The sun had yet to rise when Dawson was awakened by an urgent knocking on his door.

"There's a messenger here," Mrs. Judson said from the other side. "It's something about that museum business- he says it's an emergency!"

Basil was already dressed and waiting at the front door by the time Dawson had hurriedly thrown on his clothes and grabbed his medical bag. In the interest of expediency, the messenger- identifying himself as having been sent by Inspector Moustrade- had enlisted the aid of a dog, who would also ferry them back to the museum.

"What's this all about?" Dawson asked, as they were ushered onto their canine transport, who broke into a brisk trot.

"There's been a break-in at the museum, sir," the messenger said. "The office of a Dr. Chipman. I didn't see the scene myself, but from the sound of it, it's bad. Inspector Moustrade's there right now, and as soon as he found out Mr. Basil was involved with an earlier incident, he sent me to fetch you." Try as they might, the messenger had no more information to give, and there was nothing to do but continue the trip in silent trepidation of what would await them at the museum.

The scene, which was the room containing the inside portion of the birds' enclosure, looked like a complete disaster. The half that was not part of the cage had furniture, paper and supplies flung everywhere; more chillingly, though, was the blood splashed about, including several bloody footprints. The door to the cage had been broken open, as had its door to the outside; one of the birds huddled in a corner, shuddering. Aside from the single bird, and the policemice milling about, there was no other sign of life.

"Mr. Basil!" Inspector Moustrade called out as he spied the detective and made his way over, but Basil immediately held up a hand to silence him as he took in the scene. Shooting the inspector an apologetic glance for Basil's brusqueness, Dawson also looked around, dumbfounded. They'd just been here the day before, and now this... and the blood... Dawson just hope that whosever it was, it wasn't-

A disturbance from within the cage caused everyone to look up. The bird, whose upturned feather identified him as Peter, had suddenly come to life as someone came to close, flaring his wings and hissing menacingly through his sharp, opened beak as he advanced slightly on the policemice.

"W-wait!" Dawson cried, as several policemice started reaching for weapons. "Peter!" he cried to the bird. "Stop! You remember me, right? From yesterday? You nibbled my coat, right here, see?" He held up the hem, which was now frayed from the bird's earlier attentions.

Peter stared at him for a moment, then recognition came to his dark eyes. "Pio? Piopio! Piopiopio!" He began to hop frantically, as though desperate to tell Dawson something. It was then that Dawson noticed what the bird had been protecting.

"Basil!" He shouted, racing over to the bird and the stricken mouse that lay in the corner; Peter stepped to the side, but loomed over anxiously as Dawson knelt down. Dr. Chipman had been horribly wounded, savaged even. Checking for lifesigns, Dawson was relieved to find that the old scientist was still alive, though unconscious.

"We need to get this mouse to the hospital, immediately!" the doctor shouted to the police, who were staring at him uncertainly. Responding to the unmistakable authority in his voice, they all suddenly sprang into action, readying a stretcher and preparing the dog as transport to the hospital. As Dawson hurriedly tended to him, the way he'd once tended to the wounded in the fields of a war that seemed a lifetime ago, Chipman moaned, his eyes fluttering. "Dr. Dawson? Is that you?"

"Yes, I'm here. Lie still, please," Dawson said reassuringly. A shadow abruptly appeared over them as Basil, who had been poking his head through the pass through to the outside before Dawson had called him, suddenly crowded in.

"Is he awake? Dr. Chipman, can you hear me?" Basil asked urgently.

"Basil!" Dawson hissed warningly, and the detective took a step back with uncharacteristic meekness to let him work.

"Mr. Basil..." rasped Chipman; Dawson gently shushed him as the policemice helped to load him onto the stretcher.

"Don't worry, Dr. Chipman, I'll be with you all the way to the hospital."

"No!" Chipman said with unexpected force. "You need to stay here. Watch... Peter." Dawson looked over at the bird, who looked on in helpless confusion as the scientist was carried out of the enclosure, and he felt instantly torn- his instinct as a doctor told him to stay with Chipman, but it was clear by the suspicious looks the policemice were still giving the piopio, who seemed so lost and afraid, that he was needed here, too. Looking into Chipman's pained eyes, with their silent, desperate plea, Dawson reluctantly made his decision. "I'll look after him," he promised. A sense of relief seemed to wash over the stricken mouse, who then looked past Dawson at the figure behind him.

"Mr... Basil?" he said again.

"Yes, I'm here," Basil said, leaning forward, though Chipman struggled just to speak now. The detective gently grasped his paw. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"Save them," Chipman whispered, but the effort was too much; he sagged back into unconsciousness. Basil and Dawson watched solemnly as he was borne out of the room by the police.

"Well," Basil said, breaking the silence, "I had hoped he could have given us an account of what transpired here, but I think I have a good enough idea already."

"What's that?" asked Inspector Moustrade, who had also joined them. "What do you make of all this?"

"It's all quite clear, based on the evidence," Basil replied. "We are looking for a short, half-blind weasel, working in conjunction with an owl to abduct one of Dr. Chipman's birds." Both Dawson and Moustrade stared at him blankly. Basil sighed. "Surely you can identify the larger footprints here as belonging to a weasel, Inspector."

"Why, yes, of course, anyone can see that," Moustrade said defensively. "But how could you possibly-"

"We can tell from the stride length of the prints that our suspect stands just over five inches tall, which is on the smaller side for a weasel. Now, Dr. Chipman's wounds are noticeably more concentrated along his right side, which would be the perpetrator's left, indicating some sort of handicap along the culprit's right side. His stride, again deduced from the footprints, is even- there is nothing wrong with his leg. And if you look into the outer pen-" he led them to the door to the outside- "you'll notice that the wires have been neatly cut. Cuts that clean could only have been made with bolt cutters, and to be that precise would require two fully functional arms and hands. That only leaves his eyesight- he is either missing or otherwise blind in his right eye."

"But what about the owl?" Dawson asked. "And where is Petra? You said that she's been abducted..."

"I was just examining that evidence when you discovered Dr. Chipman," Basil replied. "Do you see those feathers there?" Dawson had been trying to avoid looking at the scattered pile of feathers in the middle of the compound- he shuddered to think what they might mean- but at Basil's insistence he forced himself to look. "Most of them appear to come from Dr. Chipman's bird. However, this feather is noticeably different." He reached among the feathers, and Dawson could see immediately that the one he selected and held up for them to see was larger and more... fluffier, for lack of a better word. "I'm not an expert on birds," Basil admitted, "but this is unmistakably the feather of an owl."

"My word," Dawson said, staring wide eyed at the feather. He looked at Petra's feathers strewn about the compound. "Then Petra is..." he trailed off disconsolately.

"I don't think so," Basil said quickly. "Notice that there's no blood out here. If the owl had killed her here, it would be much messier. He took her- alive."

"I still don't understand any of this," Moustrade complained. "Weasels? Owls? How does any of this connect? How did they even get here without the guards noticing?"

"This is my theory," Basil said. "There are two ways our weasel friend may have slipped past the guards. The first is that he may have employed the natural stealth of his species to avoid detection. The second is that he used hypnosis."

"Hypnosis?" Dawson said incredulously.

"Yes. While hypnosis is not a hereditary trait among weasels, as some believe, it is a traditional craft often taught by parents to children through many family lines. It's entirely possible that this weasel used it to confound the guards and break into Dr. Chipman's office, where he unexpectedly found that Dr. Chipman himself had stayed late. A fight broke out, and when Chipman was incapacitated the culprit entered the cage, opened the outer door, and chased the birds outside, where he cut the wires and summoned the owl to swoop off with one of the birds."

"But why?" Dawson and Moustrade both asked in unison.

"That I don't know yet," Basil said. "But I may be able to locate them with this." He held up the owl feather again. "The increased surface area of this feather holds particles of dust and dirt much better than hair. I can perform some tests on it to determine their origin."

"Now see here," Moustrade objected, "that's evidence of this cri-" Seeing the look Basil and Dawson gave him, he relented, "Oh, very well."

"Now, then, Dawson, let's hurry home to- Dawson?" Basil looked over at the doctor, who was staring at the remaining bird.

"What will become of Peter?" Dawson asked.

"Well, I'm sure that the Yard will see to him."

"We're not a zoo, Mr. Basil," Moustrade said irritably. "Since you've assumed control of this investigation, I'll leave this to you, as well." His tone held just a hint of smugness at that last; Basil glared at the Inspector from the corner of his eye.

"Well, he can't stay here," Dawson said. "It's all destroyed." He though for a moment, as though choosing his next words carefully. "Perhaps he could-"

"Absolutely not," Basil cut him off.

"But Basil," Dawson said. "I promised Dr. Chipman that I would watch over him..."

"Now see here!" Basil said. "There is absolutely no way that that animal will be staying-"

"-with us for a few days," Basil reluctantly tried to explain to Mrs. Judson, who looked fit to have a conniption where she stood in the doorway of their Baker Street home. Basil and Dawson stood outside at the door, while Peter the piopio regarded the mousekeeper nervously from behind them.

"But Mr. Basil, think of the mess!" Mrs. Judson pleaded.

"We'll lay down some newspaper," Dawson said placatingly. "He has nowhere else to go right now, Mrs. Judson. As Basil said, it'll only be for a few days."

"Bless me," Mrs. Judson said, as she reluctantly stepped aside to let all of them through. "As if the gunshots and the experiments weren't bad enough, now you have to bring pets into my house?"

While Basil set up his chemistry set for whatever experiments he would need to perform on the owl feather, Dawson got to work laying down newspaper in the corner and setting down bowls of water and food provided by Mrs. Judson, before coaxing Peter onto the covered area. The bird settled down onto the floor and thrust his beak under Dawson's hand. "Pio..." he said mournfully.

"There, there, I know," Dawson said, stroking the bird's head, unsuccessful at smoothing out the single, curling feather. "We'll put things right." Peter continued to coo sadly, his eyes closing. Suddenly they shot open, and his head perked up at a sound very familiar within the flat- Basil had evidently finished preparing his experiment and had now settled into his chair to play his violin. Peter cocked his head, listening for several moment in fascination. Then, he did something unexpected- he began to sing along, his voice clear and strong.

Basil immediately stopped playing and turned in his chair to scowl at him for interrupting what was intended to be a solo performance, as it always was; Peter also went quiet, while Dawson tried to suppress a smile. Basil turned back and began to play again; Peter again began to sing along. Basil struck a sour note in frustration and stopped playing. "Of all the- oh, whatever." He set the violin down next to his chair again and stood up. He glared again at Peter, before frowning at Dawson, sitting next to him and now unable to fully hide his amusement. "Instead of playing with that bird, I suggest you rest for the next hour or so until dawn," the detective said tersely. "We have a busy day tomorrow."