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A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early morning.

So it was to-day.

I was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the house, about three o'clock, when I was convinced that I heard some sounds downstairs.

I listened, but they were not repeated, and I concluded that they came from outside.

Then suddenly, about five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell - the most dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard.

It will ring in my ears as long as I live.

I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two.

Then I seized the poker and went downstairs.

When I entered this room I found the window wide open, and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece.

Why any burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

"You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride.

This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door.

Stepping out into the dark I nearly fell over a dead man who was lying there.

I ran back for a light, and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole place swimming in blood.

He lay on his back, his knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open.

I shall see him in my dreams.

I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman standing over me in the hall."

"Well, who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.

"There's nothing to show who he was," said Lestrade.

"You shall see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now.

He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty.

He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer.

A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him.

Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know.

There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph.

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