otherwise her brush, evidently busy enough elsewhere, would not have spared them. The good lady stared at Sherlock Holmes in openmouthed astonishment. “Mr Booth took it down himself on Wednesday morning,” she said. “It was a picture he had painted himself, and he thought no end of it. He wrapped it up and took it out with him, remarking that he was going to give it to a friend. I was very much surprised at the time, for I knew he valued it very much; in fact he once told me that he wouldn’t part with it for anything. Of course, it’s easy to see now why he got rid of it.” “Yes,” said Holmes. “It wasn’t a large picture, I see. Was it a water colour?” “Yes, a painting of a stretch of moorland, with three or four large rocks arranged like a big table on a bare hilltop. Druidicals, Mr Booth called them, or something like that.” “Did Mr Booth do much painting, then?” enquired Holmes. “None, whilst he’s been here, sir. He has told me he used to do a good deal as a lad, but he had given it up.”
Holmes’s eyes were glancing round the room again, and an exclamation of surprise escaped him as they encountered a photo standing on the piano. “Surely that’s a photograph of Mr Booth,” he said. “It exactly resembles the description I have of him?” “Yes,” said Mrs Purnell, “and a very good one it is too.” “How long has it been taken?” said Holmes, picking it up. “Oh, only a few weeks, sir. I was here when the boy from the photographer’s brought them up. Mr Booth opened the packet whilst I was in the room. There were only two photos, that one and another which he gave to me.” “You interest me exceedingly,” said Holmes. “This striped lounge suit he is wearing. Is it the same that he had on when he left Wednesday morning?” “Yes, he was dressed just like that, as far as I can remember.”
“Do you recollect anything of importance that Mr Booth said to you last Wednesday before he went out?” “Not very much, I’m afraid, sir. When I took his cup of chocolate up to his bedroom, he said—” “One moment,” interrupted Holmes. “Did Mr Booth usually have a cup of chocolate in the morning?” “Oh, yes, sir, summer and winter alike. He was very particular about it and would ring for it as soon as ever he waked. I believe he’d rather have gone without his breakfast almost than have missed his cup of chocolate. Well, as I was saying, sir, I took it up to him myself on Wednesday morning, and he made some remark about the weather and then, just as I was leaving the room, he said, ‘Oh, by the way, Mrs Purnell, I shall be going away tonight for a couple of weeks. I’ve packed my bag and will call for it this afternoon.”
“No doubt you were very much surprised at this sudden announcement?” queried Holmes. “Not very much, sir. Ever since he’s had this auditing work to do for the branch banks, there’s been no knowing when he would be away. Of course, he’d never been off for two weeks at a stretch, except at holiday times, but he had so often been away for a few days at a time that I had got used to his popping off with hardly a moment’s notice.” “Let me see, how long has he had this extra work at the bank—several months, hasn’t he?” “More. It was about last Christmas, I believe, when they gave it to him.” “Oh, yes, of course,” said Holmes carelessly, “and this work naturally took him from home a good deal?” “Yes, indeed, and it seemed to quite tire him, so much evening and night work too, you see, sir. It was enough to knock him out, for he was always such a very quiet, retiring gentleman and hardly ever used to go out in the evenings before.” “Has Mr Booth left many of his possessions behind him?” asked Holmes. “Very few, indeed, and what he has are mostly old useless things. But he’s a most honest thief, sir,” said Mrs Purnell paradoxically, “and paid me his rent, before he went out on Wednesday morning, right up to next Saturday, because he wouldn’t be back by then.” “That was good of him,” said Holmes, smiling thoughtfully. “By the way, do you happen to know if he gave away any other treasures before he left?” “Well, not just before, but during the last few months he’s taken away most of his books and sold them, I think, a few at a time. He had rather a fancy for old books and has told me that some editions he had were worth quite a lot.” During this conversation, Lestrade had been sitting drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. Now he got up. “Really, I fear I shall have to leave you to this gossip,” he said. “I must go and wire instructions for the arrest of Mr Booth. If only you would have looked before at this old blotter, which I found in the wastebasket, you would have saved yourself a good deal of unnecessary trouble, Mr Holmes,” and he triumphantly slapped down a sheet of well-used blotting paper on the table. Holmes picked it up and held it in front of a mirror over the sideboard. Looking over his shoulder I could plainly read the reflected impression of a note written in Mr Booth’s handwriting, of which Holmes had procured samples.