As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto
went, I had heard little good of him, and could feel no intense
antipathy to his murderers. The treasure, however, was a
different matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to
Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it I was
ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it
it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would
be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a
thought as that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I
had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.
A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up
wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast
laid and Homes pouring out the coffee.
"Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open
newspaper. "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have
fixed it up between them. But you have had enough of the case.
Better have your ham and eggs first."
I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was
headed "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood."
"About twelve o'clock last night," said the Standard, "Mr.
Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was
found dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul
play.
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