I sprang to my feet, and so did Mycroft, while outside Dinwoodie, the aged Senior Servant, said something.

"Damn your rules!" came from outside. "He may be dead already for all I know. Out of my way!"

I fled into my room while Mycroft tucked his shirt into his trousers and snatched at his silk dressing gown. I had been nestled on his knee in our sitting room, wearing only a bathrobe. I had returned to him the previous night, and our reunion had lasted well into the present evening. In safety, I heard the outer door burst open. Hastily I bound up my boobs and began to fling on my gentleman's evening outfit.

"Mr Holmes? Mr Mycroft Holmes?"

"I am Mycroft Holmes. Very well, Dinwoodie, you may let go of the gentleman."

"The rules, sir!" quavered Dinwoodie.

"Blast your rules!" shouted the stranger. "Mr Holmes, stay exactly where you are until I close your curtains. There! Safe for the present. Thank you, Dunwiddie or whatever your name is. Now, Mr Holmes, do not go near your windows, I beg you. Are we alone?"

"There is only Mr Dalziel present, but he is in his own bedroom - shaving."

"Mr Dalziel? Your Watson, I take it?"

"The relationship is not quite that of Sherlock and his faithful doctor," answered Mycroft.

It certainly was not. I had let Mycroft stew for a while, but I was on tenterhooks until I got his first letter. It reduced me to tears, but I steeled myself and waited for another. After the second I could hold out no longer and returned late on Thursday 21st after being away for nine days.

How we consummated our reunion! What pledges of love we gave throughout the short summer night. Scarcely had I entered the sitting room than I began to tear off my gentleman's tweed suit. Mycroft carried me to his bed and there we stayed until almost noon.

The piqûre d' amour which Mycroft had given me on my neck I concealed with a cravat, hoping that he could hide the two that I had given him. I didn't bother with collar or stud, and flung on a dressing gown over my shirtsleeves. After combing my tousled, short-cropped dark hair into a side parting, I emerged into the sitting room with a towel, wiping a smudge of shaving soap from my face. In my hand was the razor I used for shaving my legs. I confronted a small man, my own size, who was just removing a fedora hat and a hideous tartan ulster, and whose face sported an enormous waxed moustache, longer even than Tubby Winstanley's.

"This is Mr Dalziel," said Mycroft. "Dalziel, this gentleman has introduced himself as Mr Jedediah Spruce. Mr Spruce is a journalist, who has spent some time in Brazil, is a man of meticulous habits, but a little careless in his smoking and also of a somewhat ostentatious and impetuous nature. Apart from that, I know nothing about him."

"Hallo, old man," I said, gripping his hand in the firm, manly handshake I'd learned to give. Jedediah Spruce stared at me in some bemusement. I wiped away the rest of the shaving soap.

"Afraid you caught me almost with the trousers down," I laughed. Mycroft, who had covered his love bites with a silk scarf, rolled his eyes warningly at me.

"Indeed," said Spruce, giving me a strange look. "Mr Holmes, I am at a loss to know how you seem aware of my recent movements. I have indeed been in Brazil for three years working for Reuters, the news agency, but how did you know that, as well as my habits? The impetuousness you deduced from my somewhat turbulent entry, which I shall explain in due course. But the rest, how did you guess it?"

"I never guess, my dear sir."

Mycroft was now completely at ease, having nonplussed our visitor. I sat down carelessly in an armchair and crossed my legs.

"When you came in," he continued, "you pulled your handkerchief from your top pocket to mop your brow. A pencil sharpened at both ends, trademark of the journalist, came out with it.. As you picked it up, the light caught the Brazilian cruzeiro piece suspended from your watchchain. You folded your handkerchief meticulously away, but on it are the stains of cigars carelessly pocketed with the otherwise immaculate linen. And the fedora hat you wear, bleached by the tropical sun, retains a little unfaded rectangle where you insert your Press card into the hatband. As for the ostentation, who could wear a waxed moustache a foot from tip to tip without possessing a streak of showmanship? Simple, don't you think, Dalziel?"

I smiled, and almost laughed out loud. Mycroft was playing the great detective to perfection, as well as his brother could have done it. The Reuters man twirled the ends of his enormous moustache and creased his rubbery face into a smile.

"Amazing, Mr Holmes!"

"Not at all, Mr Spruce. Now, what can we do for you?"

Mr Spruce shot a glance at the now curtained window. "Mr Holmes, your life is in danger."

Mycroft steepled his fingers and pursed his lips. "Indeed?"

"You are aware that Colonel Sebastian Moran is still at large?"

"Yes," replied Mycroft. "Despite Sherlock's planning, after his - er - untimely death some of the Moriarty gang slipped through the police net. Although I have never met Moran, I am aware that he is probably the most dangerous criminal at large today. But I believed that Moran was with Moriarty in Europe when Sherlock met his death, and that he remained there."

Spruce shook his wiry head. "Moran fled to Brazil."

"Brazil? He must have turned up while you were there."

"Exactly. But he is now in London and he means to kill you, Mr Holmes."

"I see," said Mycroft, as though we were discussing the weather. "And how do you know that, Mr Spruce?"

Mr Spruce leaned forward earnestly, his moustache bristling. "I travelled from Rio on the same boat as Moran. He was calling himself Dr Mortimer, and I didn't recognise him until after he aroused my suspicions."

"In what way?"

I offered Mr Spruce a cigar and he lit it. Mycroft followed suit.

"He was passing himself off as an archaeologist, yet in conversation he constantly muddled the great civilisations of the Incas and the Aztecs. I am an amateur, but I knew more than my fellow-traveller. I feigned ignorance, of course, when his own ignorance aroused my suspicions."

"What of the other passengers?"

"We were the only two. We travelled on a cargo boat. But let me tell you more. One night I couldn't sleep, so I went for a stroll. I passed Moran's cabin and discovered that he talked in his sleep. He had left his door ajar and I heard him quite clearly."

"What did he say?"

"'Moriarty'. He repeated the name and it struck a chord in my mind. In my profession, Mr Holmes, one needs to remember names. Knowing who Moriarty was, I became interested in my fellow passenger. I knew that Moriarty's henchman was a notoriously good marksman, so, to test my suspicions, I got the captain to organise a kind of clay pigeon shoot with bottles. The so-called Dr Mortimer turned out to be a damned fine shot. He hedged for a while, then spun a yarn about having been a colonel in the Artillery."

"Dalziel," Mycroft interrupted, "just ring for the Army List, will you?"

"No need," interposed Spruce. "I checked today when I disembarked. There was a Colonel Mortimer in the Artillery, but he died last year. I was already convinced that Mortimer was Moran. The pieces in the puzzle fitted, you see: he had appeared in Brazil just after the break-up of the Moriarty gang; he talked in his sleep about Moriarty; he was an excellent shot."

"Yes," said Mycroft, "but all that evidence is circumstantial and would be torn to tatters by any reasonably competent counsel. How can you be absolutely sure that your archaeologist was Moran?"

"When I landed today I telephoned a friend at The Times and was given a full description of Moran. It fitted perfectly: the powerful physique, the virile features, the penetrating ice-blue eye, the projecting nose, and the permanent expression of sheer malice."

There was a pause while Mycroft ruminated over what Mr Spruce had told him.

"Moran is an expert with firearms," he said at last. "He specialises in powerful pneumatic rifles which are noiseless and deadly."

"Quite so," agreed Mr Spruce, "but he brought back from Brazil something far more deadly: a blowpipe and a supply of poisoned darts."

"Most unpleasant," said Mycroft. "But how do you know he's after me?"

"Old journalistic habits die hard," said Mr Spruce. "Last night, before we came upriver, I went into Moran's cabin. He was playing cards with the captain and left his door unlocked. I found a diary lying on the table. Your name was in it, Mr Holmes, heavily underlined at the top of a list."

Mycroft gave a slight start. "My name? Not my brother's, perhaps?"

Spruce stared. "Surely he knows your brother is dead? No, it was yours without a doubt. Mycroft Holmes. There were others that meant nothing to me, but two caught my eye. They were the names of prominent Brazilians who had both been murdered in the past weeks. Both names had been neatly crossed out with a single stroke. Then I heard someone coming and left."

Mr Spruce's cigar had gone out, and I lighted it for him while Mycroft paced the room. My hand shook a little, for you may remember from the adventure of the Flame of Natal that one Colonel Sebastian Moran had presented the fateful tiger skin rug to the Tankerville Club. The name had meant nothing to me then, but, when Spruce mentioned it, it came back to me. I had listened, horrified, to what he told us.

"You said you disembarked today, Mr Spruce?" he asked.

"At the Pool. It's taken me all afternoon to track you down. The Diogenes is not listed anywhere."

"Part of our policy," replied Mycroft. "Dalziel, make a long arm and reach down my photograph album, will you? Volume Three." He turned to Mr Spruce. "This is Sherlock's old album. I took charge of a lot of his effects."

He leafed through the bulky volume, finally turning up a photograph which he pointed out to Mr Spruce. "Is that the man?"

Mr Spruce put on a pair of spectacles, and needed no more than a glance. I peered over his shoulder, and to my surprise he edged away from me.

"Yes," he said, "even though it isn't very clear."

"It is rather blurred. Sherlock snapped him from a cab window with a Kodak. As far as I know it's the only photograph of Moran in existence. Ever seen him, Dalziel?"

"No," I said, "but I wouldn't easily forget him." Despite the blurring, the brutal, pugnacious features were strongly represented.

"Odd how Sherlock caught the expression of the eyes," observed Mycroft.

"Yes," agreed Mr Spruce. "As far as I know the Press have no picture of Moran. That may be a unique photograph. Look after it."

Mycroft closed the book with a heavy thump. "I have a certain advantage over Colonel Moran," he said. "Although he knew Sherlock, he has never seen me."

"Why should he want to kill you?" I asked.

Mycroft smiled and cut himself a second cigar. "Moran is Moriarty's successor in crime and he wishes to assume the crown with as little trouble as possible. There is also the question of revenge, of course. Let's have some port, Dalziel, old man. You see," went on Mycroft, "there is at present a vacancy in London for a criminal mastermind. Although lesser men have aspired to the position occupied by the late Professor Moriarty, it is the Colonel who stands the best chance of reaching the heights. Time will tell."

I poured out some port and we drank in silence.

At length Mr Spruce rose to take his leave, but Mycroft forestalled him and stepped to the window. Drawing back the curtain a fraction he peered out.

"Damnation!" he exclaimed. "Moran has been too clever for us. You've been followed here, Spruce. He's just visible in the lamplight, an ugly brute but clearly not very intelligent, or he would keep in the shadows. You'd best stay here. We can give you a shakedown, if Dalziel doesn't mind, that is."

My mind began to race. I thought I'd be safe enough from possible detection by Mr Spruce if I confined myself to my own room.

"You can share my room, Dalziel, old man," said Mycroft. "Spruce can have yours. No, Spruce, I insist. Dalziel and I won't mind roughing it."

His eye caught mine and I felt my face turning red. I knew why he wanted me in his room for the night. Mycroft's animal spirits had been in fine form since I returned. There would be no repressing them now that the excitement of a case was in the air. I only hoped that Mr Spruce was a sound sleeper.

"No," said Spruce. "I won't hear of it. I'll take a chance and return to my hotel." Again he gave me a strange glance, one almost of disgust.

"My dear fellow!" exclaimed Mycroft. "If you set foot out of this building that agent outside will track you down."

"I can evade him."

"No, it's unlikely that he is alone. Moran has obviously realised that you've found him out. You are now in as great danger as I."

"But my things are at the hotel!"

"They'll be safe till tomorrow."

Mycroft rang for Henderson, the tall, lugubrious Junior Waiter, who was told to bring up some sandwiches and coffee, as Mr Spruce confessed he had not eaten since breakfast. Mycroft lent Mr Spruce his sponge and shaving gear and showed him the bathroom. As soon as Mycroft returned he took my arms and faced me squarely.

"Now listen, Anna. We are in trouble. Colonel Moran is ten times more dangerous than von Tarden, who, with all his faults, is at least an officer and a gentleman."

"What's Moran, then?"

"An officer, but certainly not a gentleman. He is a cold-blooded killer, as good a shot as you, if not better. He must be tracked down and brought to justice, but I shall have to do that with the help of Scotland Yard. You, meanwhile, must understand that we may both be in danger."

As far as I was concerned, if Mycroft was in danger, I would be there with him. I changed the subject to something which had been bothering me.

"Mycroft, why does Mr Spruce look at me in a peculiar way? Have you noticed?"

"I have, my dear. I fear that Spruce believes that we have an improper relationship."

"Oh no! You mean he knows I'm a woman?"

"I think not. I don't think he's seen through your disguise as a man, Anna. I fear that Mr Spruce believes we are committing the - ahem - crime without a name. He must think that I have a leaning towards attractive young men."

I was open-mouthed. Of course, in my time on stage I had met young men of that disposition, but to be mistaken for one myself surprised me until I saw the comical side of it and collapsed in laughter. I pushed Mycroft into a chair, sitting on his knee and giving myself up to fresh fits of laughter as I clung to him. He began to laugh and embraced me as we sat, both convulsed.

The door handle rattled, and I had just enough time to leap to my feet, still giggling as Mr Spruce returned. Luckily Henderson caused a diversion by coming in immediately after him with a tray of sandwiches and coffee. I think that Mr Spruce had some suspicions of what had been going on in his absence. I realised that I would have to conduct myself very carefully in future.

Henderson spoke earnestly to Mycroft in an undertone. I caught "committee" and "most irregular, guests in rooms, sir" and "Mr Dinwoodie" and "the Chairman". Not wishing to eavesdrop, I moved a few things from my room to Mycroft's, all the while conscious of Mr Spruce's disapproving gaze.

As Henderson left, the Chairman entered. I knew then that Mycroft was in trouble. The two went into Mycroft's room and closed the door.

I served Mr Spruce some brandy and got some for myself, for I have to play a man's part as far as I can. Mr Spruce finished his sandwiches and offered me a cigar, but I declined. I don't take my role as far as that. For a minute we were both aware of voices in Mycroft's room.

"Look here," said Mr Spruce. "I've been thinking. It looks as if Holmes is in trouble over my staying here. Now, I understand some of the rules of this club, for the old man who chased me up here made most of them clear to me. I'm not happy about that idea of staying in this apartment. I have a perfectly adequate and extremely comfortable room at my hotel, and I have no intention of seeing Holmes suffer because of me."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"That I return to my hotel. I'll leave by the back way. It should be safe enough. Is there a window overlooking the back entrance?"

"In my room," I said. We entered and Spruce cautiously peeped out.

"Oh damn!" he muttered. "There's one at the back. Look."

Lounging in the alleyway was a well-built and unpleasant-looking man. As we returned to the sitting room, Mycroft and the Chairman emerged. The Chairman, with a meaningful nod, left the apartment and Mycroft turned in embarrassment to Spruce. I don't often see Mycroft nonplussed, but there could be no doubt that the Chairman had spoken sternly to him about having guests in his rooms.

"Holmes," said Spruce before Mycroft could speak. "I'll go. But the problem is, there's a ruffian at the back now."

"Mr Spruce," I said, "I have an idea."

Mischievously I moved nearer him, for the satisfaction of seeing him edge away.

"If you and I went off in a cab," I said, "we could change coats and hats. I could get out somewhere pretty crowded, like the Mall after the theatres have come out, you could go on and anyone following would think I was you. We're the same size."

"And catch up with you and assail you," said Mycroft.

"No!" I protested. "If I stay in a crowded area, I should easily be able to get a cab and return here by a devious route at top speed, while Mr Spruce gets to his hotel. I can't see anyone trying to assail me in, say, the Mall. Can you?"

Spruce stroked his moustache. "And we'd put the enemy off the scent for a while, eh? I must admit I like the idea of doing that. And then I could return to my hotel after all."

He looked at Mycroft.

"No," said Mycroft. "It's too dangerous. There must be another way of getting you out of here unseen."

But for all we racked our brains, nothing came to mind. Eventually Dinwoodie knocked and spoke to Mycroft at the door.

"The Chairman is impatient," said Mycroft. "Very well, Dalziel. We'll try your plan, but I must follow in a separate cab. And we must take only cabbies whom we know."

He went into his room for his coat and revolver, while I picked up mine. While we were alone, Mr Spruce spoke to me.

"I must be perfectly frank, Mr Dalziel. Once we are in the cab, I - ah - that is - I am not inclined to make close contact with young men, if you take my meaning. I say this simply because when we change coats, in the confines of a cab there may be accidental - er - touches which could be misinterpreted."

"That's quite all right, Mr Spruce," I replied, giving a hearty chappie's chuckle. "Good Lord! Did you think I was batting for the other side?"

Spruce turned red and began to flounder. "No no no, of course not. I simply - er - wished to make a point, that was all. Now, where is Holmes? It would be best to get this scheme under way at once, I think."

Harris called a cab for Spruce and myself. When we stepped out into the street the night was clear, but cold for May. Even in the dim light of the street lamps Mr Spruce's ulster was as bright as Joseph's coat.

I was nervous, despite reassuring myself that nothing could go wrong. Of course, with Mycroft following us I could easily get back to the Diogenes.

"Well, my girl," I said to myself, "here you go again. Why do you do it?"

But I knew the answer. I take part in these escapades simply because I love Mycroft Holmes.

Our cab made rapid progress and Mr Spruce and I quickly changed coats and hats. Mr Spruce looked back once or twice.

"Can't see Holmes's cab. I suppose he gave us time to get well ahead. Don't think we're being followed."

By now I was really nervous. My heart was pounding, but Mr Spruce seemed to be enjoying it.

"Here's the Park," he said. "Out you get. Plenty of people about."

Despite the late hour, the Mall was well peopled with strolling couples and loungers. I looked about, but saw no sign of Moran's man as Spruce drove away at a rapid pace. I pulled the tartan ulster about me and looked for Mycroft's cab. A closed four-wheeler came along and a man swathed in an overcoat got out.

"Excuse me," he began. "Perhaps you could give me directions."

A large hand from behind me clapped something over my face and the smell of chloroform fuddled my brain. I had never considered for a moment that I would be kidnapped in the Mall. As I lost consciousness my only thought was what Mycroft would say to me.

I came to my senses huddled in a corner of the carriage. "Good evening, my dear," said a voice. "For young ladies to go about on busy Friday nights dressed as men is not a good idea. I do hope it doesn't catch on. And for young ladies to carry revolvers is also not a good idea. I've relieved you of yours."