Sherlock Holmes and I were engaged in a rather involved discussion by the breakfast table one bright and crisp Fall morning. He put his paper down to impress upon me what he called the Circadian Rhythm of crime, while I tried to take furtive bites of the excellent breakfast Mrs. Hudson had made for us. The streams of light from the bow window kept distracting me from the salient points of his somewhat emphatic argument as his hands flew back and forth through the dust-filled beams. It was at that moment, however, before he broke the stream of another shaft of light, when Holmes stopped short and said, eyes widening: "Now why would Mycroft be here?"

I assumed he recognized his brother's distinctive tread upon the stair; and, in answer to my thoughts, the person in question, Holmes' brother, entered after a very brief knock. Over a dark suit, Mycroft wore a large gray mackintosh, which he proceeded to remove and gingerly place over the back of the nearest chair.

Brief warm greetings were exchanged, which preceded a rather abrupt change of atmosphere as Mycroft quickly got to the point of his visit. It must be grave, I thought, to forego most of the social amenities of his unannounced arrival. Indeed, the usually jovial countenance had been replaced with a more serious demeanor and, as we all took places in armchairs by the lit fireplace, Holmes and I adopted the same somber features. And, of course, for Mycroft to stray from his Pall Mall routine and arrive here at Baker Street, instantly revealed to us that an adventure was imminent.

In response to Holmes' question as to the reason for this sudden visit, Mycroft asked simply, "Do you remember Moriarty?"

I almost laughed out loud to this ludicrous statement: how could anyone forget the worst criminal mastermind London had ever seen, the man who almost killed Sherlock Holmes himself? I thought back to the shocking moment when my friend reappeared and confirmed that the Napoleon of Crime perished instead over the falls. Was Holmes' brother trying to make a poor attempt at humor?

But then, Mycroft added: "New Scotland Yard has captured another of his henchmen."

Sherlock Holmes leaned forward, instinctively reaching for his pipe. He said, "And how does that concern your department?"

Mycroft answered, "The man offered to make a deal. It was an offer that sent ripples throughout the entire British government!"

As Holmes lit a match, Mycroft continued in his somewhat dramatic style, "He told us that Moriarty, before he died, had entrusted a mysterious parchment to his care. The paper was encoded and supposedly told of the location of some stolen articles. Gentlemen, the stolen articles are from the collection of the crown jewels!" I sat back in astonishment. If Holmes suffered any such emotion, he did not show it. He simply threw his spent match into the fireplace. I focused my attention on Mycroft's words.

"We did check," Mycroft shifted in his chair, somewhat embarrassed. "This has been verified. Somehow, some of the jewels - only two or three at this time - have been replaced with objects of ordinary paste. Of course, we are looking into the circumstances."

"What do you desire of me, Mycroft?"

"We need you to retrieve these missing gems, Sherlock. There can be no excuse for even one jewel removed from the Tower. They must all be recovered. We hope that the answer lies in this parchment. See what you

can do with this." With that, Mycroft pulled from his inside pocket a folded piece of paper, which he partially unfolded and carefully turned toward us. It was filled with a series of numbers:

4-4-4-5-1-1-4-5-5-1-1-5-3-5-2-1-3-2-3-5-4-3-1-4-3-4-1-5-3-2-4-4-3-5-3-4

Holmes devoured the writing as Mycroft added: "My people are at a standstill."

Holmes looked amazed. "Is there anything else you need to tell me, Mycroft? For instance, it is unusual that your fellows could not make more progress with this code."

Mycroft said rather quietly, "We also came across some important additional information. These numbers somehow relate to the words 'Twenty Five.' This was uncovered by one of our agents independently of apprehending the fugitive. Without question, our sources tell us the two bits of information are related. Yet, even Moriarty's henchman could not tell us what is the relationship with the simple line of numbers. He was not privy to the secret. My men are working on the theory, though, that there is a book somewhere that may have a number 25 in its title that may enlighten us."

Holmes said nothing.

"And now, Sherlock, I need to show you something else."

We stared up at Mycroft and again at the mysterious note.

"Your involvement is necessary for two reasons, Sherlock. One, your previous confrontations with Moriarty. And two, what is written at the top of the parchment." He unfolded the end he had been covering with his hand. It revealed the letters "221 Baker Street. The plane tree."

I looked dumbfounded at the two brothers, unable to utter a word. This residence? Was this part of Moriarty's joke? And did this refer to the tree in Mrs. Hudson's very own backyard?

As if in answer, Sherlock Holmes said, "Quickly, gentlemen, follow me."

Leaving his pipe on the mantle, he led us down the stairs quickly and out the door, around the back, and to the very tree I suspected. In the midst of the humble, sparse area scratched out behind our flat, we viewed the object of our search. Spindly branches, spread out over a greater part of the yard, collected into a thin trunk and terminated in a pile of yellowed leaves and pieces of bark. Holmes quickly approached the tree, then circled it slowly until he cried out in triumph.

We hurried around to the side where he was pointing. There, unexpectedly, the words "five by five" were gouged into the bark, followed by the single letter M.

Mycroft immediately said, "'Twenty Five! Yes! It is a grid formation."
"Indeed," declared Sherlock Holmes.
"You mean..." began Mycroft Holmes.
"Coordinate system!" finished Sherlock Holmes.
"Of course! The even amount of numbers, the recurring distribution...it all makes sense," said Mycroft.

I confess I neither understood their exchange nor could offer some theory to the incredible implications. At least the Brothers Holmes seemed to have some ideas formed over this mystery.

Without a further word, Sherlock Holmes began to return to the building, and we quickly fell in line, anxious to get upstairs with our newfound clues. However, following our leader back to the flat was a bit harder, since my friend's apparent enlightenment only increased his gait along with his determination. Mycroft nary said a word. He seemed quite deep in thought. He, as well as his brother, acted as if they had some definite paths to a solution. This was understandable, since Mycroft, having a similar capacity for mental acuity, seemed to arrive at the same conclusions as his brother at that moment by the plane tree.

Back in the sitting room, Holmes quickly seated himself at the table, after procuring a piece of paper and pen, and wrote enthusiastically, explaining his every action, presumably for my benefit. We gathered around.

"Thanks to the clue presented on the tree," he began, "we now know that the key is in first making a 5-by-5 crosshatch" He made an abbreviated chessboard pattern on the paper. "This we fill in with the alphabet starting at the top and going across and down until we reach the bottom. Then we number the top and sides with numbers 1 through 5."

"Of course," added his brother in agreement, "the numbers on the parchment are meant to be paired up. They are coordinates to a location on the grid."

"Yes, each pair of numbers represents one letter."

"And," said Mycroft, in a distinct display of revelation, "it is understandable that our boys could not figure out the message, since the cross hatch only contains positions for 25 letters, not 26."

"That was Moriarty's little method, you see. I came across something similar when I made a study of his coded letters. Since the Z was superfluous, he never bothered to include it."

Now I stared at the words forming on the paper. Holmes worked quickly and deliberately to translate the numbers into words.

"What?" I said, taken aback.
"'statueoflordnelson?'" "Read it as: 'Statue of Lord Nelson.'"
It was still a mystery. I said, "Are you sure?"
He looked at me coldly, "That is what it says."
"But, but what does it mean?"

Mycroft turned to me slowly, "It means, dear doctor, that we have a graver, more complicated quest before us than I first perceived."

"Yes, Watson, the game, as I have said before, is now afoot." Sie werden in wenigen Sekunden weitergeleitet, bitte haben Sie ein wenig Geduld...
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