It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but itwas long to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evidentthat it seemed endless; for, in his nervous restlessness he could notsit still, but paced the carriage or drummed with his long, sensitivefingers upon the cushions beside him. Suddenly, however, as weneared our destination he seated himself opposite to me—we hada first-class carriage to ourselves—and laying a hand upon each ofmy knees he looked into my eyes with the peculiarly mischievousgaze which was characteristic of his more imp-like moods.
“Watson,” said he, “I have some recollection that you go armedupon these excursions of ours.”
It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care forhis own safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem sothat more than once my revolver had been a good friend in need. Ireminded him of the fact.
“Yes, yes, I am a little absent-minded in such matters. But haveyou your revolver on you?”
I produced it from my hip-pocket, a short, handy, but veryserviceable little weapon. He undid the catch, shook out thecartridges, and examined it with care.
“It’s heavy—remarkably heavy,” said he.
“Yes, it is a solid bit of work.”
He mused over it for a minute.
“Do you know, Watson,” said he, “I believe your revolver isgoing to have a very intimate connection with the mystery whichwe are investigating.”
“My dear Holmes, you are joking.”
“No, Watson, I am very serious. There is a test before us. Ifthe test comes off, all will be clear. And the test will depend uponthe conduct of this little weapon. One cartridge out. Now wewill replace the other five and put on the safety-catch. So! Thatincreases the weight and makes it a better reproduction.”
I had no glimmer of what was in his mind, nor did he enlightenme, but sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the littleHampshire station. We secured a ramshackle trap, and in a quarterof an hour were at the house of our confidential friend, thesergeant.
“A clue, Mr. Holmes? What is it?”
“It all depends upon the behaviour of Dr. Watson’s revolver,”
said my friend. “Here it is. Now, officer, can you give me ten yardsof string?”
The village shop provided a ball of stout twine.
“I think that this is all we will need,” said Holmes. “Now, ifyou please, we will get off on what I hope is the last stage of ourjourney.”
The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moorinto a wonderful autumnal panorama. The sergeant, with manycritical and incredulous glances, which showed his deep doubtsof the sanity of my companion, lurched along beside us. As weapproached the scene of the crime I could see that my friendunder all his habitual coolness was in truth deeply agitated.
“Yes,” he said in answer to my remark, “you have seen me missmy mark before, Watson. I have an instinct for such things, andyet it has sometimes played me false. It seemed a certainty whenfirst it flashed across my mind in the cell at Winchester, butone drawback of an active mind is that one can always conceivealternative explanations which would make our scent a false one.
And yet—and yet—Well, Watson, we can but try.”
As he walked he had firmly tied one end of the string to thehandle of the revolver. We had now reached the scene of thetragedy. With great care he marked out under the guidance of thepoliceman the exact spot where the body had been stretched.
He then hunted among the heather and the ferns until he founda considerable stone. This he secured to the other end of his lineof string, and he hung it over the parapet of the bridge so thatit swung clear above the water. He then stood on the fatal spot,some distance from the edge of the bridge, with my revolver inhis hand, the string being taut between the weapon and the heavystone on the farther side.
“Now for it!” he cried.
At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go hisgrip. In an instant it had been whisked away by the weight of thestone, had struck with a sharp crack against the parapet, and hadvanished over the side into the water. It had hardly gone beforeHolmes was kneeling beside the stonework, and a joyous cryshowed that he had found what he expected.
“Was there ever a more exact demonstration?” he cried. “See,Watson, your revolver has solved the problem!” As he spoke hepointed to a second chip of the exact size and shape of the firstwhich had appeared on the under edge of the stone balustrade.
“We’ll stay at the inn to-night,” he continued as he rose andfaced the astonished sergeant. “You will, of course, get a grapplinghookand you will easily restore my friend’s revolver. You willalso find beside it the revolver, string and weight with which thisvindictive woman attempted to disguise her own crime and tofasten a charge of murder upon an innocent victim. You can letMr. Gibson know that I will see him in the morning, when stepscan be taken for Miss Dunbar’s vindication.”
Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in thevillage inn, Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed.
“I fear, Watson,” said he, “that you will not improve anyreputation which I may have acquired by adding the case of theThor Bridge mystery to your annals. I have been sluggish in mindand wanting in that mixture of imagination and reality which isthe basis of my art. I confess that the chip in the stonework wasa sufficient clue to suggest the true solution, and that I blamemyself for not having attained it sooner.
