senses were nearly gone before an unshaven French ouvrier in a
blue blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with a cudgel in
his hand, and struck my assailant a sharp crack over the forearm,
which made him leave go his hold. He stood for an instant fuming
with rage and uncertain whether he should not renew his attack.
Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me and entered the cottage
from which I had just come. I turned to thank my preserver, who
stood beside me in the roadway.

"Well, Watson," said he, "a very pretty hash you have made of it!
I rather think you had better come back with me to London by the
night express."

An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style,
was seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of
his sudden and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for,
finding that he could get away from London, he determined to head
me off at the next obvious point of my travels. In the disguise
of a workingman he had sat in the cabaret waiting for my
appearance.

"And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear
Watson," said he. "I cannot at the moment recall any possible
blunder which you have omitted. The total effect of your
proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet to
discover nothing."

"Perhaps you would have done no better," I answered bitterly.

"There is no 'perhaps' about it. I HAVE done better. Here is