As he spoke, he had been glancing quickly round the perimeter of the circus encampment. Now, with a cry of triumph, he directed our attention to a large, dilapidated old house, which stood in the distance, behind a crumbling, ivy-covered brick wall. It had obviously not been occupied for many years, and most of the windows were boarded up. Quickly we made our way across the green, through the open gateway, and round the back of the house, to a yard that was almost choked with brambles and weeds. The lock on the back door had been forced, and we were soon inside and making our way through the deserted building and up the stairs. There, Townsend led the way into a dark and dusty bedroom.

“This is the one,” said he. “Your eyes become accustomed to the gloom after a little while.”

“No sign of Mr Smith, at any rate,” said Holmes, a note of relief in his voice.

We quickly examined the floor by the shuttered window, and had soon found the loose board and lifted it. There, where he had hidden it, was Mr Townsend’s cigar case. As he lifted it up, the diamond in the corner caught the beam of light from the window and sparkled like a tiny star.

“I could not have imagined when I consulted you,” said Townsend, clutching his prize to his bosom, “that you would find it so quickly, Mr Holmes. To speak frankly, I doubted that you would find it at all. You cannot imagine how dear to me this little case is. I shall be forever in your debt. Now, I suppose, my part in this strange affair is at an end.”

“By no means,” Holmes returned quickly. “I should be very much obliged if you would accompany us to Dover, if you feel equal to it, to assist with the identification of these villains and to help us find your fellow lodger, Mr Smith. But first we must call at Scotland Yard.”

Mr Townsend nodded his head in agreement, declaring himself “ready for anything”, and we set off at once. Holmes wired ahead, before we caught a train to Westminster Bridge, and when we arrived at Scotland Yard we were met by the tall, stout figure of Inspector Bradstreet, to whom Holmes quickly explained how matters stood.

“As I understand it, then,” said the policeman, “it seems likely that this gang has hold of Mr Smith. Whether their intention is to smuggle him to the Continent, or to do him some mischief between here and the Channel, we cannot say, but I can certainly ensure that they are not allowed to board the boat until we have had a chance to question them.” So saying, he hurried from the room, but was back again in a few minutes. “It is all arranged,” said he. “The Harbour Police will detain them until we arrive. There is a train from Charing Cross at two-ten, which will get us into Dover before five. The station master has agreed to hold it for us, but will only do so for five minutes, so we must get round there at once!”

We reached the station platform with barely a second to spare, and leapt aboard the train as the guard blew his whistle. Scant minutes later, we were flying through the outlying suburbs, the little houses and gardens all bathed in the golden autumn sunshine.

“It is, of course, possible,” remarked Holmes, “that some harm has already befallen the mysterious Mr Smith. The fact that these people were leaving the country today probably explains why they have acted only in the last twenty-four hours.”

“No doubt they thought they would be beyond our reach before we had discovered what had happened,” agreed Brad-street. “I should very much like to know,” he added, “what their motives might be.”

“From what I have seen of him,” said Townsend, “I should not have said that Mr Smith was a man of any great wealth.”

“I do not think it is money they are after,” said Holmes with a shake of the head. “The fact that your captors summoned ‘Hippolyta’ to see you, and that she then appeared to berate them for the mistake they had made, suggests that the issue may be something personal to that lady herself. It is, however, pointless to speculate further in the absence of data,” he continued, leaning back in his seat and filling his pipe. “We shall be able to question the scoundrels directly in a little while.”

The sky had clouded over by the time we reached the coast, and as we alighted from the train a strong salt breeze was blowing off the sea. Up above, against the leaden sky, crowds of raucous, wind-buffeted seagulls wheeled and dived in endless spirals. We hurried to the harbour master’s office, where we were met by Superintendent Waldron of the Dover Harbour Police.

“I have them here,” said he. “They were not a difficult group to recognize,” he added with a chuckle. “The big fellow looked inclined to give us a bit of trouble at first, but the woman said something to him and he quietened down soon enough. I’ll have them brought up now.”

The harbour outside the window was crowded with shipping, and I was gazing upon this busy scene, where a forest of masts and spars, flags and rigging thronged the sky, when the door was opened and the fugitives were led in. The officer in charge read out their names from a sheet of paper. There was Captain Alexei Ostralici, as I had seen him depicted on posters, the lines about his large, gentle eyes bespeaking fatigue at the end of a strenuous season. Next to him stood Tadeusz Grigorski, otherwise known as “the Great Tadeusz”, his waxed moustache aquiver at the indignity of his situation. By his side was an enormous man, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. He was named as Viktor Kosciukiewicz, but was instantly recognizable as “Vigor, the Hammersmith Wonder”. Last of all, and standing a little apart from the others, was a graceful, delicately featured woman, elegantly attired in a dark blue travelling costume. Named as Miss Vera Buclevska, she would be more readily known to the general public as “Queen Hippolyta of the Circus Ring”.

It is an odd and unsettling effect that a woman can sometimes have upon a gathering. To those who have experienced this, I need say nothing. To those who have not, no words of mine can adequately convey my meaning. I am not speaking simply of beauty, far less of ordinary prettiness, but of something else, akin in its effects to a mysterious species of magnetism, but which is, in truth, quite indefinable. Such was the effect Miss Buclevska appeared to have upon the harbour master’s office at Dover that afternoon, for upon her entrance an odd silence seemed to fall upon the room, and for a moment no one spoke.

“Well?” said Miss Buclevska herself at length, in strongly accented English, looking at each of us in turn.

Inspector Bradstreet cleared his throat. “This gentleman,” said he, indicating Mr Townsend, “has laid a serious charge against three of you, that you kidnapped and held him prisoner for several hours yesterday. What have you to say to this charge?”

Miss Buclevska glanced quickly at her companions, then turned to face us once more.

“I will speak for all,” said she softly. “These men acted for my sake. We deeply regret what occurred. The gentleman you indicate,” she continued, looking at Townsend, “has every right to feel aggrieved, but we meant him no harm. It was a most unfortunate mistake, and we are sorry for it.”

“You meant Mr Townsend no harm,” interrupted Holmes, “only because your friends in fact intended to kidnap his fellow lodger, Jacob Smith.”

“His name is not Smith,” said she, her eyes suddenly flashing fire. “His true name is Jakob Schmidt, for he is a German. But, yes, they did intend to kidnap him, as you say. I did not ask them to do it, but they believed I wished it. He is an evil man, but a man with a silver tongue. Throughout Brandenburg his name is reviled and men spit when they hear it. Some years ago he announced a great scheme to build new docks on the banks of the River Havel, north-west of Potsdam. Success was assured, so he declared. Enormous amounts of money were subscribed. Many people gave their life savings to the project. Alas, all his assurances proved worthless. The entire scheme collapsed, and all those who had subscribed money were ruined. All, that is, save one man. That man, as you will guess, was Herr Schmidt himself. The crash of his company left him a surprisingly wealthy man. Of course, there was a public outcry and enquiries and investigations followed, but nothing could be done about it, for Schmidt had acted entirely within the law. He was a lawyer himself, and knew how to arrange such things in his own favour. When the enterprise collapsed, with scarcely a penny to its name, much of the missing money was, in truth, in Schmidt’s own hands, but the law could do nothing.”