after me.
This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager
came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week s work. It
was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I
was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.
Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a
time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to
leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would
not risk the loss of it.
Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and
Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with
diligence that I might get on to the B s before very long. It cost me
something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my
writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.
To an end?
Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual
at ten o clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square
of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here
it is, and you can read for yourself.
He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of
note-paper. It read in this fashion:
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. October 9, 1890.
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful
face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely
overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar
of laughter.
I cannot see that there is anything very funny, cried our client,
flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. If you can do nothing
better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.
39