"Begging your pardon for disturbing you, Doctor, but do you know where I might find Mr. Holmes?"

Inspector Lestrade was courteous, as always, but his impeccable manners did nothing to allay my displeasure at finding him on my doorstep at half past one on a Sunday afternoon. I had hoped that, once I left Baker Street to begin my married life, I might be the recipient of fewer unexpected visits from Scotland Yard officials, but it seemed that it was not to be.

"I'm afraid I don't, Inspector—I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon, in fact, and I've no idea what he's been up to since then." I'm ashamed to say that I nearly bid the inspector good day and concluded the interview then and there, as I had no desire to spend the afternoon searching London for my errant friend. Particularly because, likely as not, he was safe and sound in the rooms above one of the boxing rings he frequented on the weekends, sleeping off the effects of too much alcohol, or any number of other substances.

However, I admit to a small measure of curiosity as to what could be important enough for the inspector to be spending his Sunday doing just that, given that police officials are known to be as quite as jealous of their leisure time as physicians, and so I pressed on with the conversation. "I gather that there has been some development in one of the cases he's working on for you?"

"Indeed there has," the inspector responded gravely, "You may be aware that Mr. Holmes has been assisting us in investigating a string of burglaries over the past week—stolen jewelry, mostly, worth a small fortune in total."

"I am," I replied. "I went round to Baker Street for lunch yesterday, and he spoke about it at great length. He thought he had a lead on where the thieves might be keeping the stolen goods, as I recall."

"Well, if he has a lead, we could certainly use one," said the inspector grimly, "because it seems that our thieves are murderers, as well." I raised my eyebrows in surprise, as Lestrade continued. "There's been another burglary early this morning—similar scene to all the rest, but they've killed a maid this time. We're assuming she stumbled upon them during the break-in, and they didn't want to leave a witness… but of course, that's all speculation for now," he hastened to add. "At any rate, we'd like Mr. Holmes to have a look at the scene as soon as possible. It seems that these people are nastier than we thought, so there's bound to be a great deal of pressure to catch them immediately, once word gets out."

"Undoubtedly," I agreed. I shivered slightly, although I couldn't be sure whether it was an effect of the inspector's grim story, or the result of the gloomy drizzle that had begun to fall. "I only wish I could be more helpful to you in locating him. I'm sure you've been to Baker Street already?"

"Oh, I tried that first, naturally. The landlady says he left a little before 9 o'clock last night and hasn't been back since." He lapsed into silence.

"I see." I stood quietly for a moment. Surely, the most likely scenario remained the one I had first imagined. Nevertheless, a nameless chill had settled in the pit of my stomach. I wondered, fleetingly, if his revolver was still lying on the cluttered table in his sitting room.

Lestrade cleared his throat, softly, and glanced away. When he looked back at me, his voice was carefully neutral, as though he didn't want to alarm me. "Do you know where Mr. Holmes thought that they might be keeping the stolen goods?"

I was already ducking back into the house to get my overcoat and scarf. "Yes, and I'm coming with you."

After a hurried explanation to Mary for my sudden departure, I stepped back outside and pulled the door shut behind me. Lestrade was already striding down the walk toward his waiting carriage. As I quickened my steps and hurried after him, I hoped, for the first time I could recall, that my friend was indeed inebriated and in a state of disarray in some seedy betting establishment. The alternative, I confess, was infinitely more worrisome.