that,” he nodded at my papers, “you will say I’ve brought you something fresh.”
Inspector MacDonald had been staring at the newcomer with the greatest amazement. “Well, this fairly beats me!” he cried at last. “If you are Mr. John Douglas of Birlstone Manor, then whose death have we been investigating for these two days, and where in the world have you sprung from now? You seemed to me to come out of the floor like a jack-in-a-box.”
“Ah, Mr. Mac,” said Holmes, shaking a reproving forefinger, “you would not read that excellent local compilation which described the concealment of King Charles. People did not hide in those days without excellent hiding places, and the hiding place that has once been used may be again. I had persuaded myself that we should find Mr. Douglas under this roof.”
“And how long have you been playing this trick upon us, Mr. Holmes?” said the Inspector angrily. “How long have you allowed us to waste ourselves upon a search that you knew to be an absurd one?”
“Not one instant, my dear Mr. Mac. Only last night did I form my views of the case. As
