I stayed with him over the next two days as he paced and thought and looked through endless books, comparing every part of the rifle to his indices of weapons and their manufacture.

"I see its heritage," he said at one point, "in the weapons I observe today. Like one who is skilled in such things may look at the weather and say what conditions will be a day or a year hence."

"Holmes, what do you mean?"

"It is a 6.5mm military carbine, probably of Italian manufacture, but I do not know if I may class those inferences as facts, for facts are occurrences, and... come, you will see." He beckoned me over to his microscope, and bade me look into it. I brought into focus a tiny part of the firing mechanism that had been imprinted with a name: Mannlicher � Carcano, and a date �

Once more, I leapt back from a sight. "Holmes, this must be a misdirection, a mirage designed to throw off your aim. It makes me think of �"

"Myself also, Watson, but he is dead. And even he could not alter the world to his whim. That date is real." He walked back to the sideboard, and began to stuff his pipe.

That night I stayed with the woman I have previously mentioned. She was a typist, who made a poor living which I was pleased to supplement on an exclusive and voluntary basis.

I felt appropriate guilt, obviously, but in the early hours of that morning, it was as if guilt had reared up out of my sleep and found me out.

I was suddenly awake, and a terrible sound was shaking the building from top to bottom, as if a train were passing. I could hear cries from other abodes within. I went to the window. There were lights up in the sky! I crossed myself. My darling was at my side then. I told her to dress, that we would make our way at speed to � I was about to say to 221B, and hang all decency, or... I do not know, perhaps I was more prudent and said we would find my consulting rooms.

A dark shape was suddenly between me and the light. It moved towards me - Someone was outside! The window shattered.

My narrative breaks here. I do not recall the rifle butt clubbing me to the ground. I was told of it.

I am sure, however, that I heard the struggle and the two shots that made it cease.

Strange hands slapped my face. I called aloud for my darling. I opened my eyes.

I was sitting beside a dark figure. He had the eyes of the devil. With him sat other figures. It took me a moment to realise that I could understand them, and that they knew my name and were speaking to me. They were shouting above the same great noise that I had heard above the building where warmth and love had lived so distantly now.

I turned to find my darling. And saw that we were high above the city. I had never seen the like. I have never ascended in a balloon. The lights! The somber mass of parliament! The great darkness of the river!

But I had no joy in that sight then. I was out of control, yelling threats and insults. They were telling me she was dead! That they had shot her! The villains, oh the villains!

They had enough of me then. They took me to the back of their craft, opened a door that seemed too small to be a door for men, and threw me inside.

A match was struck, and Holmes was looking at me from a bare wooden bench. He showed small signs of violence on his person.

"Watson, so they have you also! I thought I had tracked them down, but they were prepared for me, they sprang a trap! Imagine that! What is your condition? You must bear up, old fellow, we are attacked!"

It took me a moment to answer him. "I shall bear up with the intent of fighting," I finally whispered, keeping the passion from my voice as best I could.

He must have understood about her, about the loss of her, from everything about me. It is hard to have secrets from such a man, and at that moment I had none from anyone.

"Good fellow," he said gently. "I have had much to observe, perhaps too much, and I have come to some conclusions. They are raiders, a small party, though their arms belie it. They do not come to conquer, but to plunder, and I believe their plunder is, uniquely, us!"

At that point my narrative breaks again, into unconsciousness, and I can only suppose I have my friend to thank that there was not an end to it.