Unknown by Braven Page A

such things, 'e 'as, and
tonight's the night."
    I did not bother asking
the cracksman how he had gained my room. With his record, a country
estate presented no problems. To my credit, I acted in a businesslike
manner. "What's the plan?"
    "If yuh waits a
bit, till the master of the 'ouse 'as folded up shop, you're to go
downstairs. Tell the butler that you want to take another turn 'round
and then nip out to the stables and saddle a couple of ridin' 'orses.
Then you come back, see, and the butler—"
    "Dooley."
    "—'ll lock
the place up fer the night. You get inter your ridin' togs and stand
by. Mr. 'Olmes figures there's goin' to be a real hullabaloo durin'
the night with a lot o' runnin' 'round, and you slips out in the
confusion and gets the 'orses. Ride round back and make fer the main
road, stayin' away from the tree line."
    "Then what?"
    "Just keep goin'
away from the 'ouse. Mr. 'Olmes'll hail yuh."
    "Is he here?"
    "'As been fer a
while. Good luck!"
    Gilligan listened for a
moment at the door and then slipped through it and was gone.
    I sat on the bed for a
moment, my thoughts awhirl. Holmes had said that I would play an
important part in the drama to unfold, and suddenly it seemed that I
would. It struck me that this was the greatest miscasting of all
times. Night alarms with a somewhat overweight medical man riding
over the countryside like a supporter of the ill-fated Stuarts
fleeing from a company of roundheads? Holmes's drama might be played
out like a farce comedy!
    But the Watson spirit
rose within me, and I banished such thoughts as self-defeating.
Holmes had dressed me in the clothes of an adventurer, ready to take
center stage, and I resolved to play the part with conviction, though
I felt more like assuming Gilligan's hiding place under the bed, with
a blanket over my head.
    After a suitable period,
I walked jauntily down the great stairs of the mansion and made for
the rear. In the butler's pantry adjacent to the huge kitchen I found
Dooley, who slipped a copy of La vie Parisienne out of sight
and took me to the rear door, which he unlocked for me. Outside in
the bracing night air, I walked casually and apparently aimlessly
until well removed from the house and then made a beeline for the
stables. None of the grooms were about, and I was able to secure the
riding equipment from the tack room.
    Locating Fandango's
stall, I spoke to the horse in a low tone and allowed her to get used
to the idea of my presence before slipping a bridle on her. I
then led her from the stall and arranged the saddle. There were
sounds from the other horses but I ignored them. Either I was going
to pull this off undetected, or I was not. With the girth cinched
tight around the mare, I secured her bridle in front of the next
stall, figuring that the horse within, conscious of Fandango ready
for action, would get the idea and accept the bit from my
unfamiliar hands. Such proved the case, and with the two horses
saddled, I returned them to their stalls to await their moment. I
don't think my foray took more than fifteen minutes, and when I
tapped on the back door, Dooley opened it for me, indicating no
suspicion. Feeling considerably the better for having
accomplished the first part of my task, I returned to my bedroom and
wondered what the signal for the second act would be. Seated in an
armchair, I steeled myself for the waiting, always the most difficult
period in a situation like this. It had been such a short time ago
that I had thought of the peaceful atmosphere in our snug quarters on
Baker Street, and here I was in a Surrey mansion waiting for
who-knew-what in connection with the Deets affair. It had begun like
such, a pedestrian matter. The introduction of our client's deceased
father into the list of dramatis personae had added the fillip of
dark and sinister motives.
    And what about the agent
of Mycroft who had died in our presence? This bizarre occurrence
combined with the invasion of our quarters had been