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Islamics
throughout the world."
    "But Holmes, it is
just an inanimate object."
    "What makes sense
or follows the laws of logic is not always important, Watson. It is
what people believe. I can see the idea of a horde of nomadic
horsemen surging forth from the desert and elsewhere finds no fertile
soil in your mind. But they came before, you know. Not just under the
Mahdi. At one time they flooded into France."
    "The Battle of
Tours?"
    "More recently, the
history of Europe for a half century was dictated by the alarming
thought that the Grand Army of the Republic might rise again. The
shadow of 'Le Petit Corporal' had our statesmen quivering even after
Waterloo and his subsequent death on St. Helena. Presumably we live
in an age of enlightenment, but should you turn up with a sword named
'Excalibur' and prove that it was the weapon of the great Arthur of
legend, I imagine you could stir up quite an uprising. Certainly
among the superstitious and clannish Cornish and others as well."
    The thought of my waving
a great two-handed blade and leading a horde to conquest and pillage
had to introduce the dwarf of derision to my manner with the midget
of mischievous merriment trodding on his heels. The latter increased
in stature as the chuckle on my lips grew into a chortle and then
blossomed to a full guffaw. It was so ridiculous, but then the truth
of Holmes's words regarding the Corsican shouldered my laughter
aside. As my face sobered and grim lines appeared, Holmes surveyed me
with his wise eyes.
    "Now I believe I
shall ring for Mrs. Hudson and request two dinners. Tomorrow may be
an important day in our lives."
    I could but agree. Men
can be stirred to the marrow when deep-seated loyalties or
hostilities are aroused. Holmes had once discoursed at length on the
matter of racial memory. I had not followed him at the time, but it
was making more sense now.
    It was during our
evening repast that the first messages arrived. Holmes quite rightly
assumed that they were in response to his cables of the night before
and relegated them to the desk until we had enjoyed an after-dinner
cigar together.
    Then, with a sigh, he
seated himself to go over the communications. The acquiring of
information through the knowledge or efforts of others was onerous to
Holmes. In the early days it was standard procedure for us to be on
the scene of the crime in jig time and make our own conclusions.
Or rather, have Holmes make his. But now the scope of the sleuth's
activities had widened and it would have been impractical indeed not
to take advantage of the far-flung web of contacts and sources that
he had taken such pains to weave.
    I was in the dark as to
what progress, if any, was being made. Possibly the messages were
confirmations of a time and meeting place with some associate, or
perhaps an answer to a direct question posed by Holmes to a
highly qualified source. I was mentally framing a query that might
prompt a revealing remark from him when there was a gentle tap on the
door.
    "Come in, Billy,"
said Holmes.
    The page boy did so but
there was no cable or envelope in his hand.
    "It's abox,
Mr. 'Olmes. Two deliverymen brung it. It's fer Mr. Mycroft 'Olmes,
sir. Care of Mr. Sherlock 'Olmes, this address."
    "Now that's
strange. Mycroft made no mention of this, and surely he has any
number of working addresses. Well, best we have a look at it."
    "Rather big, sir."
    "Oh," said
Holmes, springing to his feet. "Come, Watson, and let us see
what object comes to Mycroft via our dwelling."
    Within the front door
was a crate easily five feet long by three feet in width. I glanced
at Holmes blankly and drew a responsive shrug. Holmes positioned
himself at one end of the box, and with Billy's help I lifted the
other end and we maneuvered it up the stairs and into our sitting
room. Happily it was not of a great weight, and we had it lying
adjacent to the fireplace in short order.
    As Billy departed from
the room, my friend was surveying the unexpected object