The Missing Three-Quarter

Arthur Conan Doyle

We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy February morning some seven or eight years ago and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran thus:

“Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter missing; indispensable to-morrow.

— Overton.”

“Strand post-mark and dispatched ten-thirty-six,” said Holmes, reading it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he will be here, I dare say, by the time I have looked through the times, and then we shall know all about it. Even the most insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant days.”

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my companion's brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead, but sleeping; and I have known that the sleep was a light one and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College, Cambridge, announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders and looked from one of us to the other with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My companion bowed.

“I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police.”

“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”

“It's awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful! I wonder my hair isn't grey. Godfrey Staunton—you've heard of him, of course? He's simply the hinge that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the pack and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no one to touch him; and then, he's got the head and can hold us all together. What am I to do? That's what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touch-line. He's a fine place-kick, it's true, but, then, he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton.”

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker's knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took down letter “S” of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of varied information.

“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he, “and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is a new name to me.”

It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton you don't know Cyril Overton either?”

Holmes shook his head good-humouredly.

“Great Scot!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for England against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this year. But that's nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in England who didn't know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where have you lived?”

Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.

“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton, a sweeter and healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the best and soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and fair play there may be work for me to do; so now, my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me slowly and quietly exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire that I should help you.”

Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits; but by degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

“It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of the Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up and we settled at Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went round and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He said he was all right—just a touch of headache. I bade him good-night and left him. Half an hour later the porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed and the note was taken to his room. Godfrey read it and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost running down the street in the direction of the Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had never been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night before. He had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and no word has come from him since. I don't believe he will ever come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not for some cause that was too strong for him. No; I feel as if he were gone for good and we should never see him again.”

Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular narrative.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”

“Could he have got back to Cambridge?”

“Yes, there is a late train—quarter-past eleven.”

“But so far as you can ascertain he did not take it?”

“No, he has not been seen.”

“What did you do next?”

“I wired to Lord Mount-James.”

“Why to Lord Mount-James?”

“Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest relative—his uncle, I believe.”

“Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is one of the richest men in England.”

“So I've heard Godfrey say.”

“And your friend was closely related?”

“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty—cram full of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”

“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”

“No.”

“What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?”

“Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to do with money it is possible that he would make for his nearest relative who had so much of it, though from all I have heard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it.”

“Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitation that was caused by his coming.”

Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can make nothing of it,” said he.

“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into the matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you to make your preparations for your match without reference to this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion, and the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step round together to this hotel, and see if the porter can throw any fresh light upon the matter.”

Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey Staunton's abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman, neither was he a working man. He was simply what the porter described as a “medium-looking chap”; a man of fifty, beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he had held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note into his pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter had only distinguished the one word “time.” Then they had hurried off in the manner described. It was just half-past ten by the hall clock.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's bed. “You are the day porter, are you not?”

“Yes, sir; I go off duty at eleven.”

“The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”

“No, sir; one theatre party came in late. No one else.”

“Were you on duty all day yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”

“Yes, sir; one telegram.”

“Ah! that's interesting. What o'clock was this?”

“About six.”

“Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”

“Here in his room.”

“Were you present when he opened it?”

“Yes, sir; I waited to see if there was an answer.”

“Well, was there?”

“Yes, sir. He wrote an answer.”

“Did you take it?”

“No; he took it himself.”

“But he wrote it in your presence?”

“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned at that table. When he had written it he said, ‘All right, porter, I will take this myself.’”

“What did he write it with?”

“A pen, sir.”

“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”

“Yes, sir; it was the top one.”

Holmes rose. Taking the forms he carried them over to the window and carefully examined that which was uppermost.

“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them down again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through—a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”

He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the following hieroglyphic:

Several unreadable scrawls on paper

Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.

“That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and the reverse will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over and we read:

Stand by us for God’s sake!

“So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what remains—‘Stand by us for God's sake!’—proves that this young man saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which someone else could protect him. ‘Us,’ mark you! Another person was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And what is the third source from which each of them sought for help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to that.”

“We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I suggested.

“Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had already crossed my mind. But I dare say it may have come to your notice that if you walk into a post-office and demand to see the counterfoil of another man's message there may be some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape in these matters! However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton, to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”

There were a number of letters, bills, and note-books, which Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting, penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow—nothing amiss with him?”

“Sound as a bell.”

“Have you ever known him ill?”

“Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped his knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

“Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he may have had some secret trouble. With your assent I will put one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our future inquiry.”

“One moment! one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad brimmed top-hat and a loose white necktie—the whole effect being that of a very rustic parson or of an undertaker's mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which commanded attention.

“Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman's papers?” he asked.

“I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his disappearance.”

“Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”

“This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me by Scotland Yard.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am Cyril Overton.”

“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater 'bus would bring me. So you have instructed a detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will be prepared to do that.”

“But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”

“In that case no doubt his family—”

“Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don't look to me for a penny—not a penny! You understand that, Mr. Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be anything of any value among them you will be held strictly to account for what you do with them.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask in the meanwhile whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man's disappearance?”

“No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself I entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”

“I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don't quite understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped it could not have been for anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from him some information as to your house, your habits, and your treasure.”

The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his neckcloth.

“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy! What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad—a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away. I'll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to money, well, so far as a fiver, or even a tenner, goes, you can always look to me.”

Even in his chastened frame of mind the noble miser could give us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.

There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel. We halted outside it.

“It's worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not reached that stage yet. I don't suppose they remember faces in so busy a place. Let us venture it.”

“I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to the young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me if this was so?”

The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

“What o'clock was it?” she asked.

“A little after six.”

“Whom was it to?”

Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last words in it were ‘for God's sake,’” he whispered, confidentially; “I am very anxious at getting no answer.”

The young woman separated one of the forms.

“This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon the counter.

“Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said Holmes. “Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure! Good morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the street once more.

“Well?” I asked.

“We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly hope to succeed the very first time.”

“And what have you gained?”

“A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab. “King's Cross Station,” said he.

“We have a journey, then?”

“Yes; I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the indications seem to me to point in that direction.”

“Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn Road, “have you any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don't think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives are more obscure. Surely you don't really imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to give information against his wealthy uncle?”

“I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person.”

“It certainly did that. But what are your alternatives?”

“I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this important match, and should involve the only man whose presence seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course, be coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone's while to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a race-horse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one is that this young man really is the heir of a great property, however modest his means may at present be, and it is not impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted.”

“These theories take no account of the telegram.”

“Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure, but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not cleared it up or made a considerable advance along it.”

It was already dark when we reached the old University city. Holmes took a cab at the station, and ordered the man to drive to the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later we had stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his table.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school of the University, but a thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science. Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend's card in his hand, and he looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.

“I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your profession, one of which I by no means approve.”

“In that, doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

“So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets of private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing with you.”

“No doubt, doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more important than the treatise. Incidentally I may tell you that we are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer who goes in front of the regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr. Godfrey Staunton.”

“What about him?”

“You know him, do you not?”

“He is an intimate friend of mine.”

“You are aware that he has disappeared?”

“Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged features of the doctor.

“He left his hotel last night. He has not been heard of.”

“No doubt he will return.”

“To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match.”

“I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man's fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The football match does not come within my horizon at all.”

“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton's fate. Do you know where he is?”

“Certainly not.”

“You have not seen him since yesterday?”

“No, I have not.”

“Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you ever know him ill?”

“Never.”

Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes. “Then perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers upon his desk.”

The doctor flushed with anger.

“I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes replaced the bill in his note-book. “If you prefer a public explanation it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have already told you that I can hush up that which others will be bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into your complete confidence.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

“Certainly not.”

“Dear me, dear me; the post-office again!” Holmes sighed, wearily. “A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening—a telegram which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance—and yet you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go down to the office here and register a complaint.”

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark face was crimson with fury.

“I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to have anything to do either with him or with his agents. No, sir, not another word!” He rang the bell furiously. “John, show these gentlemen out!” A pompous butler ushered us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out laughing.

“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and character,” said he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turned his talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are, stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just opposite Armstrong's house is singularly adapted to our needs. If you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”

These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the inn until nearly nine o'clock. He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was ready upon the table, and when his needs were satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him when his affairs were going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys under the glare of a gas-lamp stood before the doctor's door.

“It's been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”

“No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”

“But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then, does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”

“His coachman—”

“My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question. All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor's habits and of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his words, the carriage came round to the door.”

“Could you not follow it?”

“Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and was able to get started before the carriage was quite out of sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights until we were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country road when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that he feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once rode past the carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for a few miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it became evident that it had turned down one of several side roads which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect these journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that everything which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to us; but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made the matter clear.”

“We can follow him to-morrow.”

“Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over to-night is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly showed to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London developments at this address, and in the meantime we can only concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon the counterfoil of Staunton's urgent message. He knows where the young man is—to that I'll swear—and if he knows, then it must be our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in that condition.”

And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes passed across to me with a smile.

Sir [it ran]:

I can assure you that you are wasting your time in dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a window at the back of my brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which will lead you to the spot from which you started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to your employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge will certainly be wasted.

Yours faithfully,

Leslie Armstrong.

“An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,” said Holmes. “Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know more before I leave him.”

“His carriage is at his door now,” said I. “There he is stepping into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose I try my luck upon the bicycle?”

“No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural acumen I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must leave you to your own devices, as the appearance of two inquiring strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip than I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you in this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more favourable report to you before evening.”

Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He came back at night weary and unsuccessful.

“I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor's general direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other local news agencies. I have covered some ground: Chesterton, Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been explored and have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance of a brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once more. Is there a telegram for me?”

“Yes; I opened it. Here it is:

“‘Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.’

“I don't understand it.”

“Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in answer to a question from me. I'll just send round a note to Mr. Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn. By the way, is there any news of the match?”

“Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last sentences of the description say:

“‘The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton, whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack of combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy and hard-working pack.’”

“Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified,” said Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night, Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.”

I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I associated that instrument with the single weakness of his nature, and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He laughed at my expression of dismay, and laid it upon the table.

“No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small scouting expedition and everything is favourable. Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong's trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food until I run him to his burrow.”

“In that case,” said I, “we had best carry our breakfast with us, for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door.”

“Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where I cannot follow him. When you have finished come downstairs with me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in the work that lies before us.”

When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

“Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey is the pride of the local draghounds, no very great flier, as his build will show, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come along, and show what you can do.” He led him across to the doctor's door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street, tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.

“What have you done, Holmes?” I asked.

“A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I walked into the doctor's yard this morning and shot my syringe full of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow aniseed from here to John o' Groat's, and our friend Armstrong would have to drive through the Cam before he would shake Pompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This is how he gave me the slip the other night.”

The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the direction of the town, which we had just quitted. The road took a sweep to the south of the town and continued in the opposite direction to that in which we started.

“This détour has been entirely for our benefit, then?” said Holmes. “No wonder that my inquiries among those villages led to nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one would like to know the reason for such elaborate deception. This should be the village of Trumpington to the right of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming round the corner. Quick, Watson, quick, or we are done!”

He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my companion's graver face that he also had seen.

“I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,” said he. “It cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the cottage in the field!”

There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate where the marks of the brougham's wheels were still to be seen. A footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to the hedge, and we hastened onwards. My friend knocked at the little rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yet the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our ears—a kind of drone of misery and despair, which was indescribably melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced back at the road which we had just traversed. A brougham was coming down it, and there could be no mistaking those grey horses.

“By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried Holmes. “That settles it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes.”

He opened the door and we stepped into the hall. The droning sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up and I followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door and we both stood appalled at the sight before us.

A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her calm, pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed, half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was he by his bitter grief that he never looked up until Holmes's hand was on his shoulder.

“Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?”

“Yes, yes; I am—but you are too late. She is dead.”

The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance. Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation, and to explain the alarm which had been caused to his friends by his sudden disappearance, when there was a step upon the stairs, and there was the heavy, stern, questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at the door.

“So, gentlemen,” said he, “you have attained your end, and have certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your intrusion. I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can assure you that if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct would not pass with impunity.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at cross-purposes,” said my friend, with dignity. “If you could step downstairs with us we may each be able to give some light to the other upon this miserable affair.”

A minute later the grim doctor and ourselves were in the sitting-room below.

“Well, sir?” said he.

“I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this matter are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter ends so far as I am concerned; and so long as there is nothing criminal, I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals than to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach of the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my discretion and my co-operation in keeping the facts out of the papers.”

Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the hand.

“You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged you. I thank Heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in this plight caused me to turn my carriage back, and so to make your acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the situation is very easily explained. A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in London for a time, and became passionately attached to his landlady's daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she was beautiful, and as intelligent as she was good. No man need be ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did all I could to help him to keep things straight. We did our very best to keep the thing from everyone, for when once such a whisper gets about it is not long before everyone has heard it. Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one save to me and to one excellent servant who has at present gone for assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a terrible blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he could not get out of it without explanations which would expose his secret. I tried to cheer him up by a wire, and he sent me one in reply imploring me to do all I could. This was the telegram which you appear in some inexplicable way to have seen. I did not tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew that he could do no good here, but I sent the truth to the girl's father, and he very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey. The result was that he came straight away in a state bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her bed, until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your discretion and that of your friend.”

Holmes grasped the doctor's hand.

“Come, Watson,” said he, and we passed from that house of grief into the pale sunlight of the winter day.

失踪的中卫

    在贝克街我们常常收到一些内容离奇的电报，这本来是不值一提的。可是，七八年前，在二月一个阴沉沉的早晨收到的那封，却给我印象很深，并且使得歇洛克·福尔摩斯先生也迷惑了足有一刻钟之久。电报是拍给他的，电文如下：

    请等候我。万分不幸。右中卫失踪。明日需要。

    欧沃顿

    福尔摩斯看了又看，说：“河滨的邮戳，十点三十六分发的。显然欧沃顿先生拍电报时心情很激动，所以电报才语无伦次。我断定等我读完《泰晤士报》，他一定会赶到这里，那时我们就能知道一切了。"在那段时间里我们工作不很忙，因此，就是最无关紧要的问题，也同样是受欢迎的。

    经验告诉我，无所事事的生活是很可怕的，因为我的朋友头脑过于活跃，如果没有什么事情让他思考，那就很危险。经过我的努力，他停止服用刺激剂，已经有好几年了，因为这种药物曾经一度妨碍他从事他的富有意义的事业。现在，一般情况下福尔摩斯不需要再服用这种人造的刺激剂了。但是，我很明白，他的病症并没有消除，只是潜伏下来了，并且潜伏得很深，当事情少的时候，还会复发。在那种情况下，我看到过福尔摩斯两眼深陷，面容阴郁，看上去令人莫测高深。所以，不管欧沃顿是什么人，他既然带来了不解之谜，我就要感谢他，因为风平浪静要比狂风暴雨更使我的朋友感到痛苦。

    正如我们所料，发报人紧随电报亲自登门了。他的名片上印着：剑桥，三一学院，西锐利·欧沃顿。走进来的是一位身材魁梧的年轻人，足有十六石重，他宽阔的身体把屋门①都堵住了，他的相貌英俊，但是面容憔悴，无神的眼睛缓缓地打量着我们——

    ①英国重量名，用来表示体重时，一石等于十四磅，现已废除。——译者注

    “哪位是歇洛克·福尔摩斯先生？”

    我的朋友点了点头。

    “福尔摩斯先生，我去过苏格兰场，见到了侦探霍普金。他建议我来找您。他说，在他看来，我这个案件由您解决更适当一些，不必找官方侦探。”

    “请坐，把您的问题告诉我们吧！”

    “福尔摩斯先生，事情真糟，糟糕极了！我的头发都快急白了。高夫利·斯道顿——您听说过这个名字吧？他是全队的灵魂。我宁愿在中卫线上只有斯道顿，不要另外那两个。不论是传球、运球、还是抢球，没人能够赶得上他。他是核心，可以把我们全队带动起来。我怎么办呢？福尔摩斯先生，我来请教您该怎么办。当然有莫尔豪斯替补，他是踢前卫的，但是他总是喜欢挤进去争球，而不是守在边线上。他定位球踢得很好，但是他不会判断情况，而且不善于拼抢，牛津的两员宿将，莫尔顿或约翰逊，可能会死死地缠住他。斯蒂文逊跑得很快，但是他不会在二十五码远的地方踢落地球。而一个中卫既不会踢落地球，又不能踢空球，根本就不配参加比赛。福尔摩斯先生，您若是不帮助我们找到高夫利·斯道顿，我准输了。”

    我的朋友神情专注，津津有味地听着。这位客人急切地诉说着，他强壮的手臂不时地拍着自己的膝盖，力求使每句话都得到别人充分的理解。客人的话刚一停下来，福尔摩斯便取出有"Ｓ"字母的那一卷资料。从这一卷内容丰富的资料中他没有查到什么。

    他说：“有阿瑟·Ｈ·斯道顿，一个发了财的年轻的伪造纸币者。有亨利·斯道顿，我协助警察把这个人绞死了。可是高夫利·斯道顿这个名字我以前却没有听说过。”

    我们的客人露出惊讶的样子。

    他说：“福尔摩斯先生，我以为您什么都知道。如果您没有听说过高夫利·斯道顿，您也就不会知道西锐利·欧沃顿了。”

    福尔摩斯微笑地摇了摇头。

    这位运动员说：“大侦探先生！在英格兰和威尔士的比赛中，我的球队是英格兰的第一队。我是大学生队的领队，不过，你不知道也没有什么关系！我想在英国每个人都知道高夫利·斯道顿。他是最好的中卫，剑桥队、布莱克希斯队和国家队都请他打中卫，而且国家队请了他五次。福尔摩斯先生，您原来住在英国吗？”

    福尔摩斯对这位天真的巨人笑了一笑。

    “欧沃顿先生，你的生活范围和我的不一样，你生活在一个更愉快更健康的范围里。我和社会上的各界人士几乎全有接触，可就是和体育界人士没有来往，而业余体育运动是英国最有意义、最有益于健康的事业。您这次意外的光临说明，就是在最讲究规则的户外运动方面，我也有事可做。那么，请你坐下来，慢慢地安静地确切地告诉我们出了什么事，以及你要我怎样帮助你。”

    欧沃顿的脸上露出了不耐烦的样子，那种样子正象惯于使用体力而不用脑力的人所常有的那样。他开始给我们一点一点地讲述这个奇怪的故事，他的叙述中有许多重复和模糊之处，我便把它们删去了。

    “福尔摩斯先生，事情是这样的。我已经和您说过，我是剑桥大学橄榄球队的领队，高夫利·斯道顿是最好的队员。明天我们和牛津大学比赛。昨天我们来到这里，住在班特莱旅馆。晚上十点钟，我去看了看，所有的队员全休息了，因为我相信严格的训练和充足的睡眠可以保持这个队的良好竞技状态。我看见斯道顿脸色发白，似乎心情很不安。我问他是怎么一回事，他说没有什么，不过有点头疼。我向他道了晚安便走了。半小时后，旅馆服务员对我说有一个长着满脸胡须、衣着简陋的人拿着一封信要找高夫利。高夫利已经上床睡了，所以服务员把信送到他屋子里。谁知他读过信，一下子就瘫倒在椅子上，好象是被谁用斧子砍了似的。服务员很惊讶，要去找我，高夫利阻止了服务员，喝了一点水又振作起来。然后他走下楼，和在大门里等候的人说了几句话，两个人便一起走出去了。服务员看到的最后情景是他们二人在大街上朝着河滩跑去。今天早上高夫利的房间是空的，没有人睡过，他的东西一点未动，还是象我昨天晚上看到的那样。那个陌生人来找他，他立刻随那人走了，再也没有音信，我想他不会回来了。高夫利是个真正的运动员，他打心眼里喜欢运动，要不是受到什么沉重的打击，他决不会退出比赛，决不会骗其他的领队。我觉得他是永远回不来了，我们不会再见到他了。”

    福尔摩斯很感兴趣地听着他叙述这件怪事。

    他问：“你采取什么措施了吗？”

    “我打电报给剑桥，问他们是否知道他的消息。回答是没有人看见过他。”

    “他能回到剑桥去吗？”

    “是的，有一趟晚车——十一点一刻开。”

    “可是，按照你的判断，他没有乘这趟火车？”

    “是的，没有人看见过他。”

    “后来呢？”

    “我又打电报给蒙特·詹姆士爵士。”

    “为什么给他打呢？”

    “高夫利是个孤儿，蒙特·詹姆士是他最近的亲属——大概是他的叔父。”

    “这对于解决问题或许会有帮助。蒙特·詹姆士爵士是英国最富有的。”

    “我听高夫利这样说过。”

    “高夫利是他的近亲？”

    “是的，高夫利是继承人，老爵士已经快八十岁了，而且风湿病很重，人们说他可能快要死了。他从来不给高夫利一个先令，他是个地道的守财奴，可是财产早晚都要归高夫利。”

    “蒙特·詹姆士爵士那儿有什么消息吗？”

    “没有。”

    “如果高夫利去蒙特·詹姆士爵士那儿，他又是为了什么呢？”

    “头一天晚上有件事使高夫利心情不安，如果和钱有关，那可能是爵士要把遗产给他。爵士的钱很多，当然就我所知，高夫利得到这笔钱的可能性很小。高夫利不喜欢这个老人。要是他能不去他那儿，他不会去的。”

    “那么，我们现在可以这样假设吗？如果你的朋友高夫利是到他的亲属蒙特·詹姆士爵士那儿去，你就可以解释那个衣着简陋的人为什么那么晚来，为什么他的来临使得高夫利焦虑不安。”

    西锐利·欧沃顿困惑地说：“我解释不了。”

    福尔摩斯说：“好吧！今天天气很好，这件事我愿意去侦查一下。我主张不管这个青年情况怎样，你还是要准备参加比赛，正象你所说的，他这样突然离开，一定是有极要紧的事，而且也正是这件要紧的事使他至今不能回来。我们一起步行去旅馆，看看服务员是否能够提供新的情况。”

    歇洛克·福尔摩斯是那样循循善诱，使得当事人心情很快就平静了下来。过不多久，我们来到了旅馆，走进斯道顿住过的单人房间。在这里福尔摩斯打听到了服务员所知道的一切。头一天晚上来的客人既不是一位绅士，也不是一个仆人，而是一个象服务员所说的"穿着不怎么样的家伙"，年纪大约五十岁左右，胡子稀疏，脸色苍白，穿着很朴素。他似乎很激动，拿着信的手在不停地抖动。服务员看到高夫利·斯道顿把那封信塞到口袋里。斯道顿在大厅里没有和这个人握手。他们交谈了几句，服务员只听到"时间"两个字。然后他们便急匆匆地走出去了。那时大厅的挂钟正好十点半。

    福尔摩斯坐在斯道顿的床上，说：“我想你值白班，对吗？”

    “是的，先生，我十一点下班。”

    “值夜班的服务员没有看见什么吗？”

    “没有，先生。只有看戏的人回来晚些。再没有别人了。”

    “你昨天一整天都在值班吗？”

    “是的，先生。”

    “有没有邮件一类的东西交给斯道顿先生呢？”

    “有的，先生，有一封电报。”

    “啊！那很重要。在什么时候？”

    “大约六点钟。”

    “斯道顿在哪儿收到的电报？”

    “就在这间房子里。”

    “他拆电报的时候，你在吗？”

    “是的，我在这里。我等着看他是不是要回电。”

    “那么，他要回电吗？”

    “是的，先生，他写了回电。”

    “是你去拍的回电吗？”

    “他自己去的。”

    “但是，他是当你面写的回电吗？”

    “是的，先生。我站在门边，他转过身去，在桌子上写的。

    他写完后对我说：'好了，服务员。我自己去拍。'”

    “他用什么笔写的？”

    “铅笔，先生。”

    “是不是用了这张桌子上的电报纸？”

    “是的，就是原来最上面的那一张。”

    福尔摩斯站了起来。他拿起现在在上面的那张电报纸走到窗户旁，仔细地检查上面的痕迹。

    他说：“很遗憾，他没有用铅笔写。"然后丢下这张电报纸，失望地耸了一下肩，接着说：“华生，你一定也会想到，字迹会透到第二张纸上的——曾经有人利用这种痕迹破坏了多少美满的婚姻。可是在这张纸上我看不到什么。呵，有了！我看出他是用粗尖的鹅毛笔写的，这样我们准会在吸墨纸上找到一些痕迹。哈，你们瞧，一点儿不错！”

    他撕下一条吸墨纸，并把上面的字迹给我们看。字迹如下：

    西锐利很激动地喊：“用放大镜看！”

    福尔摩斯说：“不必，纸很薄，从反面可以看出写的是什么。"他把吸墨纸翻过来，我们读到：

    （译为：看在上帝的面上支持我们！）

    “这就是高夫利·斯道顿在失踪前几小时所拍的电报的最后一句。电报上至少有六个字我们找不到了，可是剩下的这些证明这个青年看到严重的危险将要降临到他身上，并且说明有另外一个人能够保护他。请注意'我们'！有第三者参与了。除去那个面色苍白、自己也显得十分紧张的大胡子以外，还能是谁呢？那么，高夫利和这个大胡子又是什么关系呢？为了躲避起在眉睫的危险，他们二人去寻求援助的第三者又是谁呢？我们的调查应当围绕在这些问题上。”

    我建议说：“我们只要弄清电报是给谁拍的就好办了。”

    “亲爱的华生，是要这样办。你的办法是能够解决问题的，我也这样想过，可是你要知道，如果去邮局要求看别人的电报底稿，邮局的工作人员可能不会满足你。办这种事需要很多手续，但是，我深信通过一些巧妙的手段可以办到。欧沃顿先生，趁着你在现场，我要看看留在桌子上的那些文件。”

    桌子上有一些信件、账单和笔记本等，福尔摩斯迅速而又认真地翻阅着。过了一会儿，他说：“这些东西没有问题。顺便说一下，你的朋友斯道顿身体健康头脑清醒，他什么东西也不会弄乱。”

    “他身体十分健壮。”

    “他生过病吗？”

    “一天也没有病过。不过他因为胫骨被踢伤躺倒过，还有因为滑倒，膝盖受过伤，可这都不能算是病。”

    “也许他不象你想得那样健壮。我想他可能有难以对别人说起的疾病。要是你同意的话，我就拿走这桌子上的一两份材料，以备将来调查时用。”

    忽然我们听到有人焦急地喊：“等一下，等一下！"我们抬起头来，看见一个古怪的小老头，颤颤巍巍地站在门口。他穿着已经发白的黑色衣服，戴着宽边礼帽，系着白色宽领带——看上去很土气，就象是殡仪馆的工人。尽管他衣衫褴褛，样子滑稽，但他说话的声音却很清脆，看样子他象是有急事。这引起了我们的注意。

    他问：“先生，你是谁？你有什么权力动这些文件呢？”

    “我是个私人侦探，我正努力弄清他为什么会失踪。”

    “你是侦探？谁请你来的？”

    “这位先生，斯道顿的朋友。他是苏格兰场介绍给我的。”

    “先生，你是谁呢？”

    “我是西锐利·欧沃顿。”

    “那么，是你给我拍了一封电报吗？我是蒙特·詹姆士爵士，是乘倍斯瓦特公共汽车急忙赶来的。你已经把事情委托给一位侦探来办了吗？”

    “是的，先生。”

    “你准备付钱了吗？”

    “要是我们能够找到我的朋友高夫利，他无疑是会付钱的。”

    “可是如果找不到他呢？你回答这个问题！”

&nb