“Here,” said Holmes, unfastening his clasp knife. “I’ll cut the bonds. It will be quicker. Never mind about your medical instruments, Watson. The boy comes with us. See if you can find him some outdoor clothes!”

In two minutes I had the lad dressed. He offered no resistance to this, but nor did he take any active part in the process. His manner was one of strange, silent passivity. Several times, I spoke to him, to ask a question or make some reassuring remark, but although he appeared to follow all that I said, he never uttered a sound, and it was clear that he was in a state of shock. As I pulled some clothes onto his thin little figure, I had made a rapid assessment of his condition. In my opinion, there was very little physically wrong with him – or nothing that a few solid meals would not cure anyway – but probably as a result of the treatment he had endured, and the lack of food, his temperature was up and his brow was clammy, so I wrapped him in an old blanket I found in a cupboard.

“I’ll carry him,” I said as we prepared to leave the room.

“Good man!” cried Holmes. “Now, Miss Borrow, is there a way we can reach your guardian’s study without passing through the main hall?”

“This way,” said she, and led us quickly along the corridor to the other end, where there was a second staircase, narrower than the one by which we had ascended. “This leads all the way down to the ground floor,” said she, “and comes out directly opposite the door of Mr Hartley Lessingham’s study.”

As we followed her down the stair, I could hear the sound of hurrying footsteps and urgent voices calling from elsewhere in the house, but we reached the study without encountering anyone, and shut the door firmly behind us. It was a large room, situated at the back of the house, with a tall window overlooking a broad terrace. Beyond the terrace, a smooth lawn sloped gradually down to a large ornamental lake, perhaps two hundred yards away. Three of the study walls were lined with bookshelves, and in the centre of the room was a very large mahogany desk. I laid the boy gently on a couch, and watched as Holmes rapidly pulled open the drawers of the desk.

“It was not my original intention to search this desk,” said he, without looking up, “but we have already laid ourselves open to a charge of aggravated trespass – not to mention kidnapping when we get the boy away from here – so that whatever else we do will scarcely make our guilt any worse in the eyes of the law. We may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Ah!” cried he all at once, pausing in his rapid survey of the contents of the desk. “This is interesting! It is as I suspected!”

Miss Borrow and I leaned forward to see. Holmes had been sifting through a thick sheaf of loose papers, which he had taken from a drawer. The one that had particularly arrested his attention contained the name “Margaret Hartley Lessingham”, written over and over again at random, all over the page, with, here and there, a few other odd words and phrases.

“Is this your uncle’s handwriting?” Holmes asked Miss Borrow.

“Undoubtedly,” said she. “But what does it mean? Can it be that under his harsh exterior he yet harbours a deep affection for my aunt, and that this repeated invocation of her name is his means of expressing his grief at her continued absence?”

“I fancy it might bear some other interpretation,” returned Holmes, as he continued to sift through the contents of the desk.

“But surely those words there,” the girl persisted, pointing to a line of writing, “are ‘send love’, and are followed by Aunt Margaret’s name?”

Holmes glanced quickly at the words she had indicated. “I think,” said he, “that if you examine it more closely you will see that your aunt’s name has nothing whatever to do with the words which appear to precede it. The two groups of words appear to me to have been written at two different times. Moreover, the words which you have interpreted as ‘send love’ look to me more like ‘see above’.”

“What, then?”

“I shall tell you later. Are the stables far from the house?”

Miss Borrow shook her head. “No,” said she, “they are no distance at all.”

“Do you think that the groom would put a pony in the shafts of a trap upon your instruction?”

“I believe so.”

“Then have him do so at once, bring it round to the front of the house immediately, and wait for us there.”

She made for the door, but Holmes called her back.

“I think,” said he, “that it might be easier and quicker if you went this way.” He threw up the window sash and indicated the terrace outside. In a trice she had climbed through the window and run off along the terrace. “There’s quite a party building up in the hall out there, by the sound of it,” said he to me, nodding his head in the direction of the door as he continued to work his way methodically but swiftly through the contents of the desk drawers.

I had heard the noises myself, the rapid footsteps and growing murmur of voices. It sounded rather as if the whole of the household were assembling outside the study door, waiting to confront us. I glanced at the boy. He appeared to be recovering with the usual rapidity of childhood, and although he had still not uttered a word, he was now sitting up, and there was a brighter light in his alert, dark eyes. I turned back to my companion. “What do you think we should do?” I asked him.

“It might be as well—” began Holmes, but I was not to learn what was in his mind, for he broke off as the noise in the corridor outside abruptly increased and someone began to turn the door handle. “Quickly!” cried he in an urgent tone. “Pick up the boy and be ready to leave at once!”

I just had time to gather up the boy in my arms once more, and wrap the blanket about him, when the door was pushed wide open. In the doorway stood a grey-haired, distinguished-looking man of fifty-odd, who was evidently the butler. Upon his features was an expression of both incomprehension and censure, and it was evident that the present circumstances fell quite outside his experience. In a crush behind him, pushing forward to see what was happening in the study, were ranged puzzled faces of every age and type, both male and female; it seemed that the whole domestic complement of the household must be present. Two liveried footmen, in particular, caught my eye, for they were both carrying stout cudgels and had expressions of great ferocity upon their features. Holmes glanced up, then returned to something he was writing in his notebook. Presently he finished, closed the notebook and replaced it in his pocket in a deliberate, unhurried manner. Then he turned to address the butler.

“Yes?” said he in an unconcerned tone. “What is it?”

“May I enquire, sir,” responded the butler after a moment, “what you are doing here, and by what right you are examining private papers belonging to my master, Mr Hartley Lessingham?”

“Certainly you may,” returned Holmes in an affable tone, “if you will provide me with a satisfactory explanation as to why you have done nothing to protect this child while he was in this household.”

“Really, sir,” said the butler, who was clearly surprised at this response, “it is hardly my place to speak of matters that are no concern of mine.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “Well, then, I will make it your concern.” He motioned to me to bring the boy to him, then he carefully turned back the blanket to reveal the child’s hideously bruised leg. There was a sharp intake of breath from those in the corridor, and the butler frowned and put his hand up to his face. “Have you ever seen bruises as bad as these on a child before?” asked Holmes.

“No, sir,” returned the butler, a pained expression upon his features.

“No,” said Holmes, “and nor, I believe, has my colleague, who is a medical man of considerable experience.”

“As I understand the matter, sir,” the butler ventured after a moment, “Master Edwin had a bad fall near the river.”