"Come, Watson. We mustn't let our guest find us living amid such squalor. If you would, just gather up those discarded musings of mine and throw them into the dustbin." Somewhat amazed at this abrupt need for cleanliness, I did as he asked, even as began snatching up the papers from the table with near frantic energy.

"You've a stray there behind the sofa, Watson. Just so. Good. Now we are ready to meet our visitor, I fancy. Make no mention of the music, pray, as I prefer to keep my work on it a secret." Even as he spoke a knock resounded upon the door.

"Mr. John Amberson." Announced my colleague as he threw wide the door. "Do come in and make yourself comfortable. I'm sure you have much to tell us after so disturbing an experience."

The gentleman stood, as so many visitors had in the past, simply staring at my friend in puzzlement and awe. He was something less than six feet tall, broad shouldered, and with open, honest features. He grasped his hat before him with both hands, finally extending one in greeting as he laughed to himself at his own momentary bewilderment.

"Mr. Holmes, you've just proven to me that I was right in coming to you. You already know what's happened and I haven't told a soul. How did you know something had happened?"

"Why else would you have come without sending word ahead of your intention?" replied the detective with a quick smile as he motioned the young artist to the chair he himself had vacated. "Now then, when you are ready." He took his own seat across from the man, already assuming the lethargic pose so familiar to me.

"Out of the 15 musicians in Mr. Eideard's competition, three have been murdered. And last night, that number almost rose to four."As he spoke, Amberson reached into his jacket pocket and took out a half-burned cigar, passing it to Holmes for closer scrutiny.

"After dinner, the men all retired to the study for brandy and cigars. I didn't feel much like talking, so I went instead to my room. However, I decided to smoke a cigar anyway. Not long after, I began to feel somewhat ill, though I thought little of it for a time. But as I continued to smoke I felt worse and worse. Then it suddenly occurred to me that it could be that the cigar was poisoned. I stubbed it out immediately and then opened the windows wide. Eventually I did begin to feel better, but it wasn't until thismorning when the effects seemed to leave me completely. Now then, would you say it was poison?"

In answer, Holmes simply stared at the ends of the cigar, his impassive face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Then he tapped the cigar lightly into the palm of his hand, looking closely at the flakes of ash that fell. At last, dusting his hands, he put down the cigar and folded his long fingers together.

"Judging by the color of the ash, I would say it possible. However, there is a faint smell to the cigar itself that it not associated with any brand of tobacco of which I am aware. Without a chemical test, it is not certain, but my belief is that you were,indeed, the victim of a poisoning."

Our visitor slapped his knee with a triumphant cry.

"I knew it! Then, Mr. Holmes, I can tell you who the murderer is." My friend merely arched his brow.

"That cigar was given to me by none other than Mr. Eideard."

Proceed to Part Six