That evening Holmes again wore different clothes, and a large, black hat. He changed his face, his hair—everything. He was a different man.

We walked together to Serpentine Avenue. “You see,” said Holmes to me, “I don’t think she wants others to see the photo. But where is it? At her bank? No. Such a woman likes to keep important things herself. I’m sure it’s in her house.”

“But how will you know?” I asked. He said, “She’ll show me. She’ll have to.”

Just then Irene’s taxi arrived. One of the men in the street ran to open the door and then another man pushed him. Other men were also pushing and shouting, and a fight began. Irene was in the middle of it, but Holmes ran to help her. Then suddenly he fell to the ground, with blood running down his face. Irene hurried to her front door, but she looked back. “How kind of him to help me! Is the poor man hurt?” she called.

Some people carried Holmes into the house. I waited outside the window and watched. Then Holmes put up his hand, and I threw the smoke-stick into the room. At once, the people in the street and in the house all began to shout “Fire!” very loudly.

The house was full of smoke. I walked away, and ten minutes later Holmes came to meet me.

“Well done, Watson,” he said. “Have you got the photo?” I asked.

“I know where it is. She showed me,” he answered.

“But why did she show you?”

“It’s easy,” he said, and laughed. “You saw all those people in the street? I paid them to help us. It wasn’t a real fight and the blood wasn’t real. When people shout ‘Fire!’, a woman runs to the most important thing in her house, her baby, her gold, or...a photo. Irene ran to find her photo which is in a cupboard in the living room. I saw it. But I did not take it. Tomorrow we will go to the palace and tell it to the King first. The King himself can take the photo from the cupboard. And then we will go.”