face showed his amazement, and also his relief.

"Thank God!" he muttered. "It's someone else."

"Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said
Peters, who had followed us into the room.

"Who is the dead woman?"

"Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife's,
Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse
Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of
13 Firbank Villas--mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes--and had
her carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day
she died--certificate says senile decay--but that's only the
doctor's opinion, and of course you know better. We ordered her
funeral to be carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington
Road, who will bury her at eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Can
you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You've made a silly
blunder, and you may as well own up to it. I'd give something
for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled
aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax and only
found a poor old woman of ninety."

Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of
his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute
annoyance.

"I am going through your house," said he.