"What is it about, then?" I asked.

"I don't know - it could be anything. But I think it might be the next part of the story of the statues. If it is, then our friend the image-breaker has begun to work in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door."

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater just beside one of the busiest streets of London. No. 131 was one of a row of houses, all respectable, and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found a crowd of curious people in front of the house. Holmes whistled. "By George! this must be a case of attempted murder at least. Nothing less will make a London message-boy stop work to stare. From the way he is stretching his neck to see things, something violent has happened here. What's this, Watson? The top steps have been washed and the other ones are dry. We will find footsteps, anyhow! Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know all about it."

Lestrade greeted us with a very grave face. We went into a sitting-room, where a very untidy and agitated elderly man, wearing a flannel dressing-gown, was walking around the room. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house - Mr. Horace Harker, a journalist.

"It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade. "You seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would like to be here, now that things have become more serious. It has turned to murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has happened?"