A crowd of morbid
sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was
just such a suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates
Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner
grossly triumphant.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Have you
found your tramp?" he cried.
"I have formed no conclusion whatever," my companion answered.
"But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct;
so you must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of
you this time, Mr. Holmes."
"You certainly have the air of something unusual having occurred,"
said Holmes.
Lestrade laughed loudly.
"You don't like being beaten any more than the rest of us do,"
said he. "A man can't expect always to have it his own way,
can he, Dr. Watson? Step this way, if you please, gentlemen,
and I think I can convince you once for all that it was
John McFarlane who did this crime."
He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.
"This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat
after the crime was done," said he. "Now, look at this.
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