When trying to select which of my friend, Sherlock Holmes’, cases to lay before the public, I have often had to take consistency into account. For it was not unusual, given the many puzzles and problems with which he was presented, that a client’s story might seem to contain those elements of the unique and even grotesque that Holmes found so gratifying, only for the case to later evaporate into the banal and the commonplace. Often, the most absorbing investigations began humbly, with a detail that seemed just slightly awry, such as a discarded photograph of a lady found lying upon the ground. And not since our encounter with the notorious Irene Adler had a photograph of a beautiful woman posed such a threat to a nation’s stability as the one in the case I am about to relate.

           It was on a gloomy, rainy day in the spring of 1896, just after Holmes and I had finished lunch, when Mrs Hudson entered our sitting room to announce Mr August Pierpont, a tall and sturdy man with graying sideburns and moustache.

           “I am sorry to interrupt your meal, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. If you like, I can return later, but circumstances have become unnerving enough that I felt I should waste no time in seeing you.”

           As Holmes regarded the man’s flushed countenance and agitated respiration, he smiled slightly and replied, “Of course, Mr Pierpont, I would be happy to hear about these circumstances which have so unnerved you. Please, have a seat by the fire and tell us your story from the beginning. Watson, please pour our guest some brandy to calm him, and Mrs Hudson, those dishes can wait. Please make yourself scarce.” Holmes took a seat by the fire and relit his pipe as he waited for our indignant landlady to depart and for our guest to sit down.

           “Now, Mr Pierpont, please proceed. I realise that you will need to be getting back to the bank soon.”

           “But, Mr Holmes, how could you know?”

           “It is simplicity itself. Your frock coat and pants are of the very best black broadcloth, yet they have become somewhat shiny in the back, suggesting a job that requires you to remain sedentary for long periods. The slight stoop in your shoulders also marks you as a man who spends most of his time hunched over his desk. The pink corner of the Financial Times in your inner pocket suggests that you have something to do with finance, and the traces on the fingers and thumb of your right hand of that rosin that is frequently used by people who spend a great deal of their time counting money is also suggestive. Finally, that small, gold ornament depending from your fob with the initials, “IBE”, engraved upon it is conclusive: you are employed by the Imperial Bank of England on Lombard Street. As I noted before, you are too well dressed to be a clerk, but I know you are not the director or branch manager of that particular establishment. I’d venture, though, that you are in a position of some authority.”

           “I’m an accounts manager for the Imperial Bank. That is uncanny, Mr Holmes!”

           “Please, state your case,” replied Holmes as he leaned back into his armchair and assumed the weary, heavy-lidded expression which veiled his keen and eager nature.

           “Well, Mr Holmes, it may be as nothing, but three days ago an odd series of seeming coincidences began to unfold before me. I’m a bachelor and own a small house in Christopher Street, Finsbury. As I was leaving for work Monday morning, I noticed what appeared to be a piece of litter lying on the stoop outside my front door. When I attempted to sweep it aside with my foot, it clung there stubbornly, so I knelt to pick it up. Mr Holmes, it was a photograph of a woman.”

           Fishing in one of his waistcoat pockets, Pierpont retrieved a small photograph of the most striking women I had ever seen. Raven-black hair framed a delicately and perfectly proportioned face of almost porcelain complexion, and there was an intensity in her dark eyes that gave the photograph an extraordinarily lifelike quality.

           “The back of the picture is still slightly tacky with adhesive,” observed Holmes. “May I keep this?”

           “Of course. I only kept it on the off chance that I might bump into its subject in the neighbourhood and return it.” As he said this, a flush once again returned to his countenance.

           “You do not know the subject?”

           “I’d never seen her before then, Mr Holmes. But on my way to work that morning, just as I was entering the bank, I saw her standing just outside a jeweller’s, five doors down. I could not help but stare, and as I stood there trying to determine if it was, in fact, the same woman, she turned and seemed to recognize me. She took a step toward me, but I then lost sight of her as a passing throng of young clerks passed by. I stood there, like a fool, for some time but was unable to spot her again.”

           “So you’re unsure that it was the same woman?”

           “I was, Mr Holmes, but the thing that is so extraordinary is that I’ve seen her several times since. As you have noted, I don’t have much opportunity to stretch my legs at the bank, and I try to walk as much as possible. However, on Monday evening, I worked rather late and decided to take a cab home. But just as I was putting the key in the front door of my house, I saw her again. She was walking toward me, and I had just caught sight of her before she turned into an alley three houses down from my house. I could hardly believe my eyes and immediately turned to follow her, but when I turned into the alley, there was no sign of her. Yesterday, I saw her again, both as I was arriving at and departing from work, and again, she vanished as suddenly as she appeared.”

           “Did she appear near the jeweller’s yesterday, as well?”

           “Yes, in that vicinity. I was relating the events to two of the clerks at work, and one of them joked that it sounded like a case for Sherlock Holmes.

           “For lunch, I decided to take advantage of the break in the rain and walk to the George and Vulture. As I turned into Birchin Lane, there she was again! She was on the opposite side of the street and walking in the opposite direction. It did not look as though she had seen me, so I followed her, sticking to the opposite side of the road. We made our way almost as far south as Cannon Street before an omnibus passed between us, and I lost sight of her.”

           “Could you tell from where she’d come?” asked Holmes.

           “No, she seems to appear and vanish like a ghost. I could stand no more and immediately resolved to hail a cab and, all jesting aside, consult you.”

           “Your story contains elements that intrigue me, Mr Pierpont, but I’m afraid that there is not yet a sufficient amount of data with which to work. I do promise to assist you, if necessary, in this matter and will ask you to please leave me your card and home address. Do not hesitate to contact me if anything else of significance happens. Watson will see you to the door.”

           With that, I led our guest back out and reassured him as he donned his hat and coat that Holmes would do everything in his power to help and that he should not worry about imposing upon us in the future. When I returned to our sitting room, Holmes was still sitting with his feet upon the fireplace fender, puffing away at his oily, black clay pipe.

           “It is remarkable the lengths to which an old bachelor will go having caught sight of a pretty face,” I remarked.

           “A phenomenon with which you are no doubt familiar,” retorted Holmes, smiling.

           “Well, to be fair, if her photograph does her any justice at all, I probably would not object to walking after her in the rain, either.”

           “Then you shall have your chance. I have a small matter to attend to in the morning. I was hoping you would follow Mr Pierpont to work tomorrow morning and report back to me everything that you see,” said Holmes as he stood and handed Pierpont’s card to me.

           I assured Holmes that he could rely upon me, and next morning found me standing half a block from the banker’s neat, three-story home in Christopher Street. It had stopped raining but a cold, damp fog had settled heavily upon The City, and when I saw Pierpont hail a cab, I immediately did the same, taking care not to be seen by him. On the way from his front door to the hansom, I noticed no change in his behaviour, and we travelled slowly but without incident to Lombard Street. As he alighted from the cab, however, Pierpont turned dramatically and stared intently to his right. I quickly left my cab and tried to follow his gaze but could only see hoards of clerks, businessmen, and workmen all rushing about their customary early morning business in The City. Pierpont began to look rather wild and rushed down the street. Trying to be discreet, I was at a disadvantage as I followed him, but I was certain that, if our mysterious lady were somewhere in Lombard Street, I would surely have seen her. After having gotten about halfway down the block, I turned quickly into a tobacco shop as Pierpont returned dejectedly to the bank. Once he was out of sight, I continued to reconnoitre, but I never did glimpse the black-haired woman from the photograph.

           I had just finished lunch when Holmes returned to Baker Street, and I related to him all that had occurred that morning.

           “I am sorry I don’t have more for you, Holmes.”

           “Not at all. Your professional opinion may be of value here. Did Pierpont seem . . . healthy to you . . . compos mentis?”

           “Actually, Holmes when I saw the change in his features as he got out of the cab, I did become concerned. But of course, under the circumstances, there is no way to be certain about the state of his mind.”

           “No, but it is, at least, another possibility. But what is this?”

           A frantic banging at the front door had begun, and soon, above Mrs Hudson’s protestations, I could hear rapid footsteps on the stairs. Looking even more worryingly frantic than before, Mr Pierpont burst into our quarters.

           “Mr Holmes, I saw her again! And she led me straight to a murder!”

           “A murder? Mr Pierpont, this is really most grat . . . fascinating. Please, take off your coat and have a seat. Have you informed the police?”

           After helping the banker out of his coat and pouring a drink, we sat down to hear his story.

           “I have told Inspector Lestrade, who is the detective in charge. He told me he would wait for you at the scene of the crime.”

           “Then we must not keep him waiting. Please, from the beginning.”

           “Since I was unable to go yesterday, I thought I would walk to the George and Vulture for lunch today. Again, as I turned the corner into Birchin Lane, I saw the woman from the photograph on the other side of the street, heading in the opposite direction. This time, given the fog, I resolved to take no chances. I darted across the street, and after miraculously emerging in one piece onto the other side, I commenced to follow her. I was bolder this time, but she did not turn around as we headed south, past Cannon Street and, eventually, past Upper Thames Street. However, I was afraid she did spy me as she pivoted on her heel and quickly turned into a side street. Afraid of losing her, I quickened my pace and managed to catch up again before she turned into another, even narrower alley. It seemed remarkable that she wouldn’t have spotted me as we wove through these tiny, dirty thoroughfares. Though I was unfamiliar with the neighbourhood, I could tell we were still bearing south in an extremely roundabout way. And as crumbling tenements gave way to even seedier pubs and sooty warehouses, I could also tell we were getting very close to the Thames. I determined finally to call out to her, because I was truly concerned for her safety as I saw sailors, dockworkers, and assorted riffraff leering at her out of the fog. But just as I opened my mouth to yell, we suddenly emerged onto the docks, the Christopher Docks, to be precise and as I later learned.

           “She never said a word, Mr Holmes, but abruptly stopped and stepped to one side, looking toward two figures on the dock who were barely visible in the dense riverside fog. I was unprepared to stop and came within less than ten feet of the two men before halting. To my surprise, one of them was another accounts manager from my bank, a Mr Lewis Owen. He was on his knees and seemed to be unconscious. The other man, who was unknown to me, had a hold of Owen from under his arms, a truncheon still gripped in his right hand. I called Owens’ name, barely realising what I was doing, but it was too late. The ruffian had already swung him around and pushed him into the river. The murderous brute then turned upon me, brandishing the truncheon, and I’m ashamed to say, I turned and ran faster than I’ve ever run.

           “I’d gotten no further than two blocks from the docks before seeing a constable and calling for help. My pursuer, however, had abandoned the chase and had disappeared back into the fog. The constable and I rushed back to the dock to help poor Lewis, but all we saw of him, upon returning, was his top hat floating the water. I told him my story and repeated it to Inspector Lestrade when he arrived on the scene.”

           “And what did our friend, Lestrade, make of the affair?”

           “He seemed to think it was merely a mugging that had gone too far.”

           “And his thoughts on the woman?”

           “He appeared uninterested.”

           “Typical. I don’t suppose you saw what happened to her?”

           “No, Mr Holmes, She was gone when I turned to run.”

           “And the assailant’s appearance?”

           “He was about my height in rough brown tweed and a misshapen brown bowler. His face, what I could make out, was clean-shaven. He was a little remarkable looking in that his mouth was rather long, almost reptilian looking, and he had either no or very thin eyebrows.”

           “This is really most interesting,” remarked Holmes with that keen look in his eyes that always preceded the hunt.

           “I don’t know. What if I have been beset by a spirit from the other plane, sent as a harbinger of doom and disaster? Dear God! What if I should continue seeing her?”

           “Please restrain yourself, Mr Pierpont. That you were being led somewhere is certain, but we must confine ourselves to physical entities of a far more commonplace type. How well did you know the victim?”

           “Not very. He began working at the bank about five months ago, replacing Peters when he left unexpectedly. I know that he did good work, but he kept mostly to himself. He never mentioned a family or anything about his social life.”

           “Please think. Is there anything to connect you with Owen?

           “I’m sorry, but I can think of nothing. We worked in the same bank but never exchanged anything more than the most casual of greetings.”

           “Do you know if he was friends with any of the other employees?”

           “Not that I’m aware of. He came to the bank promptly every morning and departed by himself in the evening.”

           “Alright, Mr Pierpont. Are you returning to the bank now? Good. Watson and I need to meet with Lestrade while there is still a chance his men have not entirely obliterated every scrap of evidence from the scene. We will stop by the bank afterwards.”

           Holmes and I took a cab to the Christopher Docks, and the ride was made interminably long by both the fog and by Holmes having fallen into one of his fits of reticence. Upon disembarking from the cab, once we had arrived at our destination, a smile returned to his face as he addressed our old comrade, and occasional rival, Inspector Lestrade.

           “Greetings, Lestrade! I hear you have met one of my clients.”

           The cold, dirty fog was even denser here by the river, and it really did feel like we were on a different plane, with the shades of policemen, sailors, and stevedores hovering around us. Lestrade peered at us through the mist.

           “It seems you are one step ahead of us this time, Mr Holmes. But never you worry. We’ll close the gap before long.”

           “I have every faith.”

           “So, have you learned anything relevant from your client?”

           “To be honest, I sent him on his way yesterday, because there seemed too little to go on. All that had happened were his continual encounters with the woman in this photograph,” said Holmes, handing the picture to Lestrade. “You may keep that.”

           “Thank you, Holmes. He told us about his series of run-ins with the lady. At first, I thought them insignificant, but now I’m not so sure.”

           “What’s made you change your mind?”

           “It seemed, at first, like a routine mugging in a dangerous area, but then, a few moments ago, when he overheard me mention that the poor fellow worked for the Imperial Bank, one of the other detectives mentioned that that bank’s director is at present being done for embezzlement.”

           “You don’t say.”

           “Now I’m wondering if Owen were somehow involved in this mess?”

           “You know, Holmes,” I interjected, “you said something earlier about Pierpont being led here. What if the woman was trying to lead him here to prevent this from happening?”

           “It’s a leap. Pierpont isn’t the first person to whom I would turn for protection, but leaps of the imagination are crucial in situations like these. Have your men found the body?”

           “No, just Owen’s hat floating in the river. I’ve already requested some boats to drag for him, but it will probably be some time before they get here, given the weather.”

           “I don’t suppose there were any witnesses?”

           “Here? The lads are talking to people, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

           “May I take a look?”

           “By all means,” replied Lestrade and handed Holmes a bull’s-eye lantern, for despite its being mid-afternoon, it was becoming quite dark.

           After closely examining the bricks of the docks for several minutes, Holmes returned the lantern.

           “Do you have anything to add, Holmes?” asked Lestrade.

           “Only that the ground corroborates Pierpont’s account, nothing more than we already know. There is a fine layer of mud that has been disturbed which could be indicative of a struggle, but there is no way of making out any prints. There are also some clothing threads that match his description of the subject. If you find the body or get anything out of the director, please let me know.”

           “And where are you headed?”

           “To the bank for now. Tomorrow, I shall try to learn more of Mr Lewis Owen. I’ll let you know if I find anything of interest.”

           We returned to our awaiting cab and proceeded north to Lombard Street and the Imperial Bank. When we arrived a short time later, the disruption caused by the director’s arrest was still very much in evidence as both staff and patrons milled nervously about the large, marble lobby and desperate sounding clerks attempted to placate frightened sounding customers. Evidently, the arrest had already reached the newspapers. We entered a doorway to the left and walked down a narrow, wainscoted hallway to Pierpont’s office. As we reached his door, he was just ushering out a sceptical looking older man, asserting repeatedly that the client’s investments were perfectly safe. He seemed glad of any distraction and invited us in. Before entering, Holmes stopped to examine a photograph that hung on the wall.

           “It is a picture from our last annual Christmas party,” offered Pierpont.

           “Is Owen in it?”

           “Why, yes, he is. Right . . . here.”

           “May I borrow it?”

           Pierpont looked at Holmes dubiously and then shrugged.

           “I don’t suppose, at present, that anyone will miss it,” he said, sighing.

           After sitting down in some plush, leather armchairs before Pierpont’s large, mahogany desk, Holmes asked the banker if he had been able to discover anything more about his murdered coworker.

           “I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but in all of today’s chaos, I haven’t had time to talk to anyone about him. As soon as things settle down, I’ll try to learn more.”

           “That is perfectly understandable given the circumstances. There is one point on which you can probably enlighten me, however. Would Owen have been in a position to discover your director’s embezzling?”

           “Well, Mr Holmes, without yet knowing the exact circumstances, it would be hard to say. Obviously, he, and I for that matter, have access to the records of every account, including those of the director. If funds were being misappropriated in such a way that it would be discoverable from those records, then he could conceivably have uncovered what was going on. I must say, however, that I would hope a bank’s director, even a crooked one, would be a little more clever.”

           “Thank you. If you find out more, please let us know. I shall be in touch.”

           As Holmes and I made our way back through the crowd in the echoing lobby, I attempted to sound him out.

           “Not very much to go on, is it?”

           “I shall certainly need more data. It is a capital mistake to theorise without data, and I doubt we shall be able to gather more until tomorrow. What do you say to dinner at Simpson’s?”

           That was as much about the case as I was able to get out of Holmes that evening, and after dinner, during which Holmes spoke at length about Vergil’s Georgics and the light that work shed upon the qualities of bees, we returned to Baker Street. I turned in early and awoke shortly after dawn but found that Holmes had already departed. I heard nothing from that entire day until a telegram arrived in the early evening:

           “Come to the Diogenes Club at 6:30 if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.”

           Fortunately, I was available and so not overly annoyed at Holmes’ summons. I arrived at that curious club where members are forbidden to speak or to take the least notice of each other. I was then ushered by a servant into the Stranger’s Room, the only room in which guests and conversation were permitted. Holmes had already arrived and stood to greet me. Another man began to laboriously lift himself from his chair, and I recognized him even before he had turned around to greet me. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes’ older brother, was of considerably greater girth than his sibling, but he possessed the same keen, steel-gray eyes as his brother. According to Holmes, Mycroft’s deductive and reasoning powers exceeded his own, and the specialism he provided his employer, the British government, was no less than “omniscience”. Mycroft was also a founding member of this peculiar club and, when not at his lodgings in Pall Mall, could invariably either be found here or in Whitehall. After we had all exchanged greetings, we sat down, and Holmes began to address us.

           “Your timing is excellent, Watson. I was just recounting the events of the past few days to brother Mycroft and just arrived at my breakthrough today at Somerset House. That is where I spent the entire day, going through the records of several of the government offices that are housed there. I was hoping there would be something—a will, an insurance policy, anything—that might shed some light on our missing banker.”

           “But Holmes, Owen isn’t really missing. He’s no doubt lying at the bottom of the Thames,” I argued.

           “No, Watson,” he said smiling, “even when we were at the docks yesterday, I had serious doubts that a murder had actually been committed. The whole scenario seemed too obviously staged. The appearance of the photograph and the woman, the way she contrived to get Pierpont to follow her, it reminded me of other such cases. You noticed yourself yesterday that Pierpont was being led. Why? Was he being led away from The City so that a crime could be perpetrated, just as Hall Pycroft was led away from Mawson & Williams or Jabez Wilson was led away from his pawnshop in the affair of the red-headed men? Or was it to lead him to somewhere, possibly to witness a crime, like John Scott Eccles when he visited Wisteria Lodge? The elaborate tableau at the scene of the crime and commitment of Owen to his part suggested the latter. Very few men would be willing to take a swim in the Thames at this time of year. Also, aside from the ongoing fraud of the director, who was already in the process of being apprehended, there was no evidence of any other crime.

           “But there was another detail, one of those trivialities which often proves infinitely important, that kept nagging at me as I leafed through page after page of records.”

           “That Peters had left unexpectedly?” queried Mycroft.

           “Precisely! That Peters, the employee whom Owen had succeeded, had left the bank unexpectedly. I have often expounded upon the importance of imagination to detection, and it was as I was wading through that paperwork and thinking about Peters, that a real possibility began to emerge. What if Peters was coerced or bribed into leaving so that Owen could take his place? It would just be possible if the timing was right, if a word was spoken in the right ear, if there was a director present who was already compromised. This is all simple enough. But why had Owen been planted? What could he have been after? If investigators had been closely watching the bank and building a case against the director, it would have been difficult for Owen to have stolen any money, and recent events seem to indicate a greater sophistication. As I opened yet another manila folder, I had an epiphany. What if it wasn’t the actual money or even individual transactions, but about this aggregation of their surrogates, the records and ledgers themselves? One could learn a great deal about people from their financial records: their whereabouts, their travels, their contacts, employers, associations. A criminal or espionage organisation could do much with such information. At the moment, I know of no such criminal enterprise that would be up to such a scheme, not since Moriarty fell to his death at the Reichenbach Falls. But Mycroft, I was wondering if perhaps your people had any dealings with the Imperial Bank?”

           “Oh, Sherlock, this time you have outdone yourself. Obviously, this is not to leave this room without my consent, but we do have . . . agents that could possibly be tracked, given this scenario you have constructed. And Adolph Meyer, a particularly slippery German agent, matches Pierpont’s description of the eyebrowless, long-mouthed assailant and is known to be in London. I shall see if I can discover his exact whereabouts.”

           “Excellent. I have already begun a search for Owen and will contact you tomorrow to inform you of its progress.”

           As we emerged from the Diogenes Club and made our way back into the evening’s fog, though it was as yet unknown to me, Holmes’ search was already proceeding, as countless urchins, the neglected children of London, crept from alley to alley and from rooftop to rooftop in the murky, gas-lit gloom, in search of the banker, Owen. Holmes had provided Wiggins, the leader of this ragtag legion, which Holmes had dubbed the “Baker Street Irregulars”, with the photograph he had borrowed from the bank and offered a reward to the boy that could find Owen first.

           While this unseen manhunt continued, Holmes and I returned to Baker Street so that he could root through the agony columns of recent newspapers in search of some communications between the spies. Though Holmes had frequently been rewarded in the past by such sources, he was destined to be frustrated that night. In the early hours of the morning, he must have given up, for I heard from my chamber the discordant tones of his violin below.

           By morning, the fog of acrid tobacco smoke in our sitting room rivalled that of the city without. Refusing breakfast, Holmes paced nervously and continued to consume pipe after pipe of shag. Finally, at a little after ten o’clock, a district messenger arrived with word from Mycroft. Much to Holmes' annoyance, he unfortunately had been unable to track down Meyer’s whereabouts. But just as the young messenger opened the door to leave the house, a raggedly dressed and dirty adolescent squeezed past him and bounded up the stairs to pound rapidly on our door.

           “Ah, Wiggins! I see that for once you have followed my instructions to leave the rest of the lads outside,” said Holmes, as he opened the door. “We don’t want to upset Mrs Hudson. Now, quickly, have you run our prey to ground?”

           “Stinson saw him on his way back to his flat after lunch. He lives at 110 Vine Street in Aldgate, flat number two. He only just told me about it, so Owen should still be there. Stinson posted Buckley to stand watch, just in case, though.”

           “Excellent, Wiggins! Please give this and my thanks to Stinson and take this for yourself. Also, please go and take this note to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard.”

           When he had finished writing, he handed the note to Wiggins who bounded back down the stairs with it. At Holmes' suggestion, I retrieved my service revolver and we made our way by cab without delay to Aldgate. We stopped just around the corner from Vine Street and walked to a nearby pub to await Lestrade. We didn’t have long to wait, and within half an hour, we had brought Lestrade up to speed over a pint. Having agreed upon a course of action, we departed the pub and walked around the corner into Vine Street. Number 110 was a small, but nondescript house in the centre of the block. In the entrance hall, a small, greasy-haired boy was playing cards, but on seeing Holmes, he gathered up the deck and approached us.

           “He’s still there, Mr Holmes.”

           “Thank you, Buckley. If you could do just one more thing for me, there’s a shilling in it for you. My friends and I are going to quietly go upstairs and stand by the door of number two. Once we are in position, I want you to come upstairs, bang on the door of the flat, and announce that you have a message for a Mr Owen from a Mr Pierpont. Here, take this in case he can see you from within,” said Holmes as he handed the eager boy a blank piece of paper and his shilling.

           We made our way silently up the stairs. The apartment was to our left on the second floor, and Holmes moved to the left of the door, while Lestrade and I stood to the right with our revolvers drawn. We were no sooner in place than we heard Buckley come bounding up the stairs. He ran over and stopped before the door.

           “Delivery! I have a message for a Mr Owen!” he cried as he knocked on the door. A muffled voice responded from within.

           “What? You must be mistaken . . . There’s no one here by that name.”

           “It says it’s for Mr Owen of number two from a Mr Pierpont!”

           “But that’s not . . .”

           Suddenly, there was the sound of a bolt being drawn, and the door cautiously opened. Behind it was the man I had seen identified in the photograph at the bank, Mr Lester Owen. The guns Lestrade and I pointed at him were the first things he saw, and he froze as Holmes stepped into the open.

           “Hello, Mr Owen. I am Sherlock Holmes, and these are my friends and colleagues, Dr Watson and Inspector Lestrade. Please be so good as to let us in and keep your hands where we can see them.”

           Owen backed nervously into the one-room flat and took a seat upon the bed as Holmes motioned for him to do. The suitcase that lay open upon it indicated what he had been doing before our arrival.

           “Watson, please keep him covered,” Holmes requested as Lestrade cuffed Owen’s hands together.

           “Now, Mr Owen, we can talk, and indeed, it will do you no good to keep silent. We know about your information gathering at the bank, we know about your passing this information on to the German spy, Adolph Meyer, and we know about your attempt to fake your own death so that you could escape punishment for your treason and perhaps go on to repeat it at another establishment.”

           “Wait! Treason? I’m not sure how, but you seem to know even more of this matter than I.”

           “Your contact was a known German agent,” interjected Lestrade. “And I’m sure you know the penalty for treason.”

           “If you can explain to us, it might not go as heavily with you,” resumed Holmes.

           “But what you say can be used against you,” added Lestrade.

           “I understand, but truly I am no traitor. He called himself Lang, and I didn’t know he was a spy . . . or even German, for that matter. He said he only wanted some occasional information—to find out if an account existed for a particular person, if certain transactions were occurring in certain cities, if certain people were conducting business. He wouldn’t tell me why, but he offered me enough money that I hardly cared. Of course, I knew it was unethical, but we never stole anything or tampered with any records. Although, now that you have made this accusation, I can see how such information could have been used. But I swear that, at the time, I didn’t know!”

           “If you are really still at all loyal to your country, I may be able to furnish you with a chance to prove it. But first, what happened to Peters, the man you replaced at the bank?”

           “I was going through a rough patch, having just gotten the sack from a position at an insurance company that was about to go under, when I met Lang at Nicholson’s Pub. As we spoke, he became more familiar with me and said a position was about to open at the Imperial Bank. He said that if I was to apply, he was sure they would find me to be the right man for the job. He winked and promised to make a considerable investment in me in order to insure it. I knew it wasn’t all above board, but I would’ve grasped at anything in my sorry state.”

           “Why choose such an elaborate method of disappearing?”

           “Lang, or Meyer, was one of those types who thought himself clever. He said he had concocted an ingenious way for me to disappear so that I might be able to work for him elsewhere without a hint of suspicion. He asked me if there was someone at work who knew me and whose testimony would never be questioned. Pierpont seemed perfect. I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the prospect of diving into the Thames, but I’m a strong swimmer, and it wasn’t as awful as I thought it was going to be. In that dense fog, all I had to do was paddle away a short distance. Meyer then helped to lift me out after pretending to chase Pierpont.”

           “Who was the woman Pierpont had been following?”

           “An associate of Meyer’s. I only knew her as Helena, and Meyer had instructed her in advance. Meyer would stand outside the bank and watch for my signal. When I saw Pierpont leaving for lunch, I placed a lamp in my office window with a mirror behind it to increase its illumination. Meyer, upon seeing it, would signal Helena so that she could get a head start. She was to lead Pierpont around through the alleys until we would be ready at the docks, exactly twenty minutes after the signal.”

           “I think that about answers my questions. Now I will offer you a chance to prevent any further damage resulting from this scheme. Are Meyer and his confederate still in London?”

           “I know nothing of her, Mr Holmes, but Meyer said I would be able to reach him until tomorrow if an emergency arose.”

           “And how would you reach him?”

           “There is an unoccupied flat two blocks down the street. It is unfurnished save for a table, a lamp, and a mirror. When I wish to meet with him, I go to the flat and give the same signal that I used at the bank. He then comes here, usually between nine and ten in the evening.”

           “Very good. Lestrade, Watson and I will go give the signal and notify my brother, Mycroft, that we may yet be able to apprehend Meyer. Meet us back here in an hour with some of your men. I want someone in this flat soon after that lamp is lit, regardless of the traditional meeting time.”

           “I’ll have the place surrounded before you return, Holmes.”

           I happen to have a similar build to Owen’s, so just in case Meyer was watching, Holmes thought it best that I go to the flat and give the signal and then meet Holmes and Lestrade back at Owen’s apartment. In the meantime, Holmes walked to a nearby post office to send a telegram to Mycroft. By three o’clock, Holmes, Lestrade, and I were together again in Owen’s flat, and Lestrade’s men were covering the exits of the building and occupying other floors. Even Mycroft Holmes, in an almost unthinkable deviation from his routine, joined us in our vigil. We sat for hours in the little room, Lestrade and Holmes standing on either side of the door, and Mycroft and I sitting along the wall behind the bed, listening carefully to the other tenants going about their business.

           Finally, at a little after nine, we heard footsteps slowly ascend the stairs and begin walking along the hallway toward the apartment. Lestrade and I drew our guns while Holmes brandished the loaded riding crop that was his weapon of choice. The footsteps halted at our door and before our quarry was able to knock a second time, Lestrade had pulled the door open. Meyer, however, was already holding a revolver in his hand, and it was pointed squarely at my head as the door swung open. In an instant, the loaded butt of Holmes’ crop descended on the villain’s wrist with a sharp crack, no doubt fracturing it and releasing his grip upon the pistol. As Meyer howled in pain and frustrated rage, Lestrade pressed the barrel of his gun to the spy’s temple.

           “Don’t move, Meyer, as neither of my friends will hesitate to fire! Lestrade, is he alone?”

           “Yes, Holmes. Come along, lads, and help me get this blackguard downstairs!” yelled Lestrade as several detectives descended the stairs to Owen’s flat.

           As we followed Lestrade and his captive out of the building, Mycroft ruminated, “Excellent work, Sherlock. Even if we have only prevented him from transmitting his most recently obtained information, he will make an excellent trade for any of our operatives that may have been captured as a result of this scheme.”

           “But what about his mysterious accomplice?” I wondered aloud.

           “Yes, she may already be back on the continent,” replied Holmes, “but if she isn’t, we at least know what she looks like. And you have to admit, we did not do badly for three days’ work. Now, I propose we make our way over to Nicholson’s for a toast and a bite to eat, while Mycroft decides what we should tell Mr Pierpont.”