“They were taken from the same mould.”

“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon.  Considering how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London, it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust.”

“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade.  “On the other hand, this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and these three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years.  So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it is very probable that these three were the only ones in that district.  Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them.  What do you think, Dr. Watson?”

“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I answered.  “There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have called the ‘IDEE FIXE,’ which may be trifling in character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every other way.  A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such an IDEE FIXE and under its influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”

“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head, “for no amount of IDEE FIXE would enable your interesting monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated.”

“Well, how do you explain it?”

“I don’t attempt to do so.  I would only observe that there is a certain method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings.  For example, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood.  The affair seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my most classic cases have had the least promising commencement.  You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day.  I can’t afford, therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any fresh development of so singular a chain of events.”

The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined.  I was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a tap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand.  He read it aloud: 

“Come instantly, 131 Pitt Street, Kensington.

“Lestrade.”

“What is it, then?” I asked.

“Don’t know—­may be anything.  But I suspect it is the sequel of the story of the statues.  In that case our friend the image-breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London.  There’s coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door.”