At last, shortly after nine o'clock, there arrived a
messenger with a note:
Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington.
Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a
dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver.
S.H.
It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry
through the dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed them all
discreetly away in my overcoat and drove straight to the address
given. There sat my friend at a little round table near the door
of the garish Italian restaurant.
"Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and
curacao. Try one of the proprietor's cigars. They are less
poisonous than one would expect. Have you the tools?"
"They are here, in my overcoat."
"Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I have done,
with some indication of what we are about to do. Now it must be
evident to you, Watson, that this young man's body was PLACED on
the roof of the train. That was clear from the instant that I
determined the fact that it was from the roof, and not from a
carriage, that he had fallen.
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