When Wilson had gone, Holmes turned to me. “Well, Watson,” he asked. “What do you think?”

“I have no idea,” I answered. “It is very strange. What are you going to do?”

“Go hear some music,” replied Holmes. “There is a violin concert at St. James’s Hall this afternoon. Come along. We have time to make a stop on the way.”

We took the underground train to Aldersgate. A short walk, and we were in Coburg Square.

One of the corner houses wore a sign that read “J. B. Wilson.” Holmes stopped in front of the house. He thumped on the pavement with his stick. He pounded in two or three more spots. Then he walked up and knocked on the door.

Mr. Wilson’s helper answered. He was a bright, clean looking young man.

“So sorry to bother you,” said Holmes. “But can you tell me how to get to the Strand?”

“Third right, fourth left,” the young man answered. He closed the door.

“That,” said Holmes as we walked away, “is the fourth smartest man in London. I have seen him before. Did you get a look at his knees?”

“What about his knees?” I asked. “What do you know, Holmes? Why did you hit the pavement like that?”

“My dear Watson,” said Holmes. “This is no time to talk. This is the time to look. Let’s see what lies behind this quiet street.” We turned the corner.

To my surprise, we found ourselves on a busy street. “Let’s see,” said Holmes. “There’s a cigar store. And there’s the City Bank. And there is a restaurant. Hmm, yes …”

He turned to me. “I’ll want your help,” he said. “Can you be ready at ten tonight? Good. See you then. Oh, and Dr. Watson. Do you have your gun? You had better bring it along.”

He waved his hand. Then he disappeared.

I got back to Baker Street just before ten o’clock that evening. Two horse-drawn cabs were waiting outside. Inside, I found two men with Holmes.”

“Ah! We are all here now!” Holmes said. “You know Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard, don’t you, Watson? And this is Mr. Merryweather.”

Mr. Merryweather was long, thin, and sad-faced. He wore a very shiny top hat. He did not look at all happy. “This had better not be a waste of time,” he said. “I’m missing my Saturday night card game. First time in twenty years.”

Holmes laughed. “You’ll play a more exciting game tonight,” he said. “You, Mr. Merryweather, stand to win or lose thirty thousand pounds. And you, Mr. Jones? You will get your man.”

“That’s right!” cried Inspector Jones. “John Clay. Killer. Robber. He’s a young man. But he’s one of the most wanted criminals in London”

“Yes—he’s quite a man, John Clay. The grandson of a duke. Went to the most expensive private schools. His head is as quick as his fingers. I’ve been on his trail for years. I’ve never even set eyes on him yet.”

“I hope you will meet him tonight,” said Holmes. “Let’s go. Two cabs are waiting outside. You two men take the first cab. Dr. Watson and I will follow in the second.”

Holmes did not say much during the long drive. We drove through the dark streets. Soon we got to the busy street near Mr. Wilson’s house.

Merryweather and Jones were there ahead of us. We followed Mr. Merryweather down a narrow alley. There was a side door there. He opened it. Inside was a small hall. At the end of the hall there was a heavy gate. Merryweather opened that too. Then we went down some narrow stone stairs. There was another heavy gate at the bottom.”

Merryweather stopped to light a lamp. He opened the gate and we passed into a large room. It was piled with boxes.

Holmes held the lamp up to the roof. “Looks as if no one can get in from above,” he said.

“Or from below,” added Merryweather. He tapped the floor with his cane. “Why—dear me! It sounds like there is a hole under the floor!” he cried.

“Quiet now!” whispered Holmes. “Please sit down on one of these boxes. And do try not to get in the way. Your shouting has already put us in danger.”

Merryweather looked hurt. But he sat down.

“We have at least an hour to wait,” Holmes said. “They will do nothing until our red-haired friend is in bed. After that they will not lose a minute.”

“By now, Dr. Watson, I’m sure you know where we are,” Holmes went on. “We are in a room under the City Bank. Mr. Merryweather here is the head of the bank. I’ll let him tell you why John Clay will soon enter this basement.”

“It is our French gold,” the banker whispered. “Over thirty thousand pounds’ worth.” He bit his nails and looked sad. “We were afraid something like this would happen.”

“Don’t worry,” said Holmes. “It will all be over soon. And now we must cover the lamp. I’m afraid we will have to wait in the dark. But first let’s get in place. These are very dangerous men. We will have to be careful. I will hide behind this box. You men hide over there. Wait till I flash the light. Then close in on them. Watson, keep your gun ready. If they fire, shoot them down in their tracks.”

I bent down behind a wooden box. I kept my gun hand on top of the box. I was ready for anything.

How long that wait seemed! Later I learned that we had waited only an hour and a quarter. But it felt like all night. I tried not to move. I was afraid to make a sound. I could hear the other men breathing.

Suddenly my eyes caught a flash of light on the floor. The flash got larger. It became a yellow line. Then a hole opened.

A hand came out of the hole. It was a thin, white hand.

The hand felt the floor around the hole. Then everything went dark again.

But not for long. There was a tearing sound. The hole in the floor got bigger. Over the edge peeped the face of a young man. There was a patch of bright white skin on his forehead. The young man pulled himself up into the room.

A second later he pulled a second young man up. The second man was also small and thin. He had a pale face. His hair was bright, bright red.

At that second Sherlock Holmes flashed the light.

“My God!” yelled the first man. “Jump, Archie!”

“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes. “You have no chance at all.”

Inspector Jones had the handcuffs ready.

“Don’t you touch me with your dirty hands,” said John Clay. “I am a nobleman, you know.” The handcuffs closed around his wrists.”

“You see it all now, Watson,” said Holmes. It was early the next morning. We were back at Baker Street drinking tea. “There was only one reason for the Red-headed League. That was to get our old friend Mr. Wilson out of his store. You may think it was a strange way to do it. But I can hardly think of a better one.”

“Of course, what gave them the idea was Mr. Wilson’s red hair. By chance it happened to be the same color as Archie’s hair. So Archie became …”

“Mr. Duncan Ross!” I cried.

“Quite so. And John Clay became Vincent Spaulding. Remember how he was always in the basement? He said it was for photography. But I knew better as soon as I saw his knees. They were dirty. It was proof that he had been digging.

“Then I tapped the pavement in front of the house. No—he wasn’t digging out that way. So he must be digging towards the back of the house. We walked around the block. And there I saw the City Bank.”

Suddenly Holmes laughed. “What a very interesting case to stop me from getting bored!”.