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Updated: June 28, 2025
This frequently happens, as there is a branch line beyond Pegram." Mr. Sherlaw Kombs pondered for a few moments, smoking his pipe silently. "I presume you wish the solution in time for to-morrow's paper?" "Bless my soul, no. The editor thought if you evolved a theory in a month you would do well." "My dear sir, I do not deal with theories, but with facts.
He left in a speechless condition, and I saw him go up the street with his hat still in his hand. Sherlaw Kombs relapsed into his old lounging attitude, with his hands clasped behind his head. The smoke came from his lips in quick puffs at first, then at longer intervals. I saw he was coming to a conclusion, so I said nothing. Finally he spoke in his most dreamy manner.
I found him playing the violin with a look of sweet peace and serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the countenances of those within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calm indicated that Kombs had been deeply annoyed about something.
A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging attitude. "I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective," said the stranger, coming within the range of the smoker's vision. "This is Mr. Kombs," I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly, and seemed half-asleep. "Allow me to introduce myself," continued the stranger, fumbling for a card. "There is no need.
At this moment the whistle sounded shrilly, and we felt the grind of the air-brakes. "The Pegram signal again," cried Kombs, with something almost like enthusiasm. "This is indeed luck. We will get out here, Whatson, and test the matter." As the train stopped, we got out on the right-hand side of the line.
"Perhaps you are right," remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party. Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland courtesy "You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr. Wilber Scribbings?" The journalist started. "How do you know my name?" he gasped. Kombs waved his hand impatiently.
"That is just the point on which I wish to satisfy myself. Excuse me for a moment." Mr. Sherlaw Kombs drew down the window on the right hand side, and examined the top of the casing minutely with a magnifying glass. Presently he heaved a sigh of relief, and drew up the sash. "Just as I expected," he remarked, speaking more to himself than to me.
We followed the guard, and the moment he had imparted his news there was a suppressed scream in the carriage. Instantly a lady came out, followed by a florid-faced gentleman, who scowled at the guard. We entered the now empty compartment, and Kombs said: "We would like to be alone here until we reach Brewster." "I'll see to that, sir," answered the guard, locking the door.
I cried, aghast, "what is this?" "It is the pistol," said Kombs quietly. It was!! Journalistic London will not soon forget the sensation that was caused by the record of the investigations of Sherlaw Kombs, as printed at length in the next day's Evening Blade. Would that my story ended here. Alas! Kombs contemptuously turned over the pistol to Scotland Yard.
'Good God! I cried, aghast, 'what is this? 'It is the pistol, said Kombs quietly. It was!! Journalistic London will not soon forget the sensation that was caused by the record of the investigations of Sherlaw Kombs, as printed at length in the next day's Evening Blade. Would that my story ended here. Alas! Kombs contemptuously turned over the pistol to Scotland Yard.
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