X. The End of the Islander

           Ourmealwasamerryone.Holmescouldtalkexceedinglywellwhenhechose,andthatnighthedidchoose.Heappearedtobeinastateofnervousexaltation.Ihaveneverknownhimsobrilliant.Hespokeonaquicksuccessionofsubjects,—onmiracle-plays,onmediævalpottery,onStradivariusviolins,ontheBuddhismofCeylon,andonthewar-shipsofthefuture,—handlingeachasthoughhehadmadeaspecialstudyofit.Hisbrighthumourmarkedthereactionfromhisblackdepressionoftheprecedingdays.AthelneyJonesprovedtobeasociablesoulinhishoursofrelaxation,andfacedhisdinnerwiththeairofabonvivant.Formyself,Ifeltelatedatthethoughtthatwewerenearingtheendofourtask,andIcaughtsomethingofHolmes’sgaiety.Noneofusalludedduringdinnertothecausewhichhadbroughtustogether.

           Whentheclothwascleared,Holmesglancedathiswatch,andfilledupthreeglasseswithport.“Onebumper,”saidhe,“tothesuccessofourlittleexpedition.Andnowitishightimewewereoff.Haveyouapistol,Watson?”

           “Ihavemyoldservice-revolverinmydesk.”

           “Youhadbesttakeit,then.Itiswelltobeprepared.Iseethatthecabisatthedoor.Iordereditforhalf-pastsix.”

           ItwasalittlepastsevenbeforewereachedtheWestminsterwharf,andfoundourlaunchawaitingus.Holmeseyeditcritically.

           “Isthereanythingtomarkitasapolice-boat?”

           “Yes,—thatgreenlampattheside.”

           “Thentakeitoff.”

           Thesmallchangewasmade,westeppedonboard,andtheropeswerecastoff.Jones,Holmes,andIsatinthestern.