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Once Hilton Cubitt had gone, my friend rushed to the table. He spread out all the pieces of paper and then focused intensely on the dancing men. For two hours, he filled sheet after sheet of his notepad with figures and letters. He was so absorbed that he completely forgot I was there.

Sometimes, when he made progress, he sang and whistled while he worked; other times, when he was stuck, he would sit in silence, frowning at the symbols as if trying to understand them.

Finally, he jumped up from his chair with a cry of triumph and walked around the room rubbing his hands together. Then he wrote a long message.

“If this brings the answer I expect, Watson,” he said, “then you’ll have another interesting case to write about. I hope the answer will come tomorrow, and then we can go to Norfolk and explain the whole mystery to our friend.”

But the answer to the message didn’t come the next day or the day after that, and my friend grew more and more impatient. On the evening of the second day, a letter arrived from Hilton Cubitt. He had found more dancing men written on the pedestal of the sundial. After reading the message for a few minutes, Holmes let out a gasp of surprise and dismay.

“We have to go to Norfolk right away!” he exclaimed. “Is there a train to North Walsham tonight?”

“The last one just left,” I said after checking the timetable.

“Then we must take the first one tomorrow morning.”

Our landlady Mrs. Hudson came in with a telegram—the long-awaited reply to the one Holmes had sent.

“Just as I thought,” said Holmes after reading it. He looked more anxious than I had ever seen him. “This makes it even more important that we tell Mr. Cubitt about the situation, as he has no idea of the danger he’s in.”

As it turned out, Holmes was correct. I wish we had caught that earlier train and prevented the tragic end of this story.

The next morning, as soon as we got off the train at North Walsham, the station master hurried toward us.

“I suppose you're the detectives from London going to Ridling Thorpe Manor?” he said breathlessly.

A look of fear crossed Holmes's face. “Why do you ask?” he said.

“Or maybe you’re the doctors? Mrs. Cubitt isn't dead—or at least wasn't when I last heard. You might still be able to save her, even if it’s just for the trial.”

“We’re heading to Ridling Thorpe Manor,” said Holmes, “but we haven’t heard anything about what’s happened there.”

“It’s a terrible situation,” said the station master. “Mrs. Cubitt shot her husband and then herself, according to the servants. He’s dead, and she’s barely clinging to life. It’s shocking! And to think the Cubitts are one of the oldest and most respected families in Norfolk.”