4 The Escape

Chapter 4 The Escape I obeyed Sherlock Holmes's instructions to the letter. The following morning, I took the third hansom to arrive and went to Lowther Arcade. Then I ran as fast as I could to the far end where, as Holmes had promised, a carriage was waiting for me. I climbed in and the driver, a big fellow in a dark, red-collared cloak, immediately took off for Victoria Station. As soon as I alighted, he urged on his horse and dashed away again without even a glance in my direction. My bags were waiting for me at the station, and I had no difficulty finding the compartment on the train that Holmes had booked. So far, all had gone smoothly, but now I started to worry, for there was no sign of Holmes himself.

According to the station clock, there were just seven minutes to go before the train was due to depart. I searched the hallway and other compartments of the carriage. There were tourists and businesspeople, and even an elderly Italian priest, but there was no sign of Sherlock Holmes. Fear gripped me. Had Moriarty's agents got to him somehow during the night?

The Italian priest was trying to explain to the porter, in his broken English, that he was going to Paris and his bags must go there, too. The porter failed to understand, so I helped interpret, all the while conscious that time was ticking away. I did another tour of the carriage, looking in vain for Holmes, then returned to my compartment. I found the old Italian priest sitting there. The porter had mistakenly sent him to our compartment. I tried without success to make the priest understand that he was in the wrong place,

for my Italian was even worse than his English. In the end, I shrugged my shoulders in defeat and continued to look around anxiously for my friend. I gazed out of the window, hoping against hope to see his tall, lean figure racing along the platform toward me—but the platform was empty. The time for departure had arrived. The doors were slammed shut and the guard blew his whistle. The train began to hiss and chug slowly along the track. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, wondering what on earth to do. This could only

mean the worst had happened: Moriarty had struck! Then a nearby voice spoke: "My dear Watson, you haven't even wished me a good morning." My eyes snapped open in shock. The aged priest suddenly seemed to lose his wrinkles. In their place were the lean features of Sherlock Holmes. "Good heavens!" I cried. "It's you!" I flushed with a sudden anger when he smiled. "Holmes, you rascal, this is no joke! I thought you'd suffered some catastrophe!"

"I'm sorry, Watson. I couldn't risk appearing as myself. My enemies are still hot upon my trail." He peered out of the window. "Look, there's Moriarty himself." Glancing back, I saw a tall man striding quickly along the platform, waving his hand as if demanding to have the train stopped. He was too late, however, for we were rapidly gathering speed and an instant later we had shot clear of the station. "As you can see, we have escaped with just moments to spare," said Holmes, as he threw off his false moustache and priest's hat and packed them away.