It was when my thoughts turned back to this "J" that a hurried knocking at the front door brought me back to the land of the conscious. I observed the clock on my mantelpiece; it was a little before midnight. Wary of late-night guests, I withdrew my old service revolver from my desk drawer, checking it was loaded. I descended the stairs as the knocking grew louder and more impatient.

I approached, the door, apprehensive, and had already turned the lock before I realized perhaps caution was the better part of valor. I opened the door by a slight slit and asked, "Who is it?"

A hoarse whisper came in response. "It is 'J'. Have you got it?"

"It is in the hands of the police as we speak," said I.

"What!"

At this, he threw open the unlocked door, nearly striking me in the face. I took a step back, raising my revolver straight at my rude guest's heart. He was dressed roughly, with a kerchief concealing his jaw. His low forehead, beady eyes and boils upon his nose nearly gave the appearance of a caricature of a criminal.

Still wielding my revolver, I informed him, "It would not be wise to turn to violence, my dear friend. It would be probably better to cooperate."

"You-"

However, before he or I could speak, to my misfortune, Big Ben had chosen that very moment to strike twelve times, indeed, on the stroke of midnight. His attention and my own wandered briefly for a moment, mine for a second more than his.

In that moment of distraction he threw himself upon my gun-arm, bringing us crashing down on the ground. I landed on my old wound, my face creasing up at this excruciating pain. As I curled up in this temporary paralysis, my foe scrambled for the revolver.

I could not allow this to happen, and I grabbed one of his ankles, dragging him away from my weapon. At this most inopportune moment my wife emerged from our rooms, and seeing the violence on our doorstep, yelled for my safety. This distraction nearly proved my undoing, but I was able to grasp my revolver and slide it far from the villain's grasp.

When we both had managed to get up, I was positioned between the crook and my own revolver. He would either have to defeat me here to get at it, or strike me down without its help. Either way, he sent his balled fist swinging towards my face. Remembering a move of zaibatsu that a friend in the Marines had taught me, I side-stepped, seizing his wrist and the underside of his upper arm, and thus used his arm as a pivot to fling him onto the ground. His chin landed before his body, a sick crack implying it had broken. His head slumped to one side, indicating he was now unconscious.

My wife was now at the bottom of the stairs, an expression of shock on her face as she examined the scene.

"My God, John! Are you all right?"

Stroking my slightly bloodied mouth, I responded, "Better off than my friend on the ground here, at any rate. Come now; help me truss him up on the examining table."

It was not an easy task, considering the mass of my downed foeman, but at last Mary and I were able to get him up on the examination table. I told her to fetch Inspector Fredrickson immediately while I tended to our rude guest.

Removing the crook's kerchief to mend his chin, I noted that the boils on his nose extended to the rest of his face – that, combined with his disjointed and incomplete set of teeth made a truly grotesque façade. Nonetheless, I set to work, and it was in the process of my finishing my bandaging of the crook's chin that he began to return to consciousness.

"Hmm…what?" said he, clearly still not fully aware of his predicament yet.

"Good sir, you are currently in my consulting-room. Perhaps you would like to answer some questions before the police arrive."

"T'aint saying nothing," grumbled he.

"Come now, that is no way to talk. It would be better to cooperate."

At this he uttered a series of unprintable expletives, several directed at my wife for good measure.

"Be that as it may, I may be able to put in a good word for you once the police come," said I.

What profanities that followed evidently showed that he would not cooperate in the slightest. Sighing, I took the seat opposite the table, and placed my revolver on the table should he attempt more violence.

It was fortunate for me – and for him – that he did not do so, and that when the police finally arrived, with Fredrickson at their lead we were not at each others' throats, for that would have made the problem ever so more intractable.

Fredrickson stepped into my room, and said, "Well then, Dr. Watson. You told me you had this 'J' that Carew was talking about."

I gestured at the table. "He lies there, most uncooperative."

Fredrickson's gaze turned towards the crook on my examining table, and he blinked once or twice, evidently in confusion.

"But this is Sidney Siddeley, the cat-burglar! The letter 'J' appears not once in his name," said he.

"Precisely," said I.

Pausing a while to reflect upon this, Fredrickson gestured to the three police officers he had brought with him, who untied Siddeley from my table and led him out.

As he left, the Inspector turned to me, saying, "Many thanks, Dr. Watson. Perhaps we shall gain more information from this Siddeley on the fate of Phillips Carew."

"He strikes me as a decidedly uncooperative character, dear Inspector. I wish you the best of luck in wringing the truth from him. His vocabulary is colorful but limited," said I.

Thus did the second day of the matter of Phillips Carew's murder – now I can safely say it was murder indeed – end. As I headed to bed I considered poring over the copy of that bewildering note, but all the strain of the night before persuaded me otherwise.