"Exactly. We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This
would explain it. Everything fits together."

"But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from
unravelling the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not
simpler but stranger."

"Perhaps," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "perhaps." He relapsed
into a silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up
at last in Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew
Mycroft's paper from his pocket.

"We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make," said
he. "I think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention."

The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green
lawns stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog
was lifting, and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A
butler answered our ring.

"Sir James, sir!" said he with solemn face. "Sir James died this
morning."

"Good heavens!" cried Holmes in amazement. "How did he die?"

"Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother,
Colonel Valentine?"

"Yes, we had best do so."