We stood aghast, transfixed by the mental image.

"A moose? Astonishing!" I exclaimed. "What Bullwinklelian malevolence has befallen the colonel's daughter?
"Indeed," is all that Holmes could say. Then, he looked at us in embarrassment. "And here I am at a disadvantage: I left my magnifying glass in my other vest." He seemed to shake with frustration. "Alas," he added, "even my moosestalker is hanging in my closet back at the flat."

"Whatever shall we do, Mr. Holmes?" the colonel implored.
"Now, gentlemen, I only have two statements to make," Holmes began, "Firstly, WATCH WHERE YOU STEP! Moose, you know. Secondly, all we can do for the moment is return to the colonel's mansion...for a conference. Oh, by the way, Motherspaw," Holmes added, "be a good chap and bring along that piece of phosphorescent antler caught in that tree. Thank you. Come along, Watson."

When we were beyond earshot of the colonel, hurrying toward the building, Holmes leaned close to me. "Say nothing yet of what you have seen at the house, Watson. I believe it is all tied in with the colonel's case. Besides," he said adamantly, "the colonel is high- strung enough about his current predicament, and further revelations about his domicile would possibly drive him over the brink."

I protested, "But, what of the strange events on the roof? Do we not owe it to him to warn him of the danger?"
All he would say is "Bear in mind the fact that smoke from a chimney can restrict a healthy flow of oxygen to the brain. It is quite capable of creating illusions and visions. I should know. Now quiet. Here comes Motherspaw."

At this time, we had entered the front door and were on our way to the sitting room. The colonel was catching up to us. We entered the room and headed straight for the chairs by the hearth. We could hear Motherspaw panting behind us. Composing ourselves as best as we could, Holmes and I took comfortable positions before the fireplace. Holmes sat back and smiled inscrutably. He said, "Ah, colonel! Come join us."

After listening to my comment about "Why? Did we come apart?" and frowning, Holmes motioned for Motherspaw to sit by the fireplace with us and engage in a frank conversation about his situation. I reminded Holmes that the colonel's first name was not "Frank," and he took note of it for future reference. Holmes continued in a grave fashion.

"No, gentlemen," the great detective declared, "I believe our direction to the colonel's telling mystery lies back in that quite singular note which he had copied before." Motherspaw said nary a word. I remained at sixes and sevens. Indeed, yes, my watch had stopped.

"Hmmmm," Holmes thought out loud, picking up and perusing the copied missive again. By coincidence, it had lain in the exact spot where the colonel had left it the day before. "Tell me, colonel, does the phrase 'rights langur' suggest anything to you?" The colonel, somewhat taken aback by this abrupt question, said no, it was just childish nonsense to him.

"But, in point of fact," Holmes persisted, his demeanor changing dramatically while he rose up to his full height, "is it not true that there existed a Tibetan gentleman of your acquaintance in the brigade you were assigned back in Balaklava?"

The effect was lost on the colonel who was as dense as one of Moriarty's asteroids; nevertheless, his eyes suddenly brightened, "Ah yes, quite so, old chap! There may have been an individual of that persuasion. But, I can not remember a name at the moment."

Holmes insisted that Motherspaw look at the note again and re-read the last phrase again...but backwards. The colonel looked at my friend in wide-eyed discovery. "Of course, of course" he said, "I served with a such a fellow cohort --- a major, I believe -- by the name of Rugnal Sthgir."

"Of course!" reiterated Holmes in triumph.
"But, Holmes," I queried. "Is that a Tibetan name?"
"Really, Watson," the man admonished. "Perhaps you've read my monograph on the 1,397 variations of names in the Tibetan region?"
I suddenly realized my mistake in asking the question. "When I realized the connection with Tibet," he continued incorrigibly, "I immediately recognized the inflections as a form of southern dialect. From the Shangri-La region, to be precise. It was elementary, really."

"Yes," I mumbled, "how absurdly simple."
Seeing where Holmes was heading with this new string of investigation, I boldly got up and stepped forward with my chance to show Holmes my command of his method: "Yes, colonel" I said, also rising to my full height (albeit shorter and less dramatically), "perhaps you should tell us MORE about Baklava!" "Well," he said slowly," it's a Greek pastry made of honey and nuts..."

"No, no, no, Watson!" Holmes interjected impatiently, "don't you mean BALAKLAVA?"

"Sorry, old boy," I said to Holmes, sheepishly, "I guess I'm a little hungry." Holmes motioned me to go on, anyway. I continued my queries of Colonel Motherspaw.

"Now, what can you tell us about the private." "SIR!" the colonel exclaimed suddenly," I'm British! We don't talk about our privates!"

Holmes mildly interjected: "No, colonel. He means the private that was killed while searching for wildflowers. You remember, the incident that was covered up by your brigade?"

"Oh, THAT," he said with some relief. "Yes, colonel," I added, "tell us, who was your commanding officer?" Colonel Motherspaw nonchalantly said, "That would be a man named Moran."

"What!" Holmes leaped for the ceiling, but I had it reserved. "MORAN? Colonel Sebastian Moran?!?" "No, no," the colonel quickly corrected, a bit confused, "GENERAL Moran. General 'Stoke' Moran."

Holmes calmed a bit. The room became so quiet you could hear a syringe drop. Then, he said, "Tell us more about 'Stoke' Moran." "Nothing much to tell," the colonel shrugged. "I remember he was an older, greying man. With blotches."
"Blotches?"

"Yes," the man shivered involuntarily, "reminded me of lichen. Anyway, he called us together and forced us all to go along with his...scheme."

Holmes interrupted. As usual. "Hmmm. Perhaps we should take another look at these stick figures found about your person. Now that I see this matter in a new light, these characters are becoming more important. Now, these drawings seem to be in some sort of progressive order. Like a story unfolding. Tell me, colonel. How many of these are on your person?"

"SIR!"