It was the second Tuesday of May 1894, the night of Maestro Pasquinelli's benefit performance, and Holmes received our summons by hand at half past seven from the manager of the Wigmore Concert Hall.
The baton — a silver-chased instrument given by His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh upon a recital at Sandringham in '90 — had been laid by the dressing-room mirror at six o'clock. At a quarter past seven, ten minutes before the conductor was to take the platform, the baton was discovered missing. The dressing-room had not been locked; the corridor had been busy; the orchestra was tuning above.
We took a hansom up to Wigmore Street. Across the kerb at the stage-door stood a thickset man in iron-grey, his broken nose half in shadow, very still, watching the lighted glass of the foyer; he did not turn his head as our hansom drew up. Holmes paid our driver and led me through the stage door.
In the dressing-room I found a small body of agitated personages: the maestro himself, in evening clothes; his deputy conductor; the visiting Berlin first violinist; the manager; and the dressing-room maid.