“Not much fun for you, doing this for somebody who is nothing to you,” said Aaron.

“I shouldn’t if you were unsympathetic to me,” said Lilly. “As it is, it’s happened so, and so we’ll let be.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly eight o’clock.”

“Oh, my Lord, the opera.”

And Aaron got half out of bed. But as he sat on the bedside he knew he could not safely get to his feet. He remained a picture of dejection.

“Perhaps we ought to let them know,” said Lilly.

But Aaron, blank with stupid misery, sat huddled there on the bedside without answering.

“Ill run round with a note,” said Lilly. “I suppose others have had flu, besides you. Lie down!”

But Aaron stupidly and dejectedly sat huddled on the side of the bed, wearing old flannel pyjamas of Lilly’s, rather small for him. He felt too sick to move.

“Lie down! Lie down!” said Lilly. “And keep still while I’m gone. I shan’t be more than ten minutes.”

“I don’t care if I die,” said Aaron.

Lilly laughed.

“You’re a long way from dying,” said he, “or you wouldn’t say it.”

But Aaron only looked up at him with queer, far–off, far haggard eyes, something like a criminal who is just being executed.

“Lie down!” said Lilly, pushing him gently into the bed. “You won’t improve yourself sitting there, anyhow.”

Aaron lay down, turned away, and was quite still. Lilly quietly left the room on his errand.

The doctor did not come until ten o’clock: and worn out with work when he did come.

“Isn’t there a lift in this establishment?” he said, as he groped his way up the stone stairs. Lilly had heard him, and run down to meet him.

The doctor poked the thermometer under Aaron’s tongue and felt the pulse. Then he asked a few questions: listened to the heart and breathing.

“Yes, it’s the flu,” he said curtly. “Nothing to do but to keep warm in bed and not move, and take plenty of milk and liquid nourishment. I’ll come round in the morning and give you an injection. Lungs are all right so far.”

“How long shall I have to be in bed?” said Aaron.

“Oh—depends. A week at least.”

Aaron watched him sullenly—and hated him. Lilly laughed to himself. The sick man was like a dog that is ill but which growls from a deep corner, and will bite if you put your hand in. He was in a state of black depression.

Lilly settled him down for the night, and himself went to bed. Aaron squirmed with heavy, pained limbs, the night through, and slept and had bad dreams. Lilly got up to give him drinks. The din in the market was terrific before dawn, and Aaron suffered bitterly.

In the morning he was worse. The doctor gave him injections against pneumonia.

“You wouldn’t like me to wire to your wife?” said Lilly.

“Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the matter?”

“I think it very unlikely.”

“Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in it?” He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a bride’s wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water. “There,” said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile. “There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.”

“Oh, indeed!” said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air. “You dragged them from the Serpentine?”

“No. They were found floating near the margin by a parkkeeper. They have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off.”

“By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body is to be found in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive at through this?”

“At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance.”

“I am afraid that you will find it difficult.”

“Are you, indeed, now?” cried Lestrade with some bitterness. “I am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar.”

“And how?”

“In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the card-case is a note. And here is the very note.” He slapped it down upon the table in front of him. “Listen to this:

“You will see me when all is ready. Come at once.

“F. H. M.

Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the door and which lured her within their reach.”

“Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing. “You really are very fine indeed. Let me see it.” He took up the paper in a listless way, but his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of satisfaction. “This is indeed important,” said he.

“Ha! you find it so?”

“Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly.”

Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. “Why,” he shrieked, “you’re looking at the wrong side!”

“On the contrary, this is the right side.”

“The right side? You’re mad! Here is the note written in pencil over here.”

“And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill, which interests me deeply.”

“There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said Lestrade.

“Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s. 6d., glass sherry, 8d.