It was with no small amount of relief that we heard the footsteps go past the closet door and the candlelight slowly faded, but it was several long tense moments before either of us dared to move or even breathe, until I had such a knot in my gut I had to let out a breath for fear I would burst. By the sound of the creaking stairs, however, it seemed the unusual Colonel Warberton was far enough away he presumably would not hear it. I hoped.

"Come, Watson," said Holmes, and very stealthily we crept out of the closet and down the stairs. The building was old, though, and the stairs creaked like tattletales. It was dark, but we could see the faint glow of a candle through a door.

"Watson, are you armed?" he asked suddenly. "On the chance we find ourselves confronted." Hastily I drew my revolver from my pocket, and Holmes nodded.

"Same old Watson," he declared, smiling. Slowly, as I held my breath yet again, Holmes reached for the handle of the door and turned it quietly.

It was exactly as Captain Warburton had described it. Dirt, not concrete, and it looked as if someone (indeed, the colonel, for there he was) was excavating something. A smaller plot was marked off and covered with fresh dirt, and I knew that Holmes and I both believed it marked the gravesite of the poor little terrier. What, then, was the Colonel excavating, for he was on his knees in his nightshirt with a candle beside him and a small brush, which he was using to dust away the dirt so very gently.

When we entered the room he gave a startled cry and promptly fainted. Holmes tossed me an amused smile.

"Well, my dear Watson, it seems stealth is no longer required," said he, and together, we managed to get the unconscious colonel up the stairs to lay him on the sofa. There we sat until the colonel regained his senses. Holmes frowned at the man.

"Now, Sir, do you care to tell me what you are doing in the basement?" Holmes asked. The colonel looked at Holmes with desperate, terrified eyes.

"Please, Sir, I implore you I cannot," he said when he could speak. "I must ask your leave to retain this information."

"Well, then, my good man, we shall see for ourselves. Watson, your revolver." I presented it and the colonel went white, whether with anger or fear I was not certain. At least, not immediately.

"What is this," he snarled, his eyes turning dangerous, "that a man will be threatened with a gun in his own home, by those claiming to be honorable detectives? A true oxymoron that is, sir, for in my experience there are no honorable detectives. What are you after?"

"I am after," said Holmes, clearly not perturbed by Warberton's fury, "that which often seems so elusive, the truth. I want to know, pointedly, what you are excavating in the basement!"

At this Warburton gave a sigh of incensed resignation and sagged into the sofa, as deflated as any man has ever seen another.

"It began," said he, "When I was in India during the wars. I made many enemies, and one of them seeks something which I do not believe I have, but that which he says is buried in this property. So far I have no evidence of it."

"What did you do, you monster, with the poor little terrier?"

"Ah, my poor little dog. My fiercest enemy killed him to send me a message that time is running out, for he knew I loved that little dog. I knew that you would be suspicious, Mr. Holmes, so I buried him in the basement hoping to buy myself some time, but I seem to only have found deeper trouble."

"What is the artifact he is looking for?" by implication I suspected that "he" meant Warburton's enemy, and for the first time I began to suspect that Warburton was speaking the truth, at least part of it.

"I do not know for certain, Mr. Holmes. I received this message four days ago." He passed a sheet of paper to Holmes. On it were letters forming the singular phrase

"THE ARTIFACT, TO BROXTON HOUSE, FRIDAY MIDNIGHT OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES."

"Indeed," said Holmes, glancing at me in his most singular fashion, his eyes dancing with the excitement that he had at last grasped a thread of truth in this singularly bizarre case of Colonel Warburton's madness. It seemed, after all, not to be madness but the actions of a very desperate man who's life was in danger.

Go to Part Nine