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"Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its last edition.

Oxford won by a goal and two tries.

The last sentences of the description say: 'The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton, whose want was felt at every instant of the game.

The lack of combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in attack and defence more than neutralised the efforts of a heavy and hard-working pack.'"

"Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified," said Holmes. "Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night, Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day."

I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe.

I associated that instrument with the single weakness of his nature, and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his hand.

He laughed at my expression of dismay, and laid it upon the table.

"No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm.

It is not upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery.

On this syringe I base all my hopes.

I have just returned from a small scouting expedition and everything is favourable.

Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong's trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food until I run him to his burrow."

"In that case," said I, "we had best carry our breakfast with us, for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door."

"Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where I cannot follow him. When you have finished come downstairs with me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in the work that lies before us."

When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

"Let me introduce you to Pompey," said he.

"Pompey is the pride of the local draghounds, no very great flier, as his build will show, but a staunch hound on a scent.

Well, Pompey, you may not be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of fastening this leather leash to your collar.

Now, boy, come along, and show what you can do." He led him across to the doctor's door.

The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street, tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster.

In half an hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.

"What have you done, Holmes?" I asked.

"A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion.

I walked into the doctor's yard this morning and shot my syringe full of aniseed over the hind wheel.

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