of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go,
for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away
from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his
absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at
once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound
in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull.
I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his
consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in
the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit
unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of death
from accidental causes. Carefully as I examined every fact connected
with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the
idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no
robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And
yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I
was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.
In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I
did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our
troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle s
life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in
another.
It was in January, 85, that my poor father met his end, and two years
and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived
happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed
away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I
had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow
fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father.
The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning
to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.
This is the envelope, he continued. The postmark is London eastern
division. Within are the very words which were upon my father s last
message: K. K. K. ; and then Put the papers on the sundial.
What have you done? asked Holmes.
Nothing.
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