made arrangements to provide security at the performance, and it stood to reason that Mycroft Holmes, with his unique position inside the Government, knew of those measures, and of the involvement of Michael Moriarty. My friend Sherlock almost always consulted his brother on cases of a political nature, and I felt satisfied this was no exception. To Mycroft, then, would I send my telegram, hoping that he was in contact with his brother.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. My unintentional companion awoke after half an hour, but he simply sat and glowered at me as I watched him in return. I attempted to ascertain some information by asking questions, but either the man was a mute or he had gone through interrogations before. I did not press the questions, as I doubted this low ruffian would have anything of value to tell me in any case. So, we sat, eyeing each other, for the next two hours.

The sun had set and the sky was black when the express pulled into Dover, but, given the nearness of that city to the Channel, it was a little bit warmer than London had been when I had departed. I quickly called a brace of porters, one to assist me with my bags and the other to summon a constable. It took some convincing, but I persuaded the officer to take me and my silent prisoner to the Dover police-station.

Inspector Martin proved to be a tall, greying man with long side whiskers and a perpetual look of cynicism. I told him what Holmes had said to say.

"Theft ring, eh? Why hasn't he been charged with anything?"

I tried to explain without giving away any crucial data. "The leaders of the ring are still at large. Mr. Holmes simply thought it best to keep this one's capture a secret for as long as possible."

I saw I hadn't convinced the veteran inspector. "I just don't think I can do this, Doctor. Seems to me this young man, however guilty he may be, deserves an arraignment." He turned to a sergeant, but I stopped him short.

"Mr. Holmes asks me to remind you of the ruby bracelet."

To my complete surprise, the Inspector turned several impressive shades of red, and his breath suddenly became choking and labored. For a moment I thought it might be necessary to switch from courier to my regular profession, but he recovered in a few seconds and swiftly ordered my charge to be taken to a cell for holding until Christmas Day. "I cannot keep him past that, Doctor. Five days should be enough for you." I gave my thanks and, not wanting to be pressed with more questions, I left the station-house.

The cabbie had waited with my luggage, and he drove me to the Channel Inn, where with little difficulty I engaged a room. By the time I had settled in it was past eight. I went to the hotel lobby and began to compose a telegram to send to Mycroft. In the end, my desire to send an understandable message overrode my thriftiness, and I sent him a detailed wire over what had occurred. Leaving word for any replies to be sent to my room at any hour, I repaired to the dining room, where I ate a cold supper of beef and mushrooms. Then the full impact of the day's events overtook me, and I felt compelled to retire to bed, where, thankfully, sleep came quickly.

I awoke early, fairly refreshed, and was just ready to ring for breakfast when the boots rang with a reply to my telegram. I eagerly ripped it open.

WATSON- (so it ran) Take the 12:23 express to London and be at the Diogenes Club at 5:00 sharp. Bring your eavesdropping companion.-- M.H.

That was clear enough, although I was uncertain as to how I was going to get back a man I had described as a dangerous prisoner to the Inspector the day before. After a leisurely if somewhat unappetizing breakfast, I spent the rest of the morning paging through a new medical journal I had brought along before having my bags packed and taking a hansom to see the Inspector.

Evidently Inspector Martin had received a wire of his own, for he showed no surprise when I entered.

"Good day, Doctor. Seems I needn't concern myself with this matter any further."

"Then you will release the prisoner to me?"

Martin nodded. "Exactly. However, my wire instructed me to send along a bobby to help you with him, in case there is any trouble." He motioned forward a grizzled veteran sergeant who betrayed his Glasgow roots when he spoke.

"Sergeant MacReady at your service, Doctor. I've got your man all manacled up and ready to move." As he spoke to other constables brought young man in. His haggard face and circled eyes suggested a rather sleepless night. Together, the three of us took a cab to the station, where we boarded the train for London.

The ride was quick and uneventful. Our prisoner made no sign and said nothing as before, and with chains binding his wrists and ankles he was powerless to try to escape. The constable and I chatted easily. He knew Inspector Martin well, and I could not help but ask him if he knew what the "ruby bracelet" Holmes had referred to meant.

My very asking of the question sent him into near convulsions of laughter. "That's a mighty long story, Doctor," he managed to speak when he had calmed down. "Perhaps I'd best just sum it up for you."

His reaction had piqued my interest even further. "Pray do, sergeant."

He settled back and began. "Well, some years back, when the old Inspector was new to the job, he and Mr. Holmes worked on a smuggling case. A real fine messy case it was, too, if I do say so myself. Well, Mister Holmes had discovered that a particular bracelet, made of all rubies, of course, was going to be smuggled in from the Netherlands. There were two ships coming into port from Holland, a passenger liner and a Navy collier. Mr. Holmes told the Inspector that the passenger ship was bringing in the bracelet, but the Inspector, he was new and he didn't know enough to trust him. He began to search the collier while Holmes went on board the passenger liner and, in less than five minutes, had found the bracelet and captured the smuggler."

I shook my head. "I don't see what's so funny. Yes, the Inspector should have taken Holmes' advice, but he was by far neither the first nor the last to make that mistake."

The sergeant waved a hand. "I haven't gotten to the good part yet. Inspector Martin, busy with his searching, didn't know that Holmes had found the bracelet. And Mr. Holmes didn't tell him, either. So, the Inspector continues to search the ship, and he finds himself in what looks to him to be an empty room. He entered and started to look around, when all at once the top hatch opens up and a full cargo of Dover apples falls in the cargo bay! When we saw the Inspector he was neck deep in fruit, and it took us an hour to get him out." He and I shared a good laugh at his recounting of the tale, and I daresay I saw our third companion smile in the slightest way.

When we reached Charing Cross Station I went to see to our bags and a cab, while the sergeant stayed with our prisoner. I found a porter and gave orders to take care of my bags when I heard a shrill policeman's whistle from the direction I had just come. I turned, and I saw three young street toughs around Sergeant MacReady, trying to knock him down and take our prisoner.

I rushed in to assist. We had a tough time of it. The three attackers became four in a few moments, as MacReady's keys had been taken and the bound man able to free himself. and it was clear the tide was turning against us and we would lose our prisoner and possibly our lives. Not knowing who was on which side, bystanders had kept clear until now, when suddenly a young, blond haired railroad porter leaped into the fray for our side. Our assailants decided discretion was the better part of valor, and they began to beat a hasty retreat, taking as a prize our prisoner. We, the sergeant, the young porter, and I, gave chase, but only caught up to them as they were entering a hansom cab. We stopped them there for another quick pitched fight, but they were able to enter the cab and escape.

All except one, that is. By some luck I had managed to grab the last one as he tried to close the door, and I hauled him out as the cab began moving. His companions, no longer desirous of a battle, decided he was not worth going back for, and in a minute they were out of sight in the streets of London.

I began breathing heavily, exhausted by the brief spate of fisticuffs. Thankfully, neither I nor the sergeant were hurt: just bruised and nursing aching knuckles. Quickly we attached a pair of handcuffs to our new prisoner. I turned to the young railroad porter.

"Well, young man. You've done yourself a credit today. We would have been at a loss without you."

He shrugged and replied in a slight Cockney accent. "At you' service, guv'nor. I was only doing me job."

"And quite a job you did." was my answer. I fished into my pocket and pulled out a sovereign and one of my cards. "If you see any of those fellows again, you let me know immediately. We have an urgent appointment to keep."

"Aye, guv'nor. Good day to ye." He pocketed the coin and the card, and turned back into the station. I looked at the sergeant.

"Well, a fine mess we've made of this. What fools we were, bringing our man in in broad daylight, without wiring ahead for more assistance!"

He chuckled. "Well, at least we got something to show for our trouble. What should we do with this one? We can have him arrested for assault."

I shook my head. "No, best to let Mycroft decide what to do with him. We'll take him to the Diogenes Club with us."

Despite the incident, our cab was still waiting, bags fully intact. Our new prisoner had no desire to talk, either, so we sat in silence until we reached the Diogenes Club, only a few minutes behind schedule. Two bellboys were waiting, and they silently took our prisoner to the servant's chamber to hold him until called for. We were quickly shown up to the Stranger's Room, the only room in the club where people were allowed to converse.

Mycroft Holmes was sitting comfortably in a lounge chair when we entered. He looked us over and gave an exclamation. "My! How impudent these people are, attacking you at a railway station! I trust you are no worse for the experience?"

I was used to Mycroft and his brother Sherlock's methods of observation and inference, so I was not surprised by his remark.. Sergeant MacReady, however, appeared as though he had been struck. "My dear Mr. Holmes! How could you possibly know that?"

Mycroft chuckled, and a little gleam appeared in his eyes. "Child's play." he said. "You are both disheveled in appearance, with hair our of place and cheeks still flushed, and Dr. Watson's coat is torn slightly in two places in front. I doubt that either of you would willingly go out looking like this. Your journey was only a few hours, so it is not hard travel that has put you in this state. And, looking at the bruises and a small cut on the good Doctor's right hand, and I have no doubt you were in a fight. That you were victorious is evinced by your presence here, and not at the hospital or the morgue."

"But how did you know that we were at the railway station when we were attacked?" the sergeant asked incredulously.

"Simple. Both your boots are dry, yet there is mud and slush all over the streets and sidewalks for miles. The only place that would be clean would be the covered railroad platform, so therefore it must be there you had your encounter."

Sergeant MacReady smiled. "That's fascinating, sir. I don't know how you do it."

Mycroft smiled modestly, although I could tell the flattery had affected him. "It's quite easy, really; just the simple science of observation and deduction. The same science that tells me you served in the Cape as an artilleryman, have three young children, all girls, and that this is your first time in London in at least ten years."

Even I, long since used to these feats, was surprised by these deductions. "My dear Mr. Mycroft," I began, "surely you go too far this time!" The sergeant was too thunderstruck to even comment.

Mycroft looked at me with that keen, piercing capability he had that instantly made one feel as a schoolboy at examination time. "Come, now, Doctor. You've seen Sherlock and myself do this a number of times. Look the man over. Carefully now. What do you see?"

For a long minute I examined the constable, and I was rewarded by a wonderful sight. "His boots!" I cried.

Mycroft Holmes smiled at me, as a teacher to a slow pupil who has finally solved a problem of arithmetic. "Excellent! You notice the regimental crest on the boots, no doubt, and the stylized artillery piece. The regiment is a Cape Colony regiment, so that is obvious."

Pleased by my success, I was still puzzled. "But the three girls, and the ten years since visiting London?"

"Elementary. You will observe the buttons on his uniform. They are split evenly into three parts, those down the middle, those on the pockets, and those on the cuffs. Each grouping, you will also notice, has been polished to different degrees. Clearly, then, the sergeant has three young children, almost certainly girls, who polish the buttons for him. No wife or servant would allow any buttons to not be fully polished, and only the errors of children would not be repaired by the father. As to the long time away from London, you will notice the ring on his left forefinger. Such a ring, by its design, clearly comes from Massarde's of Bond Street. Yet, it is clearly in need of repair, as it is missing a stone. If the sergeant had been in London, he most certainly would have gotten it repaired. Why ten years, you ask? The area where the stone was has completely faded to the colour of the surrounding metal. With Massarde's special metallic combinations, such a fade would take at least ten years. I recall a little monograph by my brother on the same subject." He settled back into his chair, smug and complacent. "I was correct, was I not, Sergeant?"

MacReady nodded. "Indeed you were, sir. It's been twelve years since I last stepped foot in London, where I bought this ring just like you said. But, begging your pardon, sir, we've got a prisoner downstairs, and I don't like leavin' him there with the bellboys."

Mycroft looked almost surprised for a moment. Then he rang for the servant, who appeared quickly. "Bring the manacled man up here from the page's room, please." When the servant left Holmes turned his attention to us. "Now, gentlemen, when I bring this man up here he will undoubtedly try to keep silent. I will try to make him talk, using some of the scientific methods I have displayed to you now. If I say something that appears to be out of nowhere or wrong, say nothing. Do not act surprised or astonished. Simply stand there and look as though you are aware of everything. Do you understand?"

We nodded as there came a knock at the door. The old servant who had left a moment ago came in, as did a puffing and red-faced page. One look at their dour expressions told me at once what had happened. Mycroft's eyes rolled into the back of his head in dismay. The page explained quickly. He had turned his back on the prisoner for a moment to assist a member of the club with his coat. When he turned back the prisoner was racing for the door. There was another page near the door, who could have stopped him if he had received a warning, but as they were within the confines of the club, the one page could not call out to the other. They both gave chase, but there was a cab waiting outside the club, and the escapee had sprung inside and departed. Yes, they had tried to summon a constable, but he arrived to late. No, neither of them had thought to get the number of the cab.

The page left as hastily as he could, clearly embarrassed by the unfortunate situation. Mycroft, pondering for a moment, chuckled lightly. "The irony of it all! A prisoner escaped as a result of the rules I myself established for this club. Hah!"

I, however, was ready for business. "What are we going to do, now that we have no captive? Do you have a plan?"

The big man nodded. "Yes, I have a plan. The first step involves releasing our friend the Sergeant here for a few days of holiday. Get that ring repaired, but be sure to be in these rooms by 4:00 on the twenty-third."

Sergeant MacReady did not fully understand the reason for his dismissal, but was not amiss to the holiday, either. He gave his compliments and left, promising to return at the appointed time. Mycroft motioned me to the chair facing his.

He wanted to say something, but I started first. "Have you been able to pass along my warning to Holmes ... I mean Sherlock?"

Mycroft pointed to a small pile of newspapers. "Read the agony column of that top issue of the Times." I picked up the paper, and inside, in the agony column, there was an item circled in a heavy pencil:

Barlow-- Bring five chickens to the hen house this week-end. Big feast planned. Expect Huggins and Rankin to be there as well. Excellent shooting this time of year -- James

"What does it mean?" I cried.

"It is a message from myself to your fellow lodger. It is a code we worked out many years ago, when he was scheming after the original Moriarty. Translated, the message says 'You are being followed. One man for sure, from train station. Watson is en route to Diogenes Club.' A somewhat crude message, but ample under the circumstances, don't you think?"

I looked at the front page. "This was the early morning edition. Has he responded?" Anticipating an answer, I picked up the next paper, the evening edition of the Daily Telegraph. Once again, the heavy pencil had circled a message:

G.B.-- Strong winds on the bridge, but no ice. Expect to go fishing sometime tonight.-- H.K.

"A response?"

Mycroft nodded. "He has laid out his plan of action. I expect he will be successful. Our message got to him in time, and he anticipates no difficulties. He will be here at the same time I asked the good sergeant to stop in. Now, my good doctor, we must decide what to do with you until then."

I was confused. "Well, surely I can go to my rooms. I have plenty of things I can do, and then Holmes can reach me if he needs me."

But Mycroft would not have that. "If these recent events prove anything, they prove that you are being considered a dangerous foe of the Moriarty gang, just as Sherlock is. You would not be safe in Baker Street. No, I have a better plan. We have arranged a little diversion, enough to throw off any followers. You will end up in the Northumberland Hotel, under the name of Hampton. You must remain there until the afternoon of the twenty-third, where you will meet me again here at four o'clock."

I was unhappy with the decision which was seemingly made before I arrived, but I knew Mycroft was concerned with my safety, and probably had a good idea of what Sherlock was planning, too. I acquiesced. In a few minutes we were joined by a carpenter, or someone dressed like a carpenter. He carried a large tool-box.

"This is one of my friends, Doctor," Mycroft explained. "I want the two of you to walk out, relaxed, into the waiting cab. Have a conversation as you walk, so as to look the best of friends. My friend knows what to do then. See you in two days."

I did as Mycroft instructed, having some idea of what he had planned. The waiting cab had shaded windows, so one could see out but not in. We walked out, chatting amiably, and got in. My companion told the cabby, in a rather loud voice, to go to 221B Baker Street. As soon as we were off, my companion opened his tool-box. Inside was a fake mustache that remarkably resembled mine, and a walking stick, overcoat, and top hat that also resembled my own. He peeled off his carpenter coverall, exposing a shirt, vest, and tie. He put on the other items, and, in only a few minutes, he became a remarkably good facsimile of myself. He was about the same height, with the same hair color, and, from a distance, even my best friends would have had trouble distinguishing between us. So impressed was I, I attempted to elucidate where this man learned how to do it. He shrugged.

"A friend of Mr. Mycroft's, a tall, lean man with a nose of a hawk, came to the club this morning with these things. He showed me quickly how to apply them, although I did not realize until I saw you how good a job he made of it. I don't suppose you know who that man was?"

I smiled, having expected that answer "The best and wisest man I have ever known" was my reply.

In a few minutes we reached Baker Street, and my companion alighted, leaving behind the toolbox and most likely fooling any pursuer that he was me. The cabby took a long, circuitous route to the Northumberland Hotel, where the room was already waiting for me. It was evening, and I soon retired to bed.

I spent most of the twenty-second in my room, reading some medical journals, and trying to think of a solution to Moriarty's foul plans. I could come up with nothing. All I could imagine was that the solution lay in the concert at the Lyceum on the twenty-third. It was one of the longest days I had ever endured. I dared not leave the hotel for fear of being discovered by agents of Moriarty. At the same time, my mind was restlessly worrying for my friend Sherlock Holmes. Where was he? What plan of action had he decided upon? That night sleep came only fitfully, although I arose late the next morning.

I was just finishing lunch in the hotel dining room, with only two hours remaining until my appointment with Mycroft, when I was startled to see a familiar face heading my way. It was Inspector Lestrade, who was clearly not startled to see me. I invited him to sit down.

"Well, quite a pretty situation this is, eh, Doctor?" He was clearly put out. His overcoat was misbuttoned, clearly showing he had hurried out, and he was continually rubbing his hands together in agitation.

"What is wrong, man?"

"I don't like being left in the dark, I tell you, I just don't like it. A telegram comes to me, just half an hour ago, telling me to meet you here and go with you to the Diogenes Club, and to be sure not to tell anyone. I just don't like it."

"Who sent the telegram?"

"That's the strange part: it was sent by the Home Secretary himself!" Lestrade was about to go on when we spotted another figure approaching the table. It took me a moment to recognize him, but then it came to me. It was the blond railway porter who had assisted Sergeant MacReady and myself a few days before. He was clearly nervous and fidgety, and he only half sat, his body poised at the edge of the chair.

"You told me to find ye if I saw anythin' guv'nor. Well, I did." He smiled a little smile of self-importance.

I threw my arms up in exasperation. "Confound it, Holmes, when are you going to stop trying to surprise me with your disguises?"

I would have evinced less surprise had I shot a bullet into my friend. He stared at me for a full minute before he pulled off the wig and his other facial props and sat up to his full height. His eyes were suddenly sparkling, and his body was beginning to quiver with silent laughter. "My dear Watson! You outdo yourself! Pray, when did you discover it?"

My head was swelling, having finally one-upped my friend. "I noticed almost as soon as you joined the brawl two days ago."

Holmes was aghast. "How?" He was comically despondent, having been cheated of his good prank.

I put on the same condescending expression he had oftentimes used with me. "My dear Holmes, you ought to know better than to try to fool your fellow lodger while wearing his own belt that you borrowed not six months ago." By this time Lestrade has caught up to us, and he stuck out his hand in congratulations to my feat.

Holmes clapped his hands and fell back in his chair, silent laughter wracking his body. "Then that sovereign you gave me yesterday, and your card, was all just a ruse?"

I blushed. "Turnabout is fair play, my friend." With that the three of us gave up any pretense of seriousness, and burst out laughing loudly, drawing several stares of annoyance from the surrounding restaurant patrons. A minute later I was able to speak again, and quickly my worries and concerns flooded back into my mind.

"Holmes, where have you been?"

"Everywhere and anywhere, one should think. Railway porters and cabbies - my other regular disguise of these last few days - can go almost everywhere without notice. But, it has not been altogether unfruitful." He said no more, but his eyes sparkled mischievously, and I knew he had made progress. Lestrade, as well, knew that it would be useless to get Holmes to reveal more than he wanted to, and he kept his tongue in check, despite of the many questions that must have been perplexing him.

The three of us sat in the dining room and had a glass of wine together. Holmes was in fine form. He conversed with us on 16th century rural parish ministries, the American free silver movement, and the difference between Swiss and Bavarian chocolate, and the two remaining hours until our appointment passed quickly, and we soon found ourselves in the Strangers' Room of the Diogenes Club, where Sergeant MacReady was waiting for us. Mycroft was waiting, as usual, to greet us. He gave no notice of his brother's porter outfit. His manner was decidedly blunt.

"Well, Sherlock, what have you found?"

In a second, my friend Holmes was all business. "All has not been divined as yet, but I have enough clues to point to us the clearest course of action." He sat down in an easy chair and commenced the narrative of his adventures of the last few days.

"When I left the Express I had every reason to believe I would be followed, in fact I counted upon it. In the fifteen-odd years I have been engaged in practice, I have been followed more times than seems likely, and I have long since learned to turn the pursuer into the pursued. This I quickly did. The murderer Richard Lawrence is no more skilled in tracking than he is in knife-wielding. He assumed he had lost me, and headed back into London, as I expected."

"For the last three days I have been his near-constant shadow. I have overheard his conversations, or some of them anyway. I have seen who he converses with, and where he goes. I know what he consumed for nearly every meal, and what he left for a tip. I saw him drive a hired rig to the train station, where he drove the cab away after his thugs had rescued their friend from you, my dear Watson."

Mycroft interrupted. "Where is Michael Moriarty staying? Who are is immediate companions?"

Sherlock frowned, a look of concern crossing his face. "That is the strangest part of the matter. I never saw Moriarty, and, to the best of my belief, neither did Lawrence. This concerns me, but I have no evidence on the matter. However, this is what leads me to reach the conclusion I have reached."

"Which is?" Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, the sergeant and myself asked as one.

"Which is that whatever is going to happen tonight at the Lyceum Theatre is intended to be a ruse of some kind. This is the only conclusion that fits the facts. Everything that has been laid before us was far too obvious to be true. Moriarty has something else planned, of that I am sure, but he has either excluded Lawrence from his plans or placed him in charge of this rogue operation. The theft of the statuary, the murder of Belmont, and several other clues point me inexorably to the conclusion that any action taken at the Lyceum Theatre would be too obvious. We are being deceived, although for what end I do not know. And, if for some reason I have overestimated my opponent's inventiveness, and it is not a ruse, we are no worse for the matter."

We sat in silence for a moment, pondering the import of what Holmes had told us. Lestrade spoke up first. "What are we going to do, then, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft and my friend shared a look, and it was the older brother who spoke for them. "We have few options. We cannot ignore the danger to the peers and lords of the realm who will be at the Lyceum tonight. Even a ruse may have deadly consequences. And, as my brother has pointed out, we cannot theorise as to Moriarty's real plan without more data. We lack the information now, and were we to guess, it would undoubtedly do us more harm than good. Therefore, we are at the mercy of our enemy's trap, but at least we have the knowledge that there will be more."

He reached into a valise that sat next to his chair and extracted a single piece of paper. "This is being sent to the constabularies of every city in the Kingdom. It gives a description of Moriarty and Lawrence, as well as a few other members of the gang we have identified. These orders instruct them to watch the train stations and ports for these people, and to be on increased vigilance for the next few days. It is all we can do, but we have hopes it may help the situation." He put the paper back into the valise. Inspector Lestrade looked at his watch. "It's 4:30 now. The performance starts at 7:00, so by 6:30 the guests will start to arrive. We have two hours. What shall we do until then?"

Sherlock stood. "For me, a change of clothing and a quick meal. For you, possess your soul in patience until then. We shall meet at the theatre at 6:15." The council of war broke up, and together Holmes and I left the Club and boarded a cab for Baker Street.

I could see something was bothering my friend, and I tried to get him to tell me what it was. "Nothing definable, Watson," he replied. "I just know that Moriarty's real scheme should be apparent to me by now. The facts must be there, and I have precious little time to think on what they may be. We must be fully alert tonight."

Having supped and changed into more appropriate evening dress, we proceeded to the Lyceum Theatre, having taken the assuring step of bringing along my revolver in case of need. We arrived at the theatre forty-five minutes before the beginning of the concert. Lestrade and MacReady were waiting for us.

"I have two dozen plainclothesmen ready for action, Mr. Holmes. They will disperse among the crowds, looking for any dangerous signs." Lestrade's words expressed more confidence than he clearly felt.

"Well, we cannot hope for more than that. We must be vigilant. I have no idea what we will see or not see, and that is bad, but, I have every hope that we shall prevail." Having concluded his inspirational speech making, Holmes began milling through the crowd that was already starting to form. We followed: I on his right, Lestrade on his left, and the Dover sergeant following behind.

The night was crisp and clear, with no wind. In a warm coat, and, with a scarf and gloves, many found it actually almost pleasing to be outside, and the patrons to the theatre were no exceptions. The management of the theatre had restored the stolen statues to their rightful places, and they had contracted an ice sculptor to put several new icy works on display outside. There were electric lights strung up along the wide walkway, and the people meandered slowly, chatting with friends and associates as they commented on the artwork.

This meandering made our work difficult. We were surrounded by a sea of faces, jostled by people heading the opposite direction. All the while we were scanning the crowd, looking for a sign, something out of the ordinary. The time moved slowly that night, as we milled through the crowd of rich and famous. Many of the faces we recognized, from the society pages of newspapers, or from seeing them at the Palace or Parliament. There was a veritable glitter of diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and emeralds, as well as the duller glint of silver and gold, on every arm and necklace. The sight of such wealth quickened my nerves, and perhaps it was this quickening that saved my friend's life.

He was walking a few steps ahead of me when, suddenly, from behind a life-size statue, a blond-haired man leaped, a revolver in his outstretched arm, pointed at Sherlock Holmes. Time seemed to stand still. Almost as if by instinct, my walking stick swung up and smashed into the forearm of the assailant, throwing his arm into the air. An instant later he fired, but the round was going nearly straight up, and it hit no-one and nothing. Before he could try to lower his aim I threw my body into his, and we crashed to the ground, the revolver falling away. Lestrade threw himself upon the man as quickly as I did, and in a moment the sergeant did, too, and between the three of us he was quickly pinned and handcuffed.

As soon as I knew the assailant was secure I looked at my friend Holmes. A stranger sight never struck me. He was stock still, his face whiter than alabaster, staring at the attacker. He made no sound, nor did he move. I looked back at the assailant, and realized for the first time it was Richard Lawrence. My brain began buzzing as pieces began fitting together.

In an instant, Holmes had recovered from his shock. "What a fool I've been! Watson, quickly, to the telegraph office - before it's too late!" He dashed off, pushing MPs and JPs out of the way like a fish through water. I raced after him, pulling out my revolver as I did so.

Holmes was suddenly bursting with energy, and despite my best efforts I was unable to catch up to him. He ran with lightning speed the eight blocks to the nearest telegraph office. It was ten minutes to seven when we arrived. The clerks were preparing to close shop for the day, so our arrival was most fortuitous. Before I had even entered the building he had hastily scrawled something on a message form. He handed it to the clerk, who glanced at it, then, realizing its importance, quickly began to tap out the message. He was just finishing when Lestrade ran in, puffing heavily from the sprint.

Holmes looked at him gravely. "It's a good thing the Home Office took my advice and installed telegraph offices in every police branch office. There is still some hope we can prevent this."

"Prevent what?" I cried.

"The prison escape of the most dangerous man of Moriarty's old gang - Colonel Sebastian Moran."

Lestrade and I were frozen in shock. I recovered first. "But Holmes, wasn't he hung? I thought he was dead!"

Holmes shook his head. "You have not been paying enough attention to the story, Watson. He was found guilty of the murder, but his cunning lawyers have kept him alive on appeals. He has been languishing in Princetown Prison in Devonshire for some six months. I only hope my wire to the Princetown constabulary will be in time to stop Moriarty from carrying out his rescue. The police-station is only fifteen minutes from the prison, so within a half-hour we shall hear news."

"But Holmes, how can you be so sure this is Moriarty's plan?"

"Let me lay out the facts for you. It should have been obvious quite some time ago, and I can only blame myself for failing to divine Moriarty's true purpose. The original Professor Moriarty was a brilliant man, but part of what made his organization so successful was his capable assistants, who were able to carry out his orders to the fullest. Michael Moriarty does not have these, yet he desires to be as powerful as his uncle. Clearly, then, the only option is to recapture the assistants of his uncle. All except Moran, however, have either been hung or otherwise taken out of the picture. The logic is inescapable. Michael Moriarty needs an assistant as good as Moran himself, but the only person as good as Moran is Moran. Eliminate the impossible, and we have the solution.

"It was this Richard Lawrence character that should have given me the clue. In every action we have observed this gang perpetrating, this Lawrence has been there. He is a bad assassin, yet he draws the assignment to kill Belmont. He is a horrid tracker, yet it is he who tries to follow me out of the train station. And, again, the bad assassin is the one who tries to kill me, which by the way, I have failed to thank you, Watson, for your interference in his plans."

I blushed. He had said little, but I could read in his eyes how thankful he truly was. He continued.

"It was when I saw him at the Lyceum tonight that it all clicked in my brain. In the last three days I had tracked him, and yet I had not seen Moriarty in London. This should have told me two things. The first was that Lawrence was not acting as Moriarty's direct agent, but instead on a rogue mission directed by him. The second was that Moriarty was not in London. It is an old chess trick to draw your opponent off with a bishop or rook, while a knight makes a strike at an unplanned for spot. Lawrence was the bishop, and Moriarty, the knight, has just pulled off a master stroke. Whether it is successful now depends on the pawns."

We had not long to wait. The telegraph began buzzing off a long message, and, when we read it, we saw we had been beaten. Several men, disguised as deliverymen, had penetrated the prison, where they had forced several guards at gunpoint to lead them to Moran's cell and let him out. The Devon police had arrived just as they were leaving. There was some gun-play, and one officer was hurt, but the Colonel had escaped. Pursuers were searching, but had yet to find anything.

"And they won't, either," said Holmes as he finished the message. "We have lost this battle, but the war is far from over. Moriarty's next move will come quickly, of that I am sure. It is up to us to be there to stop it."

I was surprised that my friend was not as disheartened as I was. "What is your plan, then?"

He thought for a moment. "When I was visited by this imposter of my old nemesis, he told me that I should leave London until after the Epiphany. This tells me we have until January 6th to discover his plot ... Two weeks is not forever, but it is more than I often have had. Moriarty will expect me to stay here in London, waiting for his return, which he inevitably must do. Therefore that is the last thing I must do. We have played to his tune for long enough, and I think the key needs to be changed ... What would you say, Doctor, to a Christmas holiday in Devonshire? I recall some friends out that way who would be more than happy to give us keep for a few days while we investigate Princetown Prison. Yes, that will be capital! We depart on the morrow for Devonshire."