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Title: The Return of Sherlock Holmes

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Release Date: July 8, 2007 [EBook #108]
[This file was first posted on March 8, 2006]
Last Updated: September 30, 2016

Language: English

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THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES,

A Collection of Holmes Adventures


by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle




CONTENTS:

     The Adventure Of The Empty House

     The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder

     The Adventure Of The Dancing Men

     The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist

     The Adventure Of The Priory School

     The Adventure Of Black Peter

     The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton

     The Adventure Of The Six Napoleons

     The Adventure Of The Three Students

     The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-Nez

     The Adventure Of The Missing Three-Quarter

     The Adventure Of The Abbey Grange

     The Adventure Of The Second Stain





THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE


It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested,
and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable
Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances. The
public has already learned those particulars of the crime which came out
in the police investigation, but a good deal was suppressed upon that
occasion, since the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly
strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only
now, at the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those
missing links which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The
crime was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to
me compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the greatest
shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life. Even now,
after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I think of it, and
feeling once more that sudden flood of joy, amazement, and incredulity
which utterly submerged my mind. Let me say to that public, which has
shown some interest in those glimpses which I have occasionally given
them of the thoughts and actions of a very remarkable man, that they
are not to blame me if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I
should have considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred
by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn
upon the third of last month.

It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes had
interested me deeply in crime, and that after his disappearance I never
failed to read with care the various problems which came before the
public. And I even attempted, more than once, for my own private
satisfaction, to employ his methods in their solution, though with
indifferent success. There was none, however, which appealed to me like
this tragedy of Ronald Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest,
which led up to a verdict of willful murder against some person or
persons unknown, I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss
which the community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes. There
were points about this strange business which would, I was sure, have
specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police would have been
supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by the trained observation
and the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe. All day, as
I drove upon my round, I turned over the case in my mind and found no
explanation which appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of telling
a twice-told tale, I will recapitulate the facts as they were known to
the public at the conclusion of the inquest.

The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of Maynooth,
at that time governor of one of the Australian colonies. Adair’s mother
had returned from Australia to undergo the operation for cataract, and
she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda were living together at
427 Park Lane. The youth moved in the best society--had, so far as was
known, no enemies and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss
Edith Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by
mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it had
left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest {sic} the man’s
life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his habits were
quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon this easy-going young
aristocrat that death came, in most strange and unexpected form, between
the hours of ten and eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.

Ronald Adair was fond of cards--playing continually, but never for such
stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin, the Cavendish,
and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that, after dinner on the day
of his death, he had played a rubber of whist at the latter club. He had
also played there in the afternoon. The evidence of those who had played
with him--Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran--showed that
the game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards.
Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune was a
considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect him. He
had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he was a cautious
player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in evidence that, in
partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually won as much as four
hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some weeks before, from Godfrey
Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for his recent history as it came out
at the inquest.

On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at ten.
His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a relation. The
servant deposed that she heard him enter the front room on the second
floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire there, and
as it smoked she had opened the window. No sound was heard from the room
until eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and her
daughter. Desiring to say good-night, she attempted to enter her son’s
room. The door was locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to
their cries and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. The
unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head had been
horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon of any
sort was to be found in the room. On the table lay two banknotes for
ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in silver and gold, the money
arranged in little piles of varying amount. There were some figures also
upon a sheet of paper, with the names of some club friends opposite
to them, from which it was conjectured that before his death he was
endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the case
more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given why the
young man should have fastened the door upon the inside. There was the
possibility that the murderer had done this, and had afterwards escaped
by the window. The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a bed of
crocuses in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth
showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks
upon the narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road.
Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had fastened the
door. But how did he come by his death? No one could have climbed up to
the window without leaving traces. Suppose a man had fired through the
window, he would indeed be a remarkable shot who could with a
revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented
thoroughfare; there is a cab stand within a hundred yards of the house.
No one had heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man and there the
revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will,
and so inflicted a wound which must have caused instantaneous death.
Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further
complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said, young
Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had been made to
remove the money or valuables in the room.

All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit upon
some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that line
of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be the
starting-point of every investigation. I confess that I made little
progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, and found myself
about six o’clock at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. A group of
loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a particular window,
directed me to the house which I had come to see. A tall, thin man with
coloured glasses, whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes
detective, was pointing out some theory of his own, while the others
crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as near him as I could,
but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in
some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed man,
who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books which he was
carrying. I remember that as I picked them up, I observed the title
of one of them, THE ORIGIN OF TREE WORSHIP, and it struck me that the
fellow must be some poor bibliophile, who, either as a trade or as a
hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavoured to apologize
for the accident, but it was evident that these books which I had so
unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of their
owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his
curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

My observations of No. 427 Park Lane did little to clear up the problem
in which I was interested. The house was separated from the street by
a low wall and railing, the whole not more than five feet high. It was
perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the garden, but
the window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no waterpipe or
anything which could help the most active man to climb it. More puzzled
than ever, I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study
five minutes when the maid entered to say that a person desired to
see me. To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book
collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white
hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least, wedged under
his right arm.

“You’re surprised to see me, sir,” said he, in a strange, croaking
voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

“Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into
this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I’ll just
step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit
gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much
obliged to him for picking up my books.”

“You make too much of a trifle,” said I. “May I ask how you knew who I
was?”

“Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours,
for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street,
and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir.
Here’s BRITISH BIRDS, and CATULLUS, and THE HOLY WAR--a bargain, every
one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that
second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?”

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again,
Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose
to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then
it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time
in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it
cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of
brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his
hand.

“My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe you a thousand
apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

I gripped him by the arms.

“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are
alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful
abyss?”

“Wait a moment,” said he. “Are you sure that you are really fit to
discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily
dramatic reappearance.”

“I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good
heavens! to think that you--you of all men--should be standing in my
study.” Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and felt the thin, sinewy arm
beneath it. “Well, you’re not a spirit anyhow,” said I. “My dear chap,
I’m overjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out
of that dreadful chasm.”

He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant
manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book merchant, but
the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old books
upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but
there was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which told me that his
life recently had not been a healthy one.

“I am glad to stretch myself, Watson,” said he. “It is no joke when a
tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end.
Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations, we have, if I
may ask for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night’s work in front
of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole
situation when that work is finished.”

“I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now.”

“You’ll come with me to-night?”

“When you like and where you like.”

“This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful
of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that chasm. I had no
serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple reason that
I never was in it.”

“You never were in it?”

“No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely genuine.
I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I
perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor Moriarty
standing upon the narrow pathway which led to safety. I read an
inexorable purpose in his gray eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him,
therefore, and obtained his courteous permission to write the short note
which you afterwards received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my
stick, and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When
I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me
and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own game was up, and
was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We tottered together upon
the brink of the fall. I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or
the Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very
useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream
kicked madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands.
But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went.
With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way. Then he
struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water.”

I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes delivered
between the puffs of his cigarette.

“But the tracks!” I cried. “I saw, with my own eyes, that two went down
the path and none returned.”

“It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had
disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky chance
Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not the only man who
had sworn my death. There were at least three others whose desire for
vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of their leader.
They were all most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me.
On the other hand, if all the world was convinced that I was dead they
would take liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open,
and sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for me
to announce that I was still in the land of the living. So rapidly does
the brain act that I believe I had thought this all out before Professor
Moriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall.

“I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your picturesque
account of the matter, which I read with great interest some months
later, you assert that the wall was sheer. That was not literally
true. A few small footholds presented themselves, and there was some
indication of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb it all was
an obvious impossibility, and it was equally impossible to make my way
along the wet path without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true,
have reversed my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the
sight of three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have
suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I should
risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson. The fall roared
beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I give you my word that
I seemed to hear Moriarty’s voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A
mistake would have been fatal. More than once, as tufts of grass came
out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I
thought that I was gone. But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a
ledge several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could
lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched, when
you, my dear Watson, and all your following were investigating in the
most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death.

“At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally erroneous
conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left alone. I
had imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures, but a very
unexpected occurrence showed me that there were surprises still in store
for me. A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the
path, and bounded over into the chasm. For an instant I thought that
it was an accident, but a moment later, looking up, I saw a man’s head
against the darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon
which I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning
of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A confederate--and
even that one glance had told me how dangerous a man that confederate
was--had kept guard while the Professor had attacked me. From a
distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend’s death and
of my escape. He had waited, and then making his way round to the top of
the cliff, he had endeavoured to succeed where his comrade had failed.

“I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that grim
face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the precursor of
another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don’t think I could
have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than
getting up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for another stone
sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway
down I slipped, but, by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and
bleeding, upon the path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the
mountains in the darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence,
with the certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.

“I had only one confidant--my brother Mycroft. I owe you many apologies,
my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should be thought I
was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so
convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought
that it was true. Several times during the last three years I have taken
up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate
regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray
my secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when
you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of
surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my
identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results. As to
Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to obtain the money which
I needed. The course of events in London did not run so well as I had
hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous
members, my own most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for
two years in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa,
and spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the
remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure
that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your
friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a
short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum the results of
which I have communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France, I
spent some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I
conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France. Having
concluded this to my satisfaction and learning that only one of my
enemies was now left in London, I was about to return when my movements
were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,
which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed to
offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over at once to
London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into
violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my
papers exactly as they had always been. So it was, my dear Watson, that
at two o’clock to-day I found myself in my old armchair in my own old
room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in
the other chair which he has so often adorned.”

Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that April
evening--a narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me had
it not been confirmed by the actual sight of the tall, spare figure and
the keen, eager face, which I had never thought to see again. In some
manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was
shown in his manner rather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote
to sorrow, my dear Watson,” said he; “and I have a piece of work for us
both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will
in itself justify a man’s life on this planet.” In vain I begged him
to tell me more. “You will hear and see enough before morning,” he
answered. “We have three years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice
until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the
empty house.”

It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself seated
beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the thrill of
adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and silent. As the
gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features, I saw that
his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I
knew not what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle
of criminal London, but I was well assured, from the bearing of this
master huntsman, that the adventure was a most grave one--while the
sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded
little good for the object of our quest.

I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes stopped
the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that as he stepped
out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and at every
subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he was
not followed. Our route was certainly a singular one. Holmes’s knowledge
of the byways of London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he
passed rapidly and with an assured step through a network of mews and
stables, the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at
last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us into
Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he turned swiftly
down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden gate into a deserted
yard, and then opened with a key the back door of a house. We entered
together, and he closed it behind us.

The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an empty
house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking, and my
outstretched hand touched a wall from which the paper was hanging in
ribbons. Holmes’s cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me
forward down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the
door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right and we found ourselves
in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but
faintly lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond. There
was no lamp near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could
only just discern each other’s figures within. My companion put his hand
upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

“Do you know where we are?” he whispered.

“Surely that is Baker Street,” I answered, staring through the dim
window.

“Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old
quarters.”

“But why are we here?”

“Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile. Might
I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to the window,
taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up at our
old rooms--the starting-point of so many of your little fairy-tales? We
will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power
to surprise you.”

I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my eyes
fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down,
and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who
was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the
luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the
head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the features.
The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of
those black silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a
perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out my
hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me. He was
quivering with silent laughter.

“Well?” said he.

“Good heavens!” I cried. “It is marvellous.”

“I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety,”
 said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and pride which the
artist takes in his own creation. “It really is rather like me, is it
not?”

“I should be prepared to swear that it was you.”

“The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of
Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in
wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this
afternoon.”

“But why?”

“Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for
wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really
elsewhere.”

“And you thought the rooms were watched?”

“I KNEW that they were watched.”

“By whom?”

“By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader lies
in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew, and only
they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed that I
should come back to my rooms. They watched them continuously, and this
morning they saw me arrive.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my window. He
is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a garroter by trade, and a
remarkable performer upon the jew’s-harp. I cared nothing for him. But
I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who was behind
him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over
the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is
the man who is after me to-night Watson, and that is the man who is
quite unaware that we are after him.”

My friend’s plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this
convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the trackers
tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, and we were the
hunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness and watched the
hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front of us. Holmes was
silent and motionless; but I could tell that he was keenly alert, and
that his eyes were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by. It was
a bleak and boisterous night and the wind whistled shrilly down the
long street. Many people were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in
their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen
the same figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared
to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house
some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion’s attention to
them; but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience, and continued
to stare into the street. More than once he fidgeted with his feet and
tapped rapidly with his fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me
that he was becoming uneasy, and that his plans were not working out
altogether as he had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and
the street gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to him, when
I raised my eyes to the lighted window, and again experienced almost as
great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes’s arm, and pointed upward.

“The shadow has moved!” I cried.

It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was turned
towards us.

Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his temper or
his impatience with a less active intelligence than his own.

“Of course it has moved,” said he. “Am I such a farcical bungler,
Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that some of
the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been in
this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that figure
eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the
front, so that her shadow may never be seen. Ah!” He drew in his breath
with a shrill, excited intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown
forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside the street
was absolutely deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in the
doorway, but I could no longer see them. All was still and dark, save
only that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure
outlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that thin,
sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement. An instant
later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I
felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were
quivering. Never had I known my friend more moved, and yet the dark
street still stretched lonely and motionless before us.

But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had already
distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from the
direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in which
we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An instant later steps
crept down the passage--steps which were meant to be silent, but which
reverberated harshly through the empty house. Holmes crouched back
against the wall, and I did the same, my hand closing upon the handle
of my revolver. Peering through the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a
man, a shade blacker than the blackness of the open door. He stood for
an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the
room. He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had
braced myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea
of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the window,
and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a foot. As he sank to
the level of this opening, the light of the street, no longer dimmed by
the dusty glass, fell full upon his face. The man seemed to be beside
himself with excitement. His two eyes shone like stars, and his
features were working convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin,
projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache.
An opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening dress
shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face was gaunt
and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand he carried what
appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor it gave
a metallic clang. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky
object, and he busied himself in some task which ended with a loud,
sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen into its place. Still
kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw all his weight and
strength upon some lever, with the result that there came a long,
whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click. He
straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his hand was
a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He opened it at the
breech, put something in, and snapped the breech-lock. Then, crouching
down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window,
and I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as
it peered along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as
he cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and saw that amazing target,
the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of his
foresight. For an instant he was rigid and motionless. Then his finger
tightened on the trigger. There was a strange, loud whiz and a long,
silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that instant Holmes sprang like a
tiger on to the marksman’s back, and hurled him flat upon his face. He
was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized
Holmes by the throat, but I struck him on the head with the butt of my
revolver, and he dropped again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as
I held him my comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the
clatter of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform,
with one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and
into the room.

“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It’s good to see you back in
London, sir.”

“I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders in
one year won’t do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with
less than your usual--that’s to say, you handled it fairly well.”

We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a
stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers had
begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the window, closed
it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced two candles, and the
policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I was able at last to have a
good look at our prisoner.

It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was turned
towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a
sensualist below, the man must have started with great capacities for
good or for evil. But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with
their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and
the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature’s plainest
danger-signals. He took no heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed
upon Holmes’s face with an expression in which hatred and amazement were
equally blended. “You fiend!” he kept on muttering. “You clever, clever
fiend!”

“Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar. “‘Journeys end
in lovers’ meetings,’ as the old play says. I don’t think I have had the
pleasure of seeing you since you favoured me with those attentions as I
lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall.”

The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance. “You
cunning, cunning fiend!” was all that he could say.

“I have not introduced you yet,” said Holmes. “This, gentlemen, is
Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty’s Indian Army, and the best
heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced. I believe
I am correct Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers still remains
unrivalled?”

The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my companion. With
his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was wonderfully like a tiger
himself.

“I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a SHIKARI,”
 said Holmes. “It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a
young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for
the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree, and you
are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there
should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim
failing you. These,” he pointed around, “are my other guns. The parallel
is exact.”

Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the constables
dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible to look at.

“I confess that you had one small surprise for me,” said Holmes. “I did
not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this empty house and
this convenient front window. I had imagined you as operating from the
street, where my friend, Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you.
With that exception, all has gone as I expected.”

Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

“You may or may not have just cause for arresting me,” said he, “but at
least there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of this
person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things be done in a legal
way.”

“Well, that’s reasonable enough,” said Lestrade. “Nothing further you
have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?”

Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and was
examining its mechanism.

“An admirable and unique weapon,” said he, “noiseless and of tremendous
power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who constructed it
to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I have been
aware of its existence though I have never before had the opportunity of
handling it. I commend it very specially to your attention, Lestrade and
also the bullets which fit it.”

“You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, as the
whole party moved towards the door. “Anything further to say?”

“Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?”

“What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr. Sherlock
Holmes.”

“Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at all. To
you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest which
you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your usual
happy mixture of cunning and audacity, you have got him.”

“Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

“The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain--Colonel
Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding
bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the second-floor
front of No. 427 Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of last month. That’s the
charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can endure the draught from
a broken window, I think that half an hour in my study over a cigar may
afford you some profitable amusement.”

Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of
Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered I
saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all
in their place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained,
deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable
scrap-books and books of reference which many of our fellow-citizens
would have been so glad to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and the
pipe-rack--even the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco--all
met my eyes as I glanced round me. There were two occupants of the
room--one, Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we entered--the
other, the strange dummy which had played so important a part in the
evening’s adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so
admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a small
pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes’s so draped round it
that the illusion from the street was absolutely perfect.

“I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?” said Holmes.

“I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me.”

“Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe where
the bullet went?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it passed
right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I picked it up
from the carpet. Here it is!”

Holmes held it out to me. “A soft revolver bullet, as you perceive,
Watson. There’s genius in that, for who would expect to find such a
thing fired from an airgun? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I am much obliged
for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see you in your old seat
once more, for there are several points which I should like to discuss
with you.”

He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now he was the Holmes of old
in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his effigy.

“The old SHIKARI’S nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor his eyes
their keenness,” said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the shattered
forehead of his bust.

“Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through the
brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there are few
better in London. Have you heard the name?”

“No, I have not.”

“Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember right, you had not
heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one of the great
brains of the century. Just give me down my index of biographies from
the shelf.”

He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and blowing
great clouds from his cigar.

“My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said he. “Moriarty himself is
enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner,
and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my left
canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our
friend of to-night.”

He handed over the book, and I read:

MORAN, SEBASTIAN, COLONEL. Unemployed. Formerly 1st Bangalore Pioneers.
Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C. B., once British
Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford. Served in Jowaki Campaign,
Afghan Campaign, Charasiab (despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of
HEAVY GAME OF THE WESTERN HIMALAYAS (1881); THREE MONTHS IN THE
JUNGLE (1884). Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the
Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.


On the margin was written, in Holmes’s precise hand:


The second most dangerous man in London.


“This is astonishing,” said I, as I handed back the volume. “The man’s
career is that of an honourable soldier.”

“It is true,” Holmes answered. “Up to a certain point he did well. He
was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still told in India how
he crawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger. There are some
trees, Watson, which grow to a certain height, and then suddenly develop
some unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have
a theory that the individual represents in his development the whole
procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or
evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line of his
pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history of
his own family.”

“It is surely rather fanciful.”

“Well, I don’t insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran began
to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made India too
hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and again acquired an evil
name. It was at this time that he was sought out by Professor Moriarty,
to whom for a time he was chief of the staff. Moriarty supplied him
liberally with money, and used him only in one or two very high-class
jobs, which no ordinary criminal could have undertaken. You may have
some recollection of the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887.
Not? Well, I am sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing could
be proved. So cleverly was the colonel concealed that, even when the
Moriarty gang was broken up, we could not incriminate him. You remember
at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how I put up the
shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew
exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable
gun, and I knew also that one of the best shots in the world would be
behind it. When we were in Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty,
and it was undoubtedly he who gave me that evil five minutes on the
Reichenbach ledge.

“You may think that I read the papers with some attention during my
sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying him by the
heels. So long as he was free in London, my life would really not have
been worth living. Night and day the shadow would have been over me, and
sooner or later his chance must have come. What could I do? I could not
shoot him at sight, or I should myself be in the dock. There was no use
appealing to a magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength of what
would appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing. But
I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or later I should get
him. Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My chance had come at
last. Knowing what I did, was it not certain that Colonel Moran had done
it? He had played cards with the lad, he had followed him home from the
club, he had shot him through the open window. There was not a doubt of
it. The bullets alone are enough to put his head in a noose. I came
over at once. I was seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct
the colonel’s attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect
my sudden return with his crime, and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure
that he would make an attempt to get me out of the way AT once, and
would bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose. I left him an
excellent mark in the window, and, having warned the police that they
might be needed--by the way, Watson, you spotted their presence in that
doorway with unerring accuracy--I took up what seemed to me to be a
judicious post for observation, never dreaming that he would choose the
same spot for his attack. Now, my dear Watson, does anything remain for
me to explain?”

“Yes,” said I. “You have not made it clear what was Colonel Moran’s
motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?”

“Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of conjecture,
where the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may form his own
hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is as likely to be
correct as mine.”

“You have formed one, then?”

“I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came out in
evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between them, won a
considerable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly played foul--of that
I have long been aware. I believe that on the day of the murder Adair had
discovered that Moran was cheating. Very likely he had spoken to him
privately, and had threatened to expose him unless he voluntarily
resigned his membership of the club, and promised not to play cards
again. It is unlikely that a youngster like Adair would at once make a
hideous scandal by exposing a well known man so much older than himself.
Probably he acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his clubs would mean
ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card-gains. He therefore
murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavouring to work out how
much money he should himself return, since he could not profit by his
partner’s foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies should surprise
him and insist upon knowing what he was doing with these names and
coins. Will it pass?”

“I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth.”

“It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, come what
may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famous air-gun of Von
Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum, and once again
Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining those
interesting little problems which the complex life of London so
plentifully presents.”




THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER


“From the point of view of the criminal expert,” said Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, “London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the
death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.”

“I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to agree
with you,” I answered.

“Well, well, I must not be selfish,” said he, with a smile, as he pushed
back his chair from the breakfast-table. “The community is certainly
the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor out-of-work specialist,
whose occupation has gone. With that man in the field, one’s morning
paper presented infinite possibilities. Often it was only the smallest
trace, Watson, the faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me
that the great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of
the edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the
centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage--to the man
who held the clue all could be worked into one connected whole. To the
scientific student of the higher criminal world, no capital in Europe
offered the advantages which London then possessed. But now----” He
shrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things
which he had himself done so much to produce.

At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some months,
and I at his request had sold my practice and returned to share the old
quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my
small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly little demur the
highest price that I ventured to ask--an incident which only explained
itself some years later, when I found that Verner was a distant relation
of Holmes, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.

Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had stated,
for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period includes the case
of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and also the shocking affair of
the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which so nearly cost us both our lives.
His cold and proud nature was always averse, however, from anything
in the shape of public applause, and he bound me in the most
stringent terms to say no further word of himself, his methods, or his
successes--a prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been
removed.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his whimsical
protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a leisurely fashion,
when our attention was arrested by a tremendous ring at the bell,
followed immediately by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone were
beating on the outer door with his fist. As it opened there came a
tumultuous rush into the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an
instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, disheveled, and
palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from one to the other of us,
and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that some apology was
needed for this unceremonious entry.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “You mustn’t blame me. I am nearly
mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.”

He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both his
visit and its manner, but I could see, by my companion’s unresponsive
face, that it meant no more to him than to me.

“Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane,” said he, pushing his case across.
“I am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr. Watson here would
prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so very warm these last few
days. Now, if you feel a little more composed, I should be glad if you
would sit down in that chair, and tell us very slowly and quietly who
you are, and what it is that you want. You mentioned your name, as if
I should recognize it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts
that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I
know nothing whatever about you.”

Familiar as I was with my friend’s methods, it was not difficult for me
to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire, the
sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing which had
prompted them. Our client, however, stared in amazement.

“Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the most
unfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven’s sake, don’t
abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I have finished
my story, make them give me time, so that I may tell you the whole
truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew that you were working for me
outside.”

“Arrest you!” said Holmes. “This is really most grati--most interesting.
On what charge do you expect to be arrested?”

“Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood.”

My companion’s expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am
afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

“Dear me,” said he, “it was only this moment at breakfast that I was
saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had disappeared
out of our papers.”

Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the DAILY
TELEGRAPH, which still lay upon Holmes’s knee.

“If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance what the
errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I feel as if my name
and my misfortune must be in every man’s mouth.” He turned it over to
expose the central page. “Here it is, and with your permission I
will read it to you. Listen to this, Mr. Holmes. The headlines are:
‘Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood. Disappearance of a Well Known
Builder. Suspicion of Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.’ That is
the clue which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that
it leads infallibly to me. I have been followed from London Bridge
Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the warrant to
arrest me. It will break my mother’s heart--it will break her heart!”
 He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and swayed backward and
forward in his chair.

I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being the
perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and handsome,
in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue eyes, and a
clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His age may have been
about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that of a gentleman. From the
pocket of his light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of indorsed
papers which proclaimed his profession.

“We must use what time we have,” said Holmes. “Watson, would you have
the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in question?”

Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted, I read
the following suggestive narrative:

“Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at Lower
Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr. Jonas
Oldacre is a well known resident of that suburb, where he has carried
on his business as a builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is a bachelor,
fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at the Sydenham
end of the road of that name. He has had the reputation of being a
man of eccentric habits, secretive and retiring. For some years he has
practically withdrawn from the business, in which he is said to have
massed considerable wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however,
at the back of the house, and last night, about twelve o’clock, an alarm
was given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon upon
the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it was impossible
to arrest the conflagration until the stack had been entirely consumed.
Up to this point the incident bore the appearance of an ordinary
accident, but fresh indications seem to point to serious crime. Surprise
was expressed at the absence of the master of the establishment from
the scene of the fire, and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had
disappeared from the house. An examination of his room revealed that the
bed had not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that
a number of important papers were scattered about the room, and finally,
that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight traces of blood
being found within the room, and an oaken walking-stick, which also
showed stains of blood upon the handle. It is known that Mr. Jonas
Oldacre had received a late visitor in his bedroom upon that night, and
the stick found has been identified as the property of this person, who
is a young London solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner
of Graham and McFarlane, of 426 Gresham Buildings, E. C. The police
believe that they have evidence in their possession which supplies
a very convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be
doubted that sensational developments will follow.

“LATER.--It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector McFarlane
has actually been arrested on the charge of the murder of Mr. Jonas
Oldacre. It is at least certain that a warrant has been issued. There
have been further and sinister developments in the investigation at
Norwood. Besides the signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate
builder it is now known that the French windows of his bedroom (which is
on the ground floor) were found to be open, that there were marks as
if some bulky object had been dragged across to the wood-pile, and,
finally, it is asserted that charred remains have been found among the
charcoal ashes of the fire. The police theory is that a most sensational
crime has been committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his
own bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across to
the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all traces of the
crime. The conduct of the criminal investigation has been left in
the experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is
following up the clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.”

Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips together to
this remarkable account.

“The case has certainly some points of interest,” said he, in his
languid fashion. “May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how
it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to be enough
evidence to justify your arrest?”

“I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr. Holmes,
but last night, having to do business very late with Mr. Jonas Oldacre,
I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my business from there. I
knew nothing of this affair until I was in the train, when I read what
you have just heard. I at once saw the horrible danger of my position,
and I hurried to put the case into your hands. I have no doubt that I
should have been arrested either at my city office or at my home. A
man followed me from London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt--Great
heaven! what is that?”

It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps upon the
stair. A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared in the doorway.
Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or two uniformed policemen
outside.

“Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

“I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower
Norwood.”

McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into his
chair once more like one who is crushed.

“One moment, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Half an hour more or less can make
no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to give us an account
of this very interesting affair, which might aid us in clearing it up.”

“I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up,” said Lestrade,
grimly.

“None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested to
hear his account.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything, for
you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past, and we owe
you a good turn at Scotland Yard,” said Lestrade. “At the same time I
must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to warn him that anything
he may say will appear in evidence against him.”

“I wish nothing better,” said our client. “All I ask is that you should
hear and recognize the absolute truth.”

Lestrade looked at his watch. “I’ll give you half an hour,” said he.

“I must explain first,” said McFarlane, “that I knew nothing of Mr.
Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years ago my
parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart. I was very
much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three o’clock in the
afternoon, he walked into my office in the city. But I was still more
astonished when he told me the object of his visit. He had in his hand
several sheets of a notebook, covered with scribbled writing--here they
are--and he laid them on my table.

“‘Here is my will,’ said he. ‘I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast it into
proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.’

“I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment when I
found that, with some reservations, he had left all his property to me.
He was a strange little ferret-like man, with white eyelashes, and when
I looked up at him I found his keen gray eyes fixed upon me with an
amused expression. I could hardly believe my own as I read the terms of
the will; but he explained that he was a bachelor with hardly any living
relation, that he had known my parents in his youth, and that he had
always heard of me as a very deserving young man, and was assured that
his money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer
out my thanks. The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed by
my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I have
explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then informed me
that there were a number of documents--building leases, title-deeds,
mortgages, scrip, and so forth--which it was necessary that I should see
and understand. He said that his mind would not be easy until the whole
thing was settled, and he begged me to come out to his house at
Norwood that night, bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters.
‘Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until
everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for
them.’ He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise it
faithfully.

“You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to refuse him
anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and all my desire was
to carry out his wishes in every particular. I sent a telegram home,
therefore, to say that I had important business on hand, and that it was
impossible for me to say how late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me
that he would like me to have supper with him at nine, as he might not
be home before that hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house,
however, and it was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found
him----”

“One moment!” said Holmes. “Who opened the door?”

“A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper.”

“And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?”

“Exactly,” said McFarlane.

“Pray proceed.”

McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his narrative:

“I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal supper
was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into his bedroom, in
which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened and took out a mass of
documents, which we went over together. It was between eleven and twelve
when we finished. He remarked that we must not disturb the housekeeper.
He showed me out through his own French window, which had been open all
this time.”

“Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.

“I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down. Yes, I
remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the window. I could
not find my stick, and he said, ‘Never mind, my boy, I shall see a good
deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep your stick until you come back
to claim it.’ I left him there, the safe open, and the papers made up
in packets upon the table. It was so late that I could not get back to
Blackheath, so I spent the night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing
more until I read of this horrible affair in the morning.”

“Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?” said Lestrade,
whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this remarkable
explanation.

“Not until I have been to Blackheath.”

“You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.

“Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant,” said Holmes, with
his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more experiences than he
would care to acknowledge that that brain could cut through that which
was impenetrable to him. I saw him look curiously at my companion.

“I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” said he. “Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my constables are at
the door, and there is a four-wheeler waiting.” The wretched young man
arose, and with a last beseeching glance at us walked from the room. The
officers conducted him to the cab, but Lestrade remained.

Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of the will,
and was looking at them with the keenest interest upon his face.

“There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there not?”
 said he, pushing them over.

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

“I can read the first few lines and these in the middle of the second
page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as print,” said
he, “but the writing in between is very bad, and there are three places
where I cannot read it at all.”

“What do you make of that?” said Holmes.

“Well, what do YOU make of it?”

“That it was written in a train. The good writing represents stations,
the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing passing over points.
A scientific expert would pronounce at once that this was drawn up on a
suburban line, since nowhere save in the immediate vicinity of a great
city could there be so quick a succession of points. Granting that his
whole journey was occupied in drawing up the will, then the train was an
express, only stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge.”

Lestrade began to laugh.

“You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories, Mr.
Holmes,” said he. “How does this bear on the case?”

“Well, it corroborates the young man’s story to the extent that the
will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday. It is
curious--is it not?--that a man should draw up so important a document
in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not think it was
going to be of much practical importance. If a man drew up a will which
he did not intend ever to be effective, he might do it so.”

“Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time,” said
Lestrade.

“Oh, you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me yet.”

“Not clear? Well, if that isn’t clear, what COULD be clear? Here is a
young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older man dies, he will
succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says nothing to anyone, but
he arranges that he shall go out on some pretext to see his client that
night. He waits until the only other person in the house is in bed, and
then in the solitude of a man’s room he murders him, burns his body in
the wood-pile, and departs to a neighbouring hotel. The blood-stains in
the room and also on the stick are very slight. It is probable that he
imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if the
body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of his
death--traces which, for some reason, must have pointed to him. Is not
all this obvious?”

“It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too obvious,”
 said Holmes. “You do not add imagination to your other great qualities,
but if you could for one moment put yourself in the place of this young
man, would you choose the very night after the will had been made to
commit your crime? Would it not seem dangerous to you to make so very
close a relation between the two incidents? Again, would you choose an
occasion when you are known to be in the house, when a servant has let
you in? And, finally, would you take the great pains to conceal the
body, and yet leave your own stick as a sign that you were the criminal?
Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely.”

“As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a criminal
is often flurried, and does such things, which a cool man would avoid.
He was very likely afraid to go back to the room. Give me another theory
that would fit the facts.”

“I could very easily give you half a dozen,” said Holmes. “Here for
example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make you a free
present of it. The older man is showing documents which are of evident
value. A passing tramp sees them through the window, the blind of which
is only half down. Exit the solicitor. Enter the tramp! He seizes a
stick, which he observes there, kills Oldacre, and departs after burning
the body.”

“Why should the tramp burn the body?”

“For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?”

“To hide some evidence.”

“Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had been
committed.”

“And why did the tramp take nothing?”

“Because they were papers that he could not negotiate.”

Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner was less
absolutely assured than before.

“Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and while you
are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future will show which
is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes: that so far as we know,
none of the papers were removed, and that the prisoner is the one man in
the world who had no reason for removing them, since he was heir-at-law,
and would come into them in any case.”

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

“I don’t mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very strongly
in favour of your theory,” said he. “I only wish to point out that
there are other theories possible. As you say, the future will decide.
Good-morning! I dare say that in the course of the day I shall drop in
at Norwood and see how you are getting on.”

When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his preparations
for the day’s work with the alert air of a man who has a congenial task
before him.

“My first movement Watson,” said he, as he bustled into his frockcoat,
“must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath.”

“And why not Norwood?”

“Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close to the
heels of another singular incident. The police are making the mistake of
concentrating their attention upon the second, because it happens to
be the one which is actually criminal. But it is evident to me that the
logical way to approach the case is to begin by trying to throw some
light upon the first incident--the curious will, so suddenly made, and
to so unexpected an heir. It may do something to simplify what followed.
No, my dear fellow, I don’t think you can help me. There is no prospect
of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you. I trust
that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to report that I have
been able to do something for this unfortunate youngster, who has thrown
himself upon my protection.”

It was late when my friend returned, and I could see, by a glance at his
haggard and anxious face, that the high hopes with which he had started
had not been fulfilled. For an hour he droned away upon his violin,
endeavouring to soothe his own ruffled spirits. At last he flung
down the instrument, and plunged into a detailed account of his
misadventures.

“It’s all going wrong, Watson--all as wrong as it can go. I kept a bold
face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that for once the
fellow is on the right track and we are on the wrong. All my instincts
are one way, and all the facts are the other, and I much fear that
British juries have not yet attained that pitch of intelligence when
they will give the preference to my theories over Lestrade’s facts.”

“Did you go to Blackheath?”

“Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the late
lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable blackguard. The father was
away in search of his son. The mother was at home--a little, fluffy,
blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and indignation. Of course, she
would not admit even the possibility of his guilt. But she would not
express either surprise or regret over the fate of Oldacre. On
the contrary, she spoke of him with such bitterness that she was
unconsciously considerably strengthening the case of the police for, of
course, if her son had heard her speak of the man in this fashion, it
would predispose him towards hatred and violence. ‘He was more like a
malignant and cunning ape than a human being,’ said she, ‘and he always
was, ever since he was a young man.’

“‘You knew him at that time?’ said I.

“‘Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an old suitor of mine. Thank
heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to marry a
better, if poorer, man. I was engaged to him, Mr. Holmes, when I heard a
shocking story of how he had turned a cat loose in an aviary, and I was
so horrified at his brutal cruelty that I would have nothing more to
do with him.’ She rummaged in a bureau, and presently she produced a
photograph of a woman, shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife.
‘That is my own photograph,’ she said. ‘He sent it to me in that state,
with his curse, upon my wedding morning.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘at least he has forgiven you now, since he has left
all his property to your son.’

“‘Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or alive!’
she cried, with a proper spirit. ‘There is a God in heaven, Mr. Holmes,
and that same God who has punished that wicked man will show, in His own
good time, that my son’s hands are guiltless of his blood.’

“Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which would
help our hypothesis, and several points which would make against it. I
gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood.

“This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring brick,
standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-clumped lawn in front
of it. To the right and some distance back from the road was the
timber-yard which had been the scene of the fire. Here’s a rough plan
on a leaf of my notebook. This window on the left is the one which opens
into Oldacre’s room. You can look into it from the road, you see. That
is about the only bit of consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was
not there, but his head constable did the honours. They had just found a
great treasure-trove. They had spent the morning raking among the ashes
of the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred organic remains they
had secured several discoloured metal discs. I examined them with
care, and there was no doubt that they were trouser buttons. I even
distinguished that one of them was marked with the name of ‘Hyams,’ who
was Oldacres tailor. I then worked the lawn very carefully for signs and
traces, but this drought has made everything as hard as iron. Nothing
was to be seen save that some body or bundle had been dragged through
a low privet hedge which is in a line with the wood-pile. All that, of
course, fits in with the official theory. I crawled about the lawn with
an August sun on my back, but I got up at the end of an hour no wiser
than before.

“Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined that also.
The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and discolourations, but
undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been removed, but there also the marks
were slight. There is no doubt about the stick belonging to our client.
He admits it. Footmarks of both men could be made out on the carpet,
but none of any third person, which again is a trick for the other
side. They were piling up their score all the time and we were at a
standstill.

“Only one little gleam of hope did I get--and yet it amounted to
nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had been
taken out and left on the table. The papers had been made up into sealed
envelopes, one or two of which had been opened by the police. They were
not, so far as I could judge, of any great value, nor did the bank-book
show that Mr. Oldacre was in such very affluent circumstances. But it
seemed to me that all the papers were not there. There were allusions to
some deeds--possibly the more valuable--which I could not find. This, of
course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade’s argument
against himself, for who would steal a thing if he knew that he would
shortly inherit it?

“Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent, I tried
my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her name--a little,
dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelong eyes. She could tell
us something if she would--I am convinced of it. But she was as close as
wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane in at half-past nine. She wished
her hand had withered before she had done so. She had gone to bed at
half-past ten. Her room was at the other end of the house, and she could
hear nothing of what had passed. Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to
the best of her belief his stick, in the hall.  She
had been awakened by the alarm of fire. Her poor, dear
master had certainly been murdered. Had he any enemies? Well, every man
had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre kept himself very much to himself, and only
met people in the way of business. She had seen the buttons, and was
sure that they belonged to the clothes which he had worn last night.
The wood-pile was very dry, for it had not rained for a month. It burned
like tinder, and by the time she reached the spot, nothing could be seen
but flames. She and all the firemen smelled the burned flesh from
inside it. She knew nothing of the papers, nor of Mr. Oldacre’s private
affairs.

“So, my dear Watson, there’s my report of a failure. And yet--and yet--”
 he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction--“I KNOW it’s all
wrong. I feel it in my bones. There is something that has not come out,
and that housekeeper knows it. There was a sort of sulky defiance in her
eyes, which only goes with guilty knowledge. However, there’s no good
talking any more about it, Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes
our way I fear that the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure in
that chronicle of our successes which I foresee that a patient public
will sooner or later have to endure.”

“Surely,” said I, “the man’s appearance would go far with any jury?”

“That is a dangerous argument my dear Watson. You remember that terrible
murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in ‘87? Was there
ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young man?”

“It is true.”

“Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this man is
lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can now be presented
against him, and all further investigation has served to strengthen it.
By the way, there is one curious little point about those papers which
may serve us as the starting-point for an inquiry. On looking over the
bank-book I found that the low state of the balance was principally due
to large checks which have been made out during the last year to Mr.
Cornelius. I confess that I should be interested to know who this
Mr. Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has such very large
transactions. Is it possible that he has had a hand in the affair?
Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found no scrip to correspond
with these large payments. Failing any other indication, my researches
must now take the direction of an inquiry at the bank for the gentleman
who has cashed these checks. But I fear, my dear fellow, that our
case will end ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which will
certainly be a triumph for Scotland Yard.”

I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night, but
when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed, his bright
eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them. The carpet round his
chair was littered with cigarette-ends and with the early editions of
the morning papers. An open telegram lay upon the table.

“What do you think of this, Watson?” he asked, tossing it across.

It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:


Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane’s guilt definitely
established. Advise you to abandon case. LESTRADE.


“This sounds serious,” said I.

“It is Lestrade’s little cock-a-doodle of victory,” Holmes answered,
with a bitter smile. “And yet it may be premature to abandon the case.
After all, important fresh evidence is a two-edged thing, and may
possibly cut in a very different direction to that which Lestrade
imagines. Take your breakfast, Watson, and we will go out together and
see what we can do. I feel as if I shall need your company and your
moral support today.”

My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his peculiarities
that in his more intense moments he would permit himself no food, and I
have known him presume upon his iron strength until he has fainted from
pure inanition. “At present I cannot spare energy and nerve force for
digestion,” he would say in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was
not surprised, therefore, when this morning he left his untouched
meal behind him, and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid
sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was just
such a suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates Lestrade met
us, his face flushed with victory, his manner grossly triumphant.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet? Have you found
your tramp?” he cried.

“I have formed no conclusion whatever,” my companion answered.

“But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct, so you
must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of you this time,
Mr. Holmes.”

“You certainly have the air of something unusual having occurred,” said
Holmes.

Lestrade laughed loudly.

“You don’t like being beaten any more than the rest of us do,” said he.
“A man can’t expect always to have it his own way, can he, Dr. Watson?
Step this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I think I can convince you
once for all that it was John McFarlane who did this crime.”

He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.

“This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat
after the crime was done,” said he. “Now look at this.” With dramatic
suddenness he struck a match, and by its light exposed a stain of blood
upon the whitewashed wall. As he held the match nearer, I saw that it
was more than a stain. It was the well-marked print of a thumb.

“Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, I am doing so.”

“You are aware that no two thumb-marks are alike?”

“I have heard something of the kind.”

“Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax impression
of young McFarlane’s right thumb, taken by my orders this morning?”

As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not take
a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly from the same
thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate client was lost.

“That is final,” said Lestrade.

“Yes, that is final,” I involuntarily echoed.

“It is final,” said Holmes.

Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him. An
extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing with inward
merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars. It seemed to me that
he was making desperate efforts to restrain a convulsive attack of
laughter.

“Dear me! Dear me!” he said at last. “Well, now, who would have thought
it? And how deceptive appearances may be, to be sure! Such a nice young
man to look at! It is a lesson to us not to trust our own judgment, is
it not, Lestrade?”

“Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cock-sure, Mr.
Holmes,” said Lestrade. The man’s insolence was maddening, but we could
not resent it.

“What a providential thing that this young man should press his right
thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg! Such a very
natural action, too, if you come to think of it.” Holmes was outwardly
calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of suppressed excitement as he
spoke.

“By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?”

“It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night constable’s
attention to it.”

“Where was the night constable?”

“He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was committed, so
as to see that nothing was touched.”

“But why didn’t the police see this mark yesterday?”

“Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination of the
hall. Besides, it’s not in a very prominent place, as you see.”

“No, no--of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the mark was
there yesterday?”

Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of his mind.
I confess that I was myself surprised both at his hilarious manner and
at his rather wild observation.

“I don’t know whether you think that McFarlane came out of jail in the
dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence against himself,”
 said Lestrade. “I leave it to any expert in the world whether that is
not the mark of his thumb.”

“It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”

“There, that’s enough,” said Lestrade. “I am a practical man, Mr.
Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my conclusions. If
you have anything to say, you will find me writing my report in the
sitting-room.”

Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to detect
gleams of amusement in his expression.

“Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?” said he.
“And yet there are singular points about it which hold out some hopes
for our client.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said I, heartily. “I was afraid it was all
up with him.”

“I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The fact is
that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to which our
friend attaches so much importance.”

“Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”

“Only this: that I KNOW that that mark was not there when I examined the
hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll round in
the sunshine.”

With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of hope
was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the garden.
Holmes took each face of the house in turn, and examined it with great
interest. He then led the way inside, and went over the whole building
from basement to attic. Most of the rooms were unfurnished, but none the
less Holmes inspected them all minutely. Finally, on the top corridor,
which ran outside three untenanted bedrooms, he again was seized with a
spasm of merriment.

“There are really some very unique features about this case, Watson,”
 said he. “I think it is time now that we took our friend Lestrade into
our confidence. He has had his little smile at our expense, and perhaps
we may do as much by him, if my reading of this problem proves to be
correct. Yes, yes, I think I see how we should approach it.”

The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour when Holmes
interrupted him.

“I understood that you were writing a report of this case,” said he.

“So I am.”

“Don’t you think it may be a little premature? I can’t help thinking
that your evidence is not complete.”

Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He laid down
his pen and looked curiously at him.

“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

“Only that there is an important witness whom you have not seen.”

“Can you produce him?”

“I think I can.”

“Then do so.”

“I will do my best. How many constables have you?”

“There are three within call.”

“Excellent!” said Holmes. “May I ask if they are all large, able-bodied
men with powerful voices?”

“I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their voices have
to do with it.”

“Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things as
well,” said Holmes. “Kindly summon your men, and I will try.”

Five minutes later, three policemen had assembled in the hall.

“In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of straw,” said
Holmes. “I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it. I think it will
be of the greatest assistance in producing the witness whom I require.
Thank you very much. I believe you have some matches in your pocket
Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I will ask you all to accompany me to the top
landing.”

As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran outside
three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we were all marshalled
by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and Lestrade staring at
my friend with amazement, expectation, and derision chasing each other
across his features. Holmes stood before us with the air of a conjurer
who is performing a trick.

“Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of water?
Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on either side. Now
I think that we are all ready.”

Lestrade’s face had begun to grow red and angry. “I don’t know whether
you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said he. “If you
know anything, you can surely say it without all this tomfoolery.”

“I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason for
everything that I do. You may possibly remember that you chaffed me a
little, some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your side of the hedge,
so you must not grudge me a little pomp and ceremony now. Might I ask
you, Watson, to open that window, and then to put a match to the edge of
the straw?”

I did so, and driven by the draught a coil of gray smoke swirled down
the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.

“Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade. Might
I ask you all to join in the cry of ‘Fire!’? Now then; one, two,
three----”

“Fire!” we all yelled.

“Thank you. I will trouble you once again.”

“Fire!”

“Just once more, gentlemen, and all together.”

“Fire!” The shout must have rung over Norwood.

It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened. A door suddenly
flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the end of the
corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it, like a rabbit out
of its burrow.

“Capital!” said Holmes, calmly. “Watson, a bucket of water over the
straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you with your
principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre.”

The detective stared at the newcomer with blank amazement. The latter
was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and peering at us
and at the smouldering fire. It was an odious face--crafty, vicious,
malignant, with shifty, light-gray eyes and white lashes.

“What’s this, then?” said Lestrade, at last. “What have you been doing
all this time, eh?”

Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious red face
of the angry detective.

“I have done no harm.”

“No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged. If it
wasn’t for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you would not have
succeeded.”

The wretched creature began to whimper.

“I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke.”

“Oh! a joke, was it? You won’t find the laugh on your side, I promise
you. Take him down, and keep him in the sitting-room until I come. Mr.
Holmes,” he continued, when they had gone, “I could not speak before the
constables, but I don’t mind saying, in the presence of Dr. Watson,
that this is the brightest thing that you have done yet, though it is a
mystery to me how you did it. You have saved an innocent man’s life,
and you have prevented a very grave scandal, which would have ruined my
reputation in the Force.”

Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

“Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your
reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few alterations in
that report which you were writing, and they will understand how hard it
is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade.”

“And you don’t want your name to appear?”

“Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the credit
also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous historian to lay out
his foolscap once more--eh, Watson? Well, now, let us see where this rat
has been lurking.”

A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six feet
from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It was lit within
by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture and a supply of
food and water were within, together with a number of books and papers.

“There’s the advantage of being a builder,” said Holmes, as we came
out. “He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place without any
confederate--save, of course, that precious housekeeper of his, whom I
should lose no time in adding to your bag, Lestrade.”

“I’ll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr. Holmes?”

“I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house. When I
paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the corresponding
one below, it was pretty clear where he was. I thought he had not the
nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of fire. We could, of course, have
gone in and taken him, but it amused me to make him reveal himself.
Besides, I owed you a little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in
the morning.”

“Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how in the
world did you know that he was in the house at all?”

“The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was, in a
very different sense. I knew it had not been there the day before. I pay
a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as you may have observed,
and I had examined the hall, and was sure that the wall was clear.
Therefore, it had been put on during the night.”

“But how?”

“Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre got
McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb upon the soft
wax. It would be done so quickly and so naturally, that I daresay the
young man himself has no recollection of it. Very likely it just so
happened, and Oldacre had himself no notion of the use he would put it
to. Brooding over the case in that den of his, it suddenly struck him
what absolutely damning evidence he could make against McFarlane by
using that thumb-mark. It was the simplest thing in the world for him to
take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it in as much blood as
he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark upon the wall during
the night, either with his own hand or with that of his housekeeper.
If you examine among those documents which he took with him into
his retreat, I will lay you a wager that you find the seal with the
thumb-mark upon it.”

“Wonderful!” said Lestrade. “Wonderful! It’s all as clear as crystal, as
you put it. But what is the object of this deep deception, Mr. Holmes?”

It was amusing to me to see how the detective’s overbearing manner had
changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its teacher.

“Well, I don’t think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,
malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now waiting us
downstairs. You know that he was once refused by McFarlane’s mother?
You don’t! I told you that you should go to Blackheath first and Norwood
afterwards. Well, this injury, as he would consider it, has rankled
in his wicked, scheming brain, and all his life he has longed for
vengeance, but never seen his chance. During the last year or two,
things have gone against him--secret speculation, I think--and he finds
himself in a bad way. He determines to swindle his creditors, and for
this purpose he pays large checks to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I
imagine, himself under another name. I have not traced these checks
yet, but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at some
provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a double existence.
He intended to change his name altogether, draw this money, and vanish,
starting life again elsewhere.”

“Well, that’s likely enough.”

“It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all pursuit off
his track, and at the same time have an ample and crushing revenge upon
his old sweetheart, if he could give the impression that he had been
murdered by her only child. It was a masterpiece of villainy, and he
carried it out like a master. The idea of the will, which would give
an obvious motive for the crime, the secret visit unknown to his own
parents, the retention of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains
and buttons in the wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from
which it seemed to me, a few hours ago, that there was no possible
escape. But he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge
of when to stop. He wished to improve that which was already perfect--to
draw the rope tighter yet round the neck of his unfortunate victim--and
so he ruined all. Let us descend, Lestrade. There are just one or two
questions that I would ask him.”

The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a policeman
upon each side of him.

“It was a joke, my good sir--a practical joke, nothing more,” he whined
incessantly. “I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed myself in order
to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am sure that you would not
be so unjust as to imagine that I would have allowed any harm to befall
poor young Mr. McFarlane.”

“That’s for a jury to decide,” said Lestrade. “Anyhow, we shall have you
on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder.”

“And you’ll probably find that your creditors will impound the banking
account of Mr. Cornelius,” said Holmes.

The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my friend.

“I have to thank you for a good deal,” said he. “Perhaps I’ll pay my
debt some day.”

Holmes smiled indulgently.

“I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time very fully
occupied,” said he. “By the way, what was it you put into the wood-pile
besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits, or what? You won’t
tell? Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well, well, I daresay that a
couple of rabbits would account both for the blood and for the charred
ashes. If ever you write an account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve
your turn.”




THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN



Holmes had been seated for some hours in silence with his long,
thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a
particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his breast, and
he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank bird, with dull
gray plumage and a black top-knot.

“So, Watson,” said he, suddenly, “you do not propose to invest in South
African securities?”

I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes’s curious
faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate thoughts was
utterly inexplicable.

“How on earth do you know that?” I asked.

He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in his hand,
and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.

“Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback,” said he.

“I am.”

“I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect.”

“Why?”

“Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly
simple.”

“I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind.”

“You see, my dear Watson,”--he propped his test-tube in the rack, and
began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his class--“it
is not really difficult to construct a series of inferences, each
dependent upon its predecessor and each simple in itself. If, after
doing so, one simply knocks out all the central inferences and presents
one’s audience with the starting-point and the conclusion, one may
produce a startling, though possibly a meretricious, effect. Now, it was
not really difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left
forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did NOT propose to invest
your small capital in the gold fields.”

“I see no connection.”

“Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection. Here
are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You had chalk between
your left finger and thumb when you returned from the club last night.
2. You put chalk there when you play billiards, to steady the cue. 3.
You never play billiards except with Thurston. 4. You told me, four
weeks ago, that Thurston had an option on some South African property
which would expire in a month, and which he desired you to share with
him. 5. Your check book is locked in my drawer, and you have not asked
for the key. 6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner.”

“How absurdly simple!” I cried.

“Quite so!” said he, a little nettled. “Every problem becomes very
childish when once it is explained to you. Here is an unexplained one.
See what you can make of that, friend Watson.” He tossed a sheet of
paper upon the table, and turned once more to his chemical analysis.

I looked with amazement at the absurd hieroglyphics upon the paper.

“Why, Holmes, it is a child’s drawing,” I cried.

“Oh, that’s your idea!”

“What else should it be?”

“That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor, Norfolk, is
very anxious to know. This little conundrum came by the first post, and
he was to follow by the next train. There’s a ring at the bell, Watson.
I should not be very much surprised if this were he.”

A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later there
entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear eyes and
florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of Baker Street. He
seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh, bracing, east-coast air
with him as he entered. Having shaken hands with each of us, he was
about to sit down, when his eye rested upon the paper with the curious
markings, which I had just examined and left upon the table.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?” he cried. “They told me
that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don’t think you can find a
queerer one than that. I sent the paper on ahead, so that you might have
time to study it before I came.”

“It is certainly rather a curious production,” said Holmes. “At first
sight it would appear to be some childish prank. It consists of a number
of absurd little figures dancing across the paper upon which they
are drawn. Why should you attribute any importance to so grotesque an
object?”

“I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is frightening her to
death. She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes. That’s why I
want to sift the matter to the bottom.”

Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon it. It was
a page torn from a notebook. The markings were done in pencil, and ran
in this way:


GRAPHIC


Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully up, he
placed it in his pocketbook.

“This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case,” said he.
“You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, but I
should be very much obliged if you would kindly go over it all again for
the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said our visitor, nervously clasping
and unclasping his great, strong hands. “You’ll just ask me anything
that I don’t make clear. I’ll begin at the time of my marriage last
year, but I want to say first of all that, though I’m not a rich man,
my people have been at Riding Thorpe for a matter of five centuries, and
there is no better known family in the County of Norfolk. Last year I
came up to London for the Jubilee, and I stopped at a boarding-house in
Russell Square, because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in
it. There was an American young lady there--Patrick was the name--Elsie
Patrick. In some way we became friends, until before my month was up
I was as much in love as man could be. We were quietly married at a
registry office, and we returned to Norfolk a wedded couple. You’ll
think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a good old family should
marry a wife in this fashion, knowing nothing of her past or of
her people, but if you saw her and knew her, it would help you to
understand.

“She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can’t say that she did not
give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to do so. ‘I have
had some very disagreeable associations in my life,’ said she, ‘I wish
to forget all about them. I would rather never allude to the past, for
it is very painful to me. If you take me, Hilton, you will take a woman
who has nothing that she need be personally ashamed of, but you will
have to be content with my word for it, and to allow me to be silent
as to all that passed up to the time when I became yours. If these
conditions are too hard, then go back to Norfolk, and leave me to the
lonely life in which you found me.’ It was only the day before our
wedding that she said those very words to me. I told her that I was
content to take her on her own terms, and I have been as good as my
word.

“Well we have been married now for a year, and very happy we have been.
But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for the first time
signs of trouble. One day my wife received a letter from America. I saw
the American stamp. She turned deadly white, read the letter, and threw
it into the fire. She made no allusion to it afterwards, and I made
none, for a promise is a promise, but she has never known an easy hour
from that moment. There is always a look of fear upon her face--a look
as if she were waiting and expecting. She would do better to trust me.
She would find that I was her best friend. But until she speaks, I can
say nothing. Mind you, she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and whatever
trouble there may have been in her past life it has been no fault of
hers. I am only a simple Norfolk squire, but there is not a man in
England who ranks his family honour more highly than I do. She knows it
well, and she knew it well before she married me. She would never bring
any stain upon it--of that I am sure.

“Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a week ago--it
was the Tuesday of last week--I found on one of the window-sills a
number of absurd little dancing figures like these upon the paper. They
were scrawled with chalk. I thought that it was the stable-boy who had
drawn them, but the lad swore he knew nothing about it. Anyhow, they had
come there during the night. I had them washed out, and I only mentioned
the matter to my wife afterwards. To my surprise, she took it very
seriously, and begged me if any more came to let her see them. None did
come for a week, and then yesterday morning I found this paper lying on
the sundial in the garden. I showed it to Elsie, and down she dropped
in a dead faint. Since then she has looked like a woman in a dream, half
dazed, and with terror always lurking in her eyes. It was then that I
wrote and sent the paper to you, Mr. Holmes. It was not a thing that
I could take to the police, for they would have laughed at me, but you
will tell me what to do. I am not a rich man, but if there is any danger
threatening my little woman, I would spend my last copper to shield
her.”

He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil--simple,
straight, and gentle, with his great, earnest blue eyes and broad,
comely face. His love for his wife and his trust in her shone in his
features. Holmes had listened to his story with the utmost attention,
and now he sat for some time in silent thought.

“Don’t you think, Mr. Cubitt,” said he, at last, “that your best plan
would be to make a direct appeal to your wife, and to ask her to share
her secret with you?”

Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

“A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell me she
would. If not, it is not for me to force her confidence. But I am
justified in taking my own line--and I will.”

“Then I will help you with all my heart. In the first place, have you
heard of any strangers being seen in your neighbourhood?”

“No.”

“I presume that it is a very quiet place. Any fresh face would cause
comment?”

“In the immediate neighbourhood, yes. But we have several small
watering-places not very far away. And the farmers take in lodgers.”

“These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning. If it is a purely
arbitrary one, it may be impossible for us to solve it. If, on the other
hand, it is systematic, I have no doubt that we shall get to the bottom
of it. But this particular sample is so short that I can do nothing, and
the facts which you have brought me are so indefinite that we have no
basis for an investigation. I would suggest that you return to Norfolk,
that you keep a keen lookout, and that you take an exact copy of any
fresh dancing men which may appear. It is a thousand pities that we
have not a reproduction of those which were done in chalk upon the
window-sill. Make a discreet inquiry also as to any strangers in the
neighbourhood. When you have collected some fresh evidence, come to me
again. That is the best advice which I can give you, Mr. Hilton Cubitt.
If there are any pressing fresh developments, I shall be always ready to
run down and see you in your Norfolk home.”

The interview left Sherlock Holmes very thoughtful, and several times in
the next few days I saw him take his slip of paper from his notebook
and look long and earnestly at the curious figures inscribed upon it. He
made no allusion to the affair, however, until one afternoon a fortnight
or so later. I was going out when he called me back.

“You had better stay here, Watson.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt this morning. You remember
Hilton Cubitt, of the dancing men? He was to reach Liverpool Street at
one-twenty. He may be here at any moment. I gather from his wire that
there have been some new incidents of importance.”

We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire came straight from the
station as fast as a hansom could bring him. He was looking worried and
depressed, with tired eyes and a lined forehead.

“It’s getting on my nerves, this business, Mr. Holmes,” said he, as he
sank, like a wearied man, into an armchair. “It’s bad enough to feel
that you are surrounded by unseen, unknown folk, who have some kind of
design upon you, but when, in addition to that, you know that it is just
killing your wife by inches, then it becomes as much as flesh and blood
can endure. She’s wearing away under it--just wearing away before my
eyes.”

“Has she said anything yet?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, she has not. And yet there have been times when the
poor girl has wanted to speak, and yet could not quite bring herself
to take the plunge. I have tried to help her, but I daresay I did it
clumsily, and scared her from it. She has spoken about my old family,
and our reputation in the county, and our pride in our unsullied honour,
and I always felt it was leading to the point, but somehow it turned off
before we got there.”

“But you have found out something for yourself?”

“A good deal, Mr. Holmes. I have several fresh dancing-men pictures for
you to examine, and, what is more important, I have seen the fellow.”

“What, the man who draws them?”

“Yes, I saw him at his work. But I will tell you everything in order.
When I got back after my visit to you, the very first thing I saw next
morning was a fresh crop of dancing men. They had been drawn in chalk
upon the black wooden door of the tool-house, which stands beside the
lawn in full view of the front windows. I took an exact copy, and here
it is.” He unfolded a paper and laid it upon the table. Here is a copy
of the hieroglyphics:


GRAPHIC


“Excellent!” said Holmes. “Excellent! Pray continue.”

“When I had taken the copy, I rubbed out the marks, but, two mornings
later, a fresh inscription had appeared. I have a copy of it here:”


GRAPHIC


Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

“Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.

“Three days later a message was left scrawled upon paper, and placed
under a pebble upon the sundial. Here it is. The characters are, as you
see, exactly the same as the last one. After that I determined to lie in
wait, so I got out my revolver and I sat up in my study, which overlooks
the lawn and garden. About two in the morning I was seated by the
window, all being dark save for the moonlight outside, when I heard
steps behind me, and there was my wife in her dressing-gown. She
implored me to come to bed. I told her frankly that I wished to see who
it was who played such absurd tricks upon us. She answered that it was
some senseless practical joke, and that I should not take any notice of
it.

“‘If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you and I,
and so avoid this nuisance.’

“‘What, be driven out of our own house by a practical joker?’ said I.
‘Why, we should have the whole county laughing at us.’

“‘Well, come to bed,’ said she, ‘and we can discuss it in the morning.’

“Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face grow whiter yet in the
moonlight, and her hand tightened upon my shoulder. Something was moving
in the shadow of the tool-house. I saw a dark, creeping figure which
crawled round the corner and squatted in front of the door. Seizing my
pistol, I was rushing out, when my wife threw her arms round me and held
me with convulsive strength. I tried to throw her off, but she clung to
me most desperately. At last I got clear, but by the time I had opened
the door and reached the house the creature was gone. He had left a
trace of his presence, however, for there on the door was the very same
arrangement of dancing men which had already twice appeared, and which
I have copied on that paper. There was no other sign of the fellow
anywhere, though I ran all over the grounds. And yet the amazing thing
is that he must have been there all the time, for when I examined the
door again in the morning, he had scrawled some more of his pictures
under the line which I had already seen.”

“Have you that fresh drawing?”

“Yes, it is very short, but I made a copy of it, and here it is.”

Again he produced a paper. The new dance was in this form:


GRAPHIC


“Tell me,” said Holmes--and I could see by his eyes that he was much
excited--“was this a mere addition to the first or did it appear to be
entirely separate?”

“It was on a different panel of the door.”

“Excellent! This is far the most important of all for our purpose. It
fills me with hopes. Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please continue your most
interesting statement.”

“I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except that I was angry with
my wife that night for having held me back when I might have caught the
skulking rascal. She said that she feared that I might come to harm. For
an instant it had crossed my mind that perhaps what she really feared
was that HE might come to harm, for I could not doubt that she knew who
this man was, and what he meant by these strange signals. But there is a
tone in my wife’s voice, Mr. Holmes, and a look in her eyes which forbid
doubt, and I am sure that it was indeed my own safety that was in her
mind. There’s the whole case, and now I want your advice as to what I
ought to do. My own inclination is to put half a dozen of my farm lads
in the shrubbery, and when this fellow comes again to give him such a
hiding that he will leave us in peace for the future.”

“I fear it is too deep a case for such simple remedies,” said Holmes.
“How long can you stay in London?”

“I must go back to-day. I would not leave my wife alone all night for
anything. She is very nervous, and begged me to come back.”

“I daresay you are right. But if you could have stopped, I might
possibly have been able to return with you in a day or two. Meanwhile
you will leave me these papers, and I think that it is very likely that
I shall be able to pay you a visit shortly and to throw some light upon
your case.”

Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional manner until our visitor
had left us, although it was easy for me, who knew him so well, to see
that he was profoundly excited. The moment that Hilton Cubitt’s broad
back had disappeared through the door my comrade rushed to the table,
laid out all the slips of paper containing dancing men in front of him,
and threw himself into an intricate and elaborate calculation. For
two hours I watched him as he covered sheet after sheet of paper with
figures and letters, so completely absorbed in his task that he had
evidently forgotten my presence. Sometimes he was making progress and
whistled and sang at his work; sometimes he was puzzled, and would sit
for long spells with a furrowed brow and a vacant eye. Finally he sprang
from his chair with a cry of satisfaction, and walked up and down the
room rubbing his hands together. Then he wrote a long telegram upon a
cable form. “If my answer to this is as I hope, you will have a very
pretty case to add to your collection, Watson,” said he. “I expect that
we shall be able to go down to Norfolk tomorrow, and to take our friend
some very definite news as to the secret of his annoyance.”

I confess that I was filled with curiosity, but I was aware that Holmes
liked to make his disclosures at his own time and in his own way, so I
waited until it should suit him to take me into his confidence.

But there was a delay in that answering telegram, and two days of
impatience followed, during which Holmes pricked up his ears at every
ring of the bell. On the evening of the second there came a letter from
Hilton Cubitt. All was quiet with him, save that a long inscription had
appeared that morning upon the pedestal of the sundial. He inclosed a
copy of it, which is here reproduced:


GRAPHIC


Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and then
suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise and dismay.
His face was haggard with anxiety.

“We have let this affair go far enough,” said he. “Is there a train to
North Walsham to-night?”

I turned up the time-table. The last had just gone.

“Then we shall breakfast early and take the very first in the morning,”
 said Holmes. “Our presence is most urgently needed. Ah! here is our
expected cablegram. One moment, Mrs. Hudson, there may be an answer. No,
that is quite as I expected. This message makes it even more essential
that we should not lose an hour in letting Hilton Cubitt know how
matters stand, for it is a singular and a dangerous web in which our
simple Norfolk squire is entangled.”

So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of a story
which had seemed to me to be only childish and bizarre, I experience
once again the dismay and horror with which I was filled. Would that I
had some brighter ending to communicate to my readers, but these are the
chronicles of fact, and I must follow to their dark crisis the strange
chain of events which for some days made Riding Thorpe Manor a household
word through the length and breadth of England.

We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and mentioned the name of our
destination, when the station-master hurried towards us. “I suppose that
you are the detectives from London?” said he.

A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face.

“What makes you think such a thing?”

“Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed through. But
maybe you are the surgeons. She’s not dead--or wasn’t by last accounts.
You may be in time to save her yet--though it be for the gallows.”

Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety.

“We are going to Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he, “but we have heard
nothing of what has passed there.”

“It’s a terrible business,” said the stationmaster. “They are shot, both
Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then herself--so the
servants say. He’s dead and her life is despaired of. Dear, dear, one
of the oldest families in the county of Norfolk, and one of the most
honoured.”

Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage, and during the long seven
miles’ drive he never opened his mouth. Seldom have I seen him so
utterly despondent. He had been uneasy during all our journey from
town, and I had observed that he had turned over the morning papers with
anxious attention, but now this sudden realization of his worst fears
left him in a blank melancholy. He leaned back in his seat, lost in
gloomy speculation. Yet there was much around to interest us, for we
were passing through as singular a countryside as any in England, where
a few scattered cottages represented the population of to-day, while on
every hand enormous square-towered churches bristled up from the flat
green landscape and told of the glory and prosperity of old East Anglia.
At last the violet rim of the German Ocean appeared over the green edge
of the Norfolk coast, and the driver pointed with his whip to two old
brick and timber gables which projected from a grove of trees. “That’s
Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he.

As we drove up to the porticoed front door, I observed in front of it,
beside the tennis lawn, the black tool-house and the pedestalled sundial
with which we had such strange associations. A dapper little man, with
a quick, alert manner and a waxed moustache, had just descended from a
high dog-cart. He introduced himself as Inspector Martin, of the Norfolk
Constabulary, and he was considerably astonished when he heard the name
of my companion.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only committed at three this morning.
How could you hear of it in London and get to the spot as soon as I?”

“I anticipated it. I came in the hope of preventing it.”

“Then you must have important evidence, of which we are ignorant, for
they were said to be a most united couple.”

“I have only the evidence of the dancing men,” said Holmes. “I will
explain the matter to you later. Meanwhile, since it is too late to
prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I should use the knowledge
which I possess in order to insure that justice be done. Will you
associate me in your investigation, or will you prefer that I should act
independently?”

“I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr. Holmes,”
 said the inspector, earnestly.

“In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to examine the
premises without an instant of unnecessary delay.”

Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do things
in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully noting the
results. The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man, had just come down
from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt’s room, and he reported that her injuries were
serious, but not necessarily fatal. The bullet had passed through the
front of her brain, and it would probably be some time before she could
regain consciousness. On the question of whether she had been shot or
had shot herself, he would not venture to express any decided opinion.
Certainly the bullet had been discharged at very close quarters. There
was only the one pistol found in the room, two barrels of which had
been emptied. Mr. Hilton Cubitt had been shot through the heart. It was
equally conceivable that he had shot her and then himself, or that
she had been the criminal, for the revolver lay upon the floor midway
between them.

“Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.

“We have moved nothing except the lady. We could not leave her lying
wounded upon the floor.”

“How long have you been here, Doctor?”

“Since four o’clock.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes, the constable here.”

“And you have touched nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have acted with great discretion. Who sent for you?”

“The housemaid, Saunders.”

“Was it she who gave the alarm?”

“She and Mrs. King, the cook.”

“Where are they now?”

“In the kitchen, I believe.”

“Then I think we had better hear their story at once.”

The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been turned into a
court of investigation. Holmes sat in a great, old-fashioned chair, his
inexorable eyes gleaming out of his haggard face. I could read in them
a set purpose to devote his life to this quest until the client whom he
had failed to save should at last be avenged. The trim Inspector Martin,
the old, gray-headed country doctor, myself, and a stolid village
policeman made up the rest of that strange company.

The two women told their story clearly enough. They had been aroused
from their sleep by the sound of an explosion, which had been followed
a minute later by a second one. They slept in adjoining rooms, and Mrs.
King had rushed in to Saunders. Together they had descended the stairs.
The door of the study was open, and a candle was burning upon the table.
Their master lay upon his face in the centre of the room. He was quite
dead. Near the window his wife was crouching, her head leaning against
the wall. She was horribly wounded, and the side of her face was red
with blood. She breathed heavily, but was incapable of saying anything.
The passage, as well as the room, was full of smoke and the smell of
powder. The window was certainly shut and fastened upon the inside. Both
women were positive upon the point. They had at once sent for the
doctor and for the constable. Then, with the aid of the groom and the
stable-boy, they had conveyed their injured mistress to her room. Both
she and her husband had occupied the bed. She was clad in her dress--he
in his dressing-gown, over his night-clothes. Nothing had been moved in
the study. So far as they knew, there had never been any quarrel between
husband and wife. They had always looked upon them as a very united
couple.

These were the main points of the servants’ evidence. In answer to
Inspector Martin, they were clear that every door was fastened upon the
inside, and that no one could have escaped from the house. In answer to
Holmes, they both remembered that they were conscious of the smell of
powder from the moment that they ran out of their rooms upon the top
floor. “I commend that fact very carefully to your attention,” said
Holmes to his professional colleague. “And now I think that we are in a
position to undertake a thorough examination of the room.”

The study proved to be a small chamber, lined on three sides with books,
and with a writing-table facing an ordinary window, which looked out
upon the garden. Our first attention was given to the body of the
unfortunate squire, whose huge frame lay stretched across the room. His
disordered dress showed that he had been hastily aroused from sleep.
The bullet had been fired at him from the front, and had remained in
his body, after penetrating the heart. His death had certainly been
instantaneous and painless. There was no powder-marking either upon his
dressing-gown or on his hands. According to the country surgeon, the
lady had stains upon her face, but none upon her hand.

“The absence of the latter means nothing, though its presence may
mean everything,” said Holmes. “Unless the powder from a badly fitting
cartridge happens to spurt backward, one may fire many shots without
leaving a sign. I would suggest that Mr. Cubitt’s body may now be
removed. I suppose, Doctor, you have not recovered the bullet which
wounded the lady?”

“A serious operation will be necessary before that can be done. But
there are still four cartridges in the revolver. Two have been fired and
two wounds inflicted, so that each bullet can be accounted for.”

“So it would seem,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you can account also for the
bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the window?”

He had turned suddenly, and his long, thin finger was pointing to a hole
which had been drilled right through the lower window-sash, about an
inch above the bottom.

“By George!” cried the inspector. “How ever did you see that?”

“Because I looked for it.”

“Wonderful!” said the country doctor. “You are certainly right, sir.
Then a third shot has been fired, and therefore a third person must have
been present. But who could that have been, and how could he have got
away?”

“That is the problem which we are now about to solve,” said Sherlock
Holmes. “You remember, Inspector Martin, when the servants said that on
leaving their room they were at once conscious of a smell of powder, I
remarked that the point was an extremely important one?”

“Yes, sir; but I confess I did not quite follow you.”

“It suggested that at the time of the firing, the window as well as the
door of the room had been open. Otherwise the fumes of powder could not
have been blown so rapidly through the house. A draught in the room was
necessary for that. Both door and window were only open for a very short
time, however.”

“How do you prove that?”

“Because the candle was not guttered.”

“Capital!” cried the inspector. “Capital!

“Feeling sure that the window had been open at the time of the tragedy,
I conceived that there might have been a third person in the affair, who
stood outside this opening and fired through it. Any shot directed at
this person might hit the sash. I looked, and there, sure enough, was
the bullet mark!”

“But how came the window to be shut and fastened?”

“The woman’s first instinct would be to shut and fasten the window. But,
halloa! What is this?”

It was a lady’s hand-bag which stood upon the study table--a trim little
handbag of crocodile-skin and silver. Holmes opened it and turned
the contents out. There were twenty fifty-pound notes of the Bank of
England, held together by an india-rubber band--nothing else.

“This must be preserved, for it will figure in the trial,” said Holmes,
as he handed the bag with its contents to the inspector. “It is now
necessary that we should try to throw some light upon this third bullet,
which has clearly, from the splintering of the wood, been fired from
inside the room. I should like to see Mrs. King, the cook, again. You
said, Mrs. King, that you were awakened by a LOUD explosion. When you
said that, did you mean that it seemed to you to be louder than the
second one?”

“Well, sir, it wakened me from my sleep, so it is hard to judge. But it
did seem very loud.”

“You don’t think that it might have been two shots fired almost at the
same instant?”

“I am sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

“I believe that it was undoubtedly so. I rather think, Inspector Martin,
that we have now exhausted all that this room can teach us. If you will
kindly step round with me, we shall see what fresh evidence the garden
has to offer.”

A flower-bed extended up to the study window, and we all broke into an
exclamation as we approached it. The flowers were trampled down, and the
soft soil was imprinted all over with footmarks. Large, masculine feet
they were, with peculiarly long, sharp toes. Holmes hunted about among
the grass and leaves like a retriever after a wounded bird. Then, with
a cry of satisfaction, he bent forward and picked up a little brazen
cylinder.

“I thought so,” said he, “the revolver had an ejector, and here is the
third cartridge. I really think, Inspector Martin, that our case is
almost complete.”

The country inspector’s face had shown his intense amazement at the
rapid and masterful progress of Holmes’s investigation. At first he
had shown some disposition to assert his own position, but now he was
overcome with admiration, and ready to follow without question wherever
Holmes led.

“Whom do you suspect?” he asked.

“I’ll go into that later. There are several points in this problem which
I have not been able to explain to you yet. Now that I have got so far,
I had best proceed on my own lines, and then clear the whole matter up
once and for all.”

“Just as you wish, Mr. Holmes, so long as we get our man.”

“I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at the moment
of action to enter into long and complex explanations. I have the
threads of this affair all in my hand. Even if this lady should never
recover consciousness, we can still reconstruct the events of last night
and insure that justice be done. First of all, I wish to know whether
there is any inn in this neighbourhood known as ‘Elrige’s’?”

The servants were cross-questioned, but none of them had heard of such a
place. The stable-boy threw a light upon the matter by remembering that
a farmer of that name lived some miles off, in the direction of East
Ruston.

“Is it a lonely farm?”

“Very lonely, sir.”

“Perhaps they have not heard yet of all that happened here during the
night?”

“Maybe not, sir.”

Holmes thought for a little, and then a curious smile played over his
face.

“Saddle a horse, my lad,” said he. “I shall wish you to take a note to
Elrige’s Farm.”

He took from his pocket the various slips of the dancing men. With these
in front of him, he worked for some time at the study-table. Finally he
handed a note to the boy, with directions to put it into the hands
of the person to whom it was addressed, and especially to answer no
questions of any sort which might be put to him. I saw the outside of
the note, addressed in straggling, irregular characters, very unlike
Holmes’s usual precise hand. It was consigned to Mr. Abe Slaney, Elriges
Farm, East Ruston, Norfolk.

“I think, Inspector,” Holmes remarked, “that you would do well to
telegraph for an escort, as, if my calculations prove to be correct, you
may have a particularly dangerous prisoner to convey to the county jail.
The boy who takes this note could no doubt forward your telegram. If
there is an afternoon train to town, Watson, I think we should do well
to take it, as I have a chemical analysis of some interest to finish,
and this investigation draws rapidly to a close.”

When the youth had been dispatched with the note, Sherlock Holmes gave
his instructions to the servants. If any visitor were to call asking for
Mrs. Hilton Cubitt, no information should be given as to her condition,
but he was to be shown at once into the drawing-room. He impressed these
points upon them with the utmost earnestness. Finally he led the way
into the drawing-room, with the remark that the business was now out of
our hands, and that we must while away the time as best we might until
we could see what was in store for us. The doctor had departed to his
patients, and only the inspector and myself remained.

“I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting and
profitable manner,” said Holmes, drawing his chair up to the table,
and spreading out in front of him the various papers upon which were
recorded the antics of the dancing men. “As to you, friend Watson, I owe
you every atonement for having allowed your natural curiosity to remain
so long unsatisfied. To you, Inspector, the whole incident may appeal
as a remarkable professional study. I must tell you, first of all, the
interesting circumstances connected with the previous consultations
which Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker Street.” He then
shortly recapitulated the facts which have already been recorded. “I
have here in front of me these singular productions, at which one
might smile, had they not proved themselves to be the forerunners of
so terrible a tragedy. I am fairly familiar with all forms of secret
writings, and am myself the author of a trifling monograph upon the
subject, in which I analyze one hundred and sixty separate ciphers,
but I confess that this is entirely new to me. The object of those who
invented the system has apparently been to conceal that these characters
convey a message, and to give the idea that they are the mere random
sketches of children.

“Having once recognized, however, that the symbols stood for letters,
and having applied the rules which guide us in all forms of secret
writings, the solution was easy enough. The first message submitted to
me was so short that it was impossible for me to do more than to say,
with some confidence, that the symbol XXX stood for E. As you are aware,
E is the most common letter in the English alphabet, and it predominates
to so marked an extent that even in a short sentence one would expect
to find it most often. Out of fifteen symbols in the first message, four
were the same, so it was reasonable to set this down as E. It is true
that in some cases the figure was bearing a flag, and in some cases not,
but it was probable, from the way in which the flags were distributed,
that they were used to break the sentence up into words. I accepted this
as a hypothesis, and noted that E was represented by XXX.

“But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry. The order of
the English letters after E is by no means well marked, and any
preponderance which may be shown in an average of a printed sheet may be
reversed in a single short sentence. Speaking roughly, T, A, O, I, N, S,
H, R, D, and L are the numerical order in which letters occur, but T,
A, O, and I are very nearly abreast of each other, and it would be an
endless task to try each combination until a meaning was arrived at.
I therefore waited for fresh material. In my second interview with Mr.
Hilton Cubitt he was able to give me two other short sentences and one
message, which appeared--since there was no flag--to be a single word.
Here are the symbols. Now, in the single word I have already got the
two E’s coming second and fourth in a word of five letters. It might
be ‘sever,’ or ‘lever,’ or ‘never.’ There can be no question that
the latter as a reply to an appeal is far the most probable, and
the circumstances pointed to its being a reply written by the lady.
Accepting it as correct, we are now able to say that the symbols stand
respectively for N, V, and R.

“Even now I was in considerable difficulty, but a happy thought put me
in possession of several other letters. It occurred to me that if these
appeals came, as I expected, from someone who had been intimate with the
lady in her early life, a combination which contained two E’s with
three letters between might very well stand for the name ‘ELSIE.’ On
examination I found that such a combination formed the termination of
the message which was three times repeated. It was certainly some appeal
to ‘Elsie.’ In this way I had got my L, S, and I. But what appeal could
it be? There were only four letters in the word which preceded ‘Elsie,’
and it ended in E. Surely the word must be ‘COME.’ I tried all other
four letters ending in E, but could find none to fit the case. So now I
was in possession of C, O, and M, and I was in a position to attack the
first message once more, dividing it into words and putting dots for
each symbol which was still unknown. So treated, it worked out in this
fashion:


.M .ERE ..E SL.NE.


“Now the first letter CAN only be A, which is a most useful discovery,
since it occurs no fewer than three times in this short sentence, and
the H is also apparent in the second word. Now it becomes:


AM HERE A.E SLANE.


Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:


AM HERE ABE SLANEY.


I had so many letters now that I could proceed with considerable
confidence to the second message, which worked out in this fashion:


A. ELRI. ES.


Here I could only make sense by putting T and G for the missing letters,
and supposing that the name was that of some house or inn at which the
writer was staying.”

Inspector Martin and I had listened with the utmost interest to the full
and clear account of how my friend had produced results which had led to
so complete a command over our difficulties.

“What did you do then, sir?” asked the inspector.

“I had every reason to suppose that this Abe Slaney was an American,
since Abe is an American contraction, and since a letter from America
had been the starting-point of all the trouble. I had also every cause
to think that there was some criminal secret in the matter. The lady’s
allusions to her past, and her refusal to take her husband into her
confidence, both pointed in that direction. I therefore cabled to my
friend, Wilson Hargreave, of the New York Police Bureau, who has more
than once made use of my knowledge of London crime. I asked him whether
the name of Abe Slaney was known to him. Here is his reply: ‘The most
dangerous crook in Chicago.’ On the very evening upon which I had his
answer, Hilton Cubitt sent me the last message from Slaney. Working with
known letters, it took this form:


ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.


The addition of a P and a D completed a message which showed me that the
rascal was proceeding from persuasion to threats, and my knowledge of
the crooks of Chicago prepared me to find that he might very rapidly
put his words into action. I at once came to Norfolk with my friend and
colleague, Dr. Watson, but, unhappily, only in time to find that the
worst had already occurred.”

“It is a privilege to be associated with you in the handling of a case,”
 said the inspector, warmly. “You will excuse me, however, if I speak
frankly to you. You are only answerable to yourself, but I have to
answer to my superiors. If this Abe Slaney, living at Elrige’s, is
indeed the murderer, and if he has made his escape while I am seated
here, I should certainly get into serious trouble.”

“You need not be uneasy. He will not try to escape.”

“How do you know?”

“To fly would be a confession of guilt.”

“Then let us go arrest him.”

“I expect him here every instant.”

“But why should he come.”

“Because I have written and asked him.”

“But this is incredible, Mr. Holmes! Why should he come because you
have asked him? Would not such a request rather rouse his suspicions and
cause him to fly?”

“I think I have known how to frame the letter,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, here is the gentleman himself
coming up the drive.”

A man was striding up the path which led to the door. He was a tall,
handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of gray flannel, with a Panama
hat, a bristling black beard, and a great, aggressive hooked nose, and
flourishing a cane as he walked. He swaggered up a path as if as if
the place belonged to him, and we heard his loud, confident peal at the
bell.

“I think, gentlemen,” said Holmes, quietly, “that we had best take up
our position behind the door. Every precaution is necessary when dealing
with such a fellow. You will need your handcuffs, Inspector. You can
leave the talking to me.”

We waited in silence for a minute--one of those minutes which one can
never forget. Then the door opened and the man stepped in. In an instant
Holmes clapped a pistol to his head, and Martin slipped the handcuffs
over his wrists. It was all done so swiftly and deftly that the fellow
was helpless before he knew that he was attacked. He glared from one to
the other of us with a pair of blazing black eyes. Then he burst into a
bitter laugh.

“Well, gentlemen, you have the drop on me this time. I seem to have
knocked up against something hard. But I came here in answer to a letter
from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt. Don’t tell me that she is in this? Don’t tell
me that she helped to set a trap for me?”

“Mrs. Hilton Cubitt was seriously injured, and is at death’s door.”

The man gave a hoarse cry of grief, which rang through the house.

“You’re crazy!” he cried, fiercely. “It was he that was hurt, not she.
Who would have hurt little Elsie? I may have threatened her--God forgive
me!--but I would not have touched a hair of her pretty head. Take it
back--you! Say that she is not hurt!”

“She was found badly wounded, by the side of her dead husband.”

He sank with a deep groan on the settee and buried his face in his
manacled hands. For five minutes he was silent. Then he raised his face
once more, and spoke with the cold composure of despair.

“I have nothing to hide from you, gentlemen,” said he. “If I shot the
man he had his shot at me, and there’s no murder in that. But if you
think I could have hurt that woman, then you don’t know either me or
her. I tell you, there was never a man in this world loved a woman more
than I loved her. I had a right to her. She was pledged to me years ago.
Who was this Englishman that he should come between us? I tell you that
I had the first right to her, and that I was only claiming my own.

“She broke away from your influence when she found the man that you
are,” said Holmes, sternly. “She fled from America to avoid you, and she
married an honourable gentleman in England. You dogged her and followed
her and made her life a misery to her, in order to induce her to abandon
the husband whom she loved and respected in order to fly with you, whom
she feared and hated. You have ended by bringing about the death of a
noble man and driving his wife to suicide. That is your record in this
business, Mr. Abe Slaney, and you will answer for it to the law.”

“If Elsie dies, I care nothing what becomes of me,” said the American.
He opened one of his hands, and looked at a note crumpled up in his
palm. “See here, mister! he cried, with a gleam of suspicion in his
eyes, “you’re not trying to scare me over this, are you? If the lady is
hurt as bad as you say, who was it that wrote this note?” He tossed it
forward on to the table.

“I wrote it, to bring you here.”

“You wrote it? There was no one on earth outside the Joint who knew the
secret of the dancing men. How came you to write it?”

“What one man can invent another can discover,” said Holmes. There is a
cab coming to convey you to Norwich, Mr. Slaney. But meanwhile, you have
time to make some small reparation for the injury you have wrought. Are
you aware that Mrs. Hilton Cubitt has herself lain under grave suspicion
of the murder of her husband, and that it was only my presence here, and
the knowledge which I happened to possess, which has saved her from the
accusation? The least that you owe her is to make it clear to the whole
world that she was in no way, directly or indirectly, responsible for
his tragic end.”

“I ask nothing better,” said the American. “I guess the very best case I
can make for myself is the absolute naked truth.”

“It is my duty to warn you that it will be used against you,” cried the
inspector, with the magnificent fair play of the British criminal law.

Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll chance that,” said he. “First of all, I want you gentlemen to
understand that I have known this lady since she was a child. There were
seven of us in a gang in Chicago, and Elsie’s father was the boss of the
Joint. He was a clever man, was old Patrick. It was he who invented that
writing, which would pass as a child’s scrawl unless you just happened
to have the key to it. Well, Elsie learned some of our ways, but she
couldn’t stand the business, and she had a bit of honest money of her
own, so she gave us all the slip and got away to London. She had been
engaged to me, and she would have married me, I believe, if I had taken
over another profession, but she would have nothing to do with anything
on the cross. It was only after her marriage to this Englishman that I
was able to find out where she was. I wrote to her, but got no answer.
After that I came over, and, as letters were no use, I put my messages
where she could read them.

“Well, I have been here a month now. I lived in that farm, where I had
a room down below, and could get in and out every night, and no one the
wiser. I tried all I could to coax Elsie away. I knew that she read the
messages, for once she wrote an answer under one of them. Then my temper
got the better of me, and I began to threaten her. She sent me a letter
then, imploring me to go away, and saying that it would break her heart
if any scandal should come upon her husband. She said that she would
come down when her husband was asleep at three in the morning, and speak
with me through the end window, if I would go away afterwards and leave
her in peace. She came down and brought money with her, trying to bribe
me to go. This made me mad, and I caught her arm and tried to pull
her through the window. At that moment in rushed the husband with his
revolver in his hand. Elsie had sunk down upon the floor, and we were
face to face. I was heeled also, and I held up my gun to scare him off
and let me get away. He fired and missed me. I pulled off almost at the
same instant, and down he dropped. I made away across the garden, and as
I went I heard the window shut behind me. That’s God’s truth, gentlemen,
every word of it, and I heard no more about it until that lad came
riding up with a note which made me walk in here, like a jay, and give
myself into your hands.”

A cab had driven up whilst the American had been talking. Two uniformed
policemen sat inside. Inspector Martin rose and touched his prisoner on
the shoulder.

“It is time for us to go.”

“Can I see her first?”

“No, she is not conscious. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I only hope that if ever
again I have an important case, I shall have the good fortune to have
you by my side.”

We stood at the window and watched the cab drive away. As I turned back,
my eye caught the pellet of paper which the prisoner had tossed upon the
table. It was the note with which Holmes had decoyed him.

“See if you can read it, Watson,” said he, with a smile.

It contained no word, but this little line of dancing men:


GRAPHIC


“If you use the code which I have explained,” said Holmes, “you will
find that it simply means ‘Come here at once.’ I was convinced that
it was an invitation which he would not refuse, since he could never
imagine that it could come from anyone but the lady. And so, my dear
Watson, we have ended by turning the dancing men to good when they have
so often been the agents of evil, and I think that I have fulfilled my
promise of giving you something unusual for your notebook. Three-forty
is our train, and I fancy we should be back in Baker Street for dinner.”

Only one word of epilogue. The American, Abe Slaney, was condemned to
death at the winter assizes at Norwich, but his penalty was changed to
penal servitude in consideration of mitigating circumstances, and the
certainty that Hilton Cubitt had fired the first shot. Of Mrs. Hilton
Cubitt I only know that I have heard she recovered entirely, and that
she still remains a widow, devoting her whole life to the care of the
poor and to the administration of her husband’s estate.




THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST



From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a
very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of any
difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight years, and
there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of the most intricate
and extraordinary character, in which he played a prominent part. Many
startling successes and a few unavoidable failures were the outcome of
this long period of continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes
of all these cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them,
it may be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select
to lay before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former rule, and
give the preference to those cases which derive their interest not so
much from the brutality of the crime as from the ingenuity and dramatic
quality of the solution. For this reason I will now lay before the
reader the facts connected with Miss Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist
of Charlington, and the curious sequel of our investigation, which
culminated in unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstance did
not admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which my
friend was famous, but there were some points about the case which made
it stand out in those long records of crime from which I gather the
material for these little narratives.

On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it was upon
Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss Violet Smith.
Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to Holmes, for he was
immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and complicated problem
concerning the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent Harden, the
well known tobacco millionaire, had been subjected. My friend, who
loved above all things precision and concentration of thought, resented
anything which distracted his attention from the matter in hand.
And yet, without a harshness which was foreign to his nature, it was
impossible to refuse to listen to the story of the young and beautiful
woman, tall, graceful, and queenly, who presented herself at Baker
Street late in the evening, and implored his assistance and advice. It
was vain to urge that his time was already fully occupied, for the
young lady had come with the determination to tell her story, and it was
evident that nothing short of force could get her out of the room until
she had done so. With a resigned air and a somewhat weary smile, Holmes
begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat, and to inform us what it
was that was troubling her.

“At least it cannot be your health,” said he, as his keen eyes darted
over her, “so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy.”

She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the slight
roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction of the edge of
the pedal.

“Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something to do
with my visit to you to-day.”

My friend took the lady’s ungloved hand, and examined it with as close
an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would show to a
specimen.

“You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,” said he, as he
dropped it. “I nearly fell into the error of supposing that you were
typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music. You observe
the spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common to both professions?
There is a spirituality about the face, however”--she gently turned it
towards the light--“which the typewriter does not generate. This lady is
a musician.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

“In the country, I presume, from your complexion.”

“Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey.”

“A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most interesting
associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that we took
Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has happened to you,
near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?”

The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the following
curious statement:

“My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who conducted the
orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were left without
a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph Smith, who went to
Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have never had a word from him
since. When father died, we were left very poor, but one day we were
told that there was an advertisement in the TIMES, inquiring for our
whereabouts. You can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that
someone had left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name
was given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers and
Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They said that
my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he had died some months before in
great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had asked them with his last
breath to hunt up his relations, and see that they were in no want. It
seemed strange to us that Uncle Ralph, who took no notice of us when he
was alive, should be so careful to look after us when he was dead, but
Mr. Carruthers explained that the reason was that my uncle had just
heard of the death of his brother, and so felt responsible for our
fate.”

“Excuse me,” said Holmes. “When was this interview?”

“Last December--four months ago.”

“Pray proceed.”

“Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for ever
making eyes at me--a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached young man, with
his hair plastered down on each side of his forehead. I thought that he
was perfectly hateful--and I was sure that Cyril would not wish me to
know such a person.”

“Oh, Cyril is his name!” said Holmes, smiling.

The young lady blushed and laughed.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we hope
to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how DID I get talking
about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley was perfectly
odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much older man, was more
agreeable. He was a dark, sallow, clean-shaven, silent person, but he
had polite manners and a pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left,
and on finding that we were very poor, he suggested that I should come
and teach music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not
like to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should go home
to her every week-end, and he offered me a hundred a year, which was
certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my accepting, and I went down
to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from Farnham. Mr. Carruthers was
a widower, but he had engaged a lady housekeeper, a very respectable,
elderly person, called Mrs. Dixon, to look after his establishment. The
child was a dear, and everything promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very
kind and very musical, and we had most pleasant evenings together. Every
week-end I went home to my mother in town.

“The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the red-moustached
Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and oh! it seemed three
months to me. He was a dreadful person--a bully to everyone else, but to
me something infinitely worse. He made odious love to me, boasted of his
wealth, said that if I married him I could have the finest diamonds in
London, and finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized
me in his arms one day after dinner--he was hideously strong--and swore
that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr. Carruthers came
in and tore him from me, on which he turned upon his own host, knocking
him down and cutting his face open. That was the end of his visit, as
you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers apologized to me next day, and assured
me that I should never be exposed to such an insult again. I have not
seen Mr. Woodley since.

“And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which has
caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every Saturday
forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station, in order to get the
12:22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is a lonely one, and at
one spot it is particularly so, for it lies for over a mile between
Charlington Heath upon one side and the woods which lie round
Charlington Hall upon the other. You could not find a more lonely tract
of road anywhere, and it is quite rare to meet so much as a cart, or a
peasant, until you reach the high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two weeks
ago I was passing this place, when I chanced to look back over my
shoulder, and about two hundred yards behind me I saw a man, also on a
bicycle. He seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I
looked back before I reached Farnham, but the man was gone, so I thought
no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I was, Mr. Holmes,
when, on my return on the Monday, I saw the same man on the same stretch
of road. My astonishment was increased when the incident occurred again,
exactly as before, on the following Saturday and Monday. He always kept
his distance and did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly
was very odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in
what I said, and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so
that in future I should not pass over these lonely roads without some
companion.

“The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some reason
they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the station.
That was this morning. You can think that I looked out when I came to
Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough, was the man, exactly as he
had been the two weeks before. He always kept so far from me that I
could not clearly see his face, but it was certainly someone whom I did
not know. He was dressed in a dark suit with a cloth cap. The only thing
about his face that I could clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was
not alarmed, but I was filled with curiosity, and I determined to find
out who he was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he
slowed down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then
I laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I
pedalled very quickly round this, and then I stopped and waited. I
expected him to shoot round and pass me before he could stop. But he
never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the corner. I
could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make it the more
extraordinary, there was no side road at this point down which he could
have gone.”

Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. “This case certainly presents
some features of its own,” said he. “How much time elapsed between your
turning the corner and your discovery that the road was clear?”

“Two or three minutes.”

“Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that there
are no side roads?”

“None.”

“Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other.”

“It could not have been on the side of the heath, or I should have seen
him.”

“So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact that he made his
way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is situated in its
own grounds on one side of the road. Anything else?”

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt I should
not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice.”

Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

“Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?” he asked at last.

“He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry.”

“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!”

“Have you had any other admirers?”

“Several before I knew Cyril.”

“And since?”

“There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him an admirer.”

“No one else?”

Our fair client seemed a little confused.

“Who was he?” asked Holmes.

“Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had seemed to me sometimes
that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of interest in me.
We are thrown rather together. I play his accompaniments in the evening.
He has never said anything. He is a perfect gentleman. But a girl always
knows.”

“Ha!” Holmes looked grave. “What does he do for a living?”

“He is a rich man.”

“No carriages or horses?”

“Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the city two
or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South African gold
shares.”

“You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am very busy
just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries into your case.
In the meantime, take no step without letting me know. Good-bye, and I
trust that we shall have nothing but good news from you.”

“It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl should have
followers,” said Holmes, he pulled at his meditative pipe, “but for
choice not on bicycles in lonely country roads. Some secretive lover,
beyond all doubt. But there are curious and suggestive details about the
case, Watson.”

“That he should appear only at that point?”

“Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of
Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between
Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a different
type? How came they BOTH to be so keen upon looking up Ralph Smith’s
relations? One more point. What sort of a menage is it which pays double
the market price for a governess but does not keep a horse, although six
miles from the station? Odd, Watson--very odd!”

“You will go down?”

“No, my dear fellow, YOU will go down. This may be some trifling
intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research for the sake
of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham; you will conceal
yourself near Charlington Heath; you will observe these facts for
yourself, and act as your own judgment advises. Then, having inquired as
to the occupants of the Hall, you will come back to me and report. And
now, Watson, not another word of the matter until we have a few solid
stepping-stones on which we may hope to get across to our solution.”

We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the Monday by
the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started early and caught
the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty in being directed to
Charlington Heath. It was impossible to mistake the scene of the young
lady’s adventure, for the road runs between the open heath on one side
and an old yew hedge upon the other, surrounding a park which is studded
with magnificent trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded
stone, each side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems, but
besides this central carriage drive I observed several points where
there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through them. The house
was invisible from the road, but the surroundings all spoke of gloom and
decay.

The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse, gleaming
magnificently in the light of the bright spring sunshine. Behind one of
these clumps I took up my position, so as to command both the gateway
of the Hall and a long stretch of the road upon either side. It had been
deserted when I left it, but now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the
opposite direction to that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark
suit, and I saw that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the
Charlington grounds, he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap
in the hedge, disappearing from my view.

A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second cyclist appeared. This
time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw her look
about her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An instant later the man
emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon his cycle, and followed
her. In all the broad landscape those were the only moving figures, the
graceful girl sitting very straight upon her machine, and the man behind
her bending low over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion
in every movement. She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed
also. She stopped. He at once stopped, too, keeping two hundred yards
behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was spirited. She
suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed straight at him. He was as
quick as she, however, and darted off in desperate flight. Presently she
came back up the road again, her head haughtily in the air, not deigning
to take any further notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also,
and still kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my
sight.

I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for
presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned in at the
Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine. For some minutes I could
see him standing among the trees. His hands were raised, and he seemed
to be settling his necktie. Then he mounted his cycle, and rode away
from me down the drive towards the Hall. I ran across the heath and
peered through the trees. Far away I could catch glimpses of the old
gray building with its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran
through a dense shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man.

However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning’s work,
and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local house agent
could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and referred me to a well
known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on my way home, and met with
courtesy from the representative. No, I could not have Charlington Hall
for the summer. I was just too late. It had been let about a month ago.
Mr. Williamson was the name of the tenant. He was a respectable, elderly
gentleman. The polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the
affairs of his clients were not matters which he could discuss.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report which I
was able to present to him that evening, but it did not elicit that
word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should have valued. On
the contrary, his austere face was even more severe than usual as he
commented upon the things that I had done and the things that I had not.

“Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should have
been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view of this
interesting person. As it is, you were some hundreds of yards away and
can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks she does not know
the man; I am convinced she does. Why, otherwise, should he be so
desperately anxious that she should not get so near him as to see his
features? You describe him as bending over the handle-bar. Concealment
again, you see. You really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the
house, and you want to find out who he is. You come to a London house
agent!”

“What should I have done?” I cried, with some heat.

“Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of country
gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to the
scullery-maid. Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If he is an
elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints away from that
young lady’s athletic pursuit. What have we gained by your expedition?
The knowledge that the girl’s story is true. I never doubted it. That
there is a connection between the cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted
that either. That the Hall is tenanted by Williamson. Who’s the better
for that? Well, well, my dear sir, don’t look so depressed. We can do
little more until next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or
two inquiries myself.”

Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly and
accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith of the
letter lay in the postscript:

I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when I tell
you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the fact that my
employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced that his feelings
are most deep and most honourable. At the same time, my promise is of
course given. He took my refusal very seriously, but also very gently.
You can understand, however, that the situation is a little strained.
“Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters,” said Holmes,
thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. “The case certainly presents
more features of interest and more possibility of development than I had
originally thought. I should be none the worse for a quiet, peaceful day
in the country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and test
one or two theories which I have formed.”

Holmes’s quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for
he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip and a
discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air of dissipation
which would have made his own person the fitting object of a Scotland
Yard investigation. He was immensely tickled by his own adventures and
laughed heartily as he recounted them.

“I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat,” said he.
“You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old British
sport of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service, to-day, for example, I
should have come to very ignominious grief without it.”

I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

“I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your
notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar, and
a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted. Williamson is a
white-bearded man, and he lives alone with a small staff of servants at
the Hall. There is some rumor that he is or has been a clergyman, but
one or two incidents of his short residence at the Hall struck me as
peculiarly unecclesiastical. I have already made some inquiries at a
clerical agency, and they tell me that there WAS a man of that name
in orders, whose career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord
further informed me that there are usually week-end visitors--‘a
warm lot, sir’--at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red
moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got as far
as this, when who should walk in but the gentleman himself, who had been
drinking his beer in the tap-room and had heard the whole conversation.
Who was I? What did I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He had
a fine flow of language, and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended
a string of abuse by a vicious backhander, which I failed to entirely
avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left
against a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went
home in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed that,
however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been much more
profitable than your own.”

The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes [said she] to hear that I am
leaving Mr. Carruthers’s employment. Even the high pay cannot reconcile
me to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I come up to town,
and I do not intend to return. Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so
the dangers of the lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now
over.

As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the strained
situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the reappearance of that odious
man, Mr. Woodley. He was always hideous, but he looks more awful
than ever now, for he appears to have had an accident and he is much
disfigured. I saw him out of the window, but I am glad to say I did
not meet him. He had a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much
excited afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for
he did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this
morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a savage
wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him more than I
can say. How CAN Mr. Carruthers endure such a creature for a moment?
However, all my troubles will be over on Saturday.

“So I trust, Watson, so I trust,” said Holmes, gravely. “There is some
deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is our duty to
see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I think, Watson,
that we must spare time to run down together on Saturday morning and
make sure that this curious and inclusive investigation has no untoward
ending.”

I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of
the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre than
dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a very handsome
woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he has so little audacity that he
not only dared not address her, but even fled from her approach, he
was not a very formidable assailant. The ruffian Woodley was a very
different person, but, except on one occasion, he had not molested our
client, and now he visited the house of Carruthers without intruding
upon her presence. The man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of
those week-end parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken,
but who he was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever. It was the
severity of Holmes’s manner and the fact that he slipped a revolver into
his pocket before leaving our rooms which impressed me with the feeling
that tragedy might prove to lurk behind this curious train of events.

A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering gorse,
seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of the duns and
drabs and slate grays of London. Holmes and I walked along the broad,
sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air and rejoicing in the music of
the birds and the fresh breath of the spring. From a rise of the road
on the shoulder of Crooksbury Hill, we could see the grim Hall bristling
out from amidst the ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still
younger than the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed down the
long tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band, between the brown
of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away, a black
dot, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction. Holmes gave an
exclamation of impatience.

“I have given a margin of half an hour,” said he. “If that is her trap,
she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson, that she will
be past Charlington before we can possibly meet her.”

From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer see the
vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my sedentary life
began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall behind. Holmes,
however, was always in training, for he had inexhaustible stores of
nervous energy upon which to draw. His springy step never slowed until
suddenly, when he was a hundred yards in front of me, he halted, and I
saw him throw up his hand with a gesture of grief and despair. At the
same instant an empty dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing,
appeared round the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us.

“Too late, Watson, too late!” cried Holmes, as I ran panting to his
side. “Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train! It’s
abduction, Watson--abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what! Block the road!
Stop the horse! That’s right. Now, jump in, and let us see if I can
repair the consequences of my own blunder.”

We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the horse,
gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along the road. As
we turned the curve, the whole stretch of road between the Hall and the
heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes’s arm.

“That’s the man!” I gasped. A solitary cyclist was coming towards us.
His head was down and his shoulders rounded, as he put every ounce of
energy that he possessed on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer.
Suddenly he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled
up, springing from his machine. That coal-black beard was in singular
contrast to eyes were as bright as if he had a fever. He stared at us
and at the dog-cart. Then a look of amazement came over his face.

“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his bicycle to block our road.
“Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” he yelled, drawing a
pistol from his side “Pull up, I say, or, by George, I’ll put a bullet
into your horse.”

Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart.

“You’re the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?” he said, in
his quick, clear way.

“That’s what I’m asking you. You’re in her dog-cart. You ought to know
where she is.”

“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We drove back
to help the young lady.”

“Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?” cried the stranger, in an
ecstasy of despair. “They’ve got her, that hell-hound Woodley and the
blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her friend. Stand
by me and we’ll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in Charlington
Wood.”

He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the hedge.
Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing beside the road,
followed Holmes.

“This is where they came through,” said he, pointing to the marks of
several feet upon the muddy path. “Halloa! Stop a minute! Who’s this in
the bush?”

It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler, with
leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees drawn up, a
terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but alive. A glance at
his wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone.

“That’s Peter, the groom,” cried the stranger. “He drove her. The beasts
have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can’t do him any
good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can befall a woman.”

We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We had
reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes pulled up.

“They didn’t go to the house. Here are their marks on the left--here,
beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so.”

As he spoke, a woman’s shrill scream--a scream which vibrated with a
frenzy of horror--burst from the thick, green clump of bushes in front
of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and a gurgle.

“This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley,” cried the
stranger, darting through the bushes. “Ah, the cowardly dogs! Follow me,
gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!”

We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward surrounded by
ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a mighty
oak, there stood a singular group of three people. One was a woman, our
client, drooping and faint, a handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her
stood a brutal, heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs
parted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his whole
attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an elderly,
gray-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light tweed suit,
had evidently just completed the wedding service, for he pocketed his
prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped the sinister bridegroom upon the
back in jovial congratulation.

“They’re married!” I gasped.

“Come on!” cried our guide, “come on!” He rushed across the glade,
Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady staggered against
the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the ex-clergyman, bowed
to us with mock politeness, and the bully, Woodley, advanced with a
shout of brutal and exultant laughter.

“You can take your beard off, Bob,” said he. “I know you, right enough.
Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to be able to
introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.”

Our guide’s answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark beard
which had disguised him and threw it on the ground, disclosing a long,
sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver and
covered the young ruffian, who was advancing upon him with his dangerous
riding-crop swinging in his hand.

“Yes,” said our ally, “I am Bob Carruthers, and I’ll see this woman
righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you what I’d do if you
molested her, and, by the Lord! I’ll be as good as my word.”

“You’re too late. She’s my wife.”

“No, she’s your widow.”

His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of
Woodley’s waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his back,
his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor. The
old man, still clad in his surplice, burst into such a string of foul
oaths as I have never heard, and pulled out a revolver of his own, but,
before he could raise it, he was looking down the barrel of Holmes’s
weapon.

“Enough of this,” said my friend, coldly. “Drop that pistol! Watson,
pick it up! Hold it to his head. Thank you. You, Carruthers, give me
that revolver. We’ll have no more violence. Come, hand it over!”

“Who are you, then?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good Lord!”

“You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official police until
their arrival. Here, you!” he shouted to a frightened groom, who had
appeared at the edge of the glade. “Come here. Take this note as hard as
you can ride to Farnham.” He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his
notebook. “Give it to the superintendent at the police-station. Until he
comes, I must detain you all under my personal custody.”

The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic scene,
and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and Carruthers
found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the house, and I gave
my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, and
at Holmes’s request I examined him. I carried my report to where he sat
in the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his two prisoners before him.

“He will live,” said I.

“What!” cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. “I’ll go upstairs
and finish him first. Do you tell me that that angel, is to be tied to
Roaring Jack Woodley for life?”

“You need not concern yourself about that,” said Holmes. “There are two
very good reasons why she should, under no circumstances, be his wife.
In the first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr. Williamson’s
right to solemnize a marriage.”

“I have been ordained,” cried the old rascal.

“And also unfrocked.”

“Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

“I think not. How about the license?”

“We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket.”

“Then you got it by trick. But, in any case a forced marriage is no
marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will discover before
you have finished. You’ll have time to think the point out during the
next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken. As to you, Carruthers, you
would have done better to keep your pistol in your pocket.”

“I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought of all the
precaution I had taken to shield this girl--for I loved her, Mr. Holmes,
and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was--it fairly drove
me mad to think that she was in the power of the greatest brute and
bully in South Africa--a man whose name is a holy terror from Kimberley
to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes, you’ll hardly believe it, but ever
since that girl has been in my employment I never once let her go past
this house, where I knew the rascals were lurking, without following her
on my bicycle, just to see that she came to no harm. I kept my distance
from her, and I wore a beard, so that she should not recognize me, for
she is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn’t have stayed in
my employment long if she had thought that I was following her about the
country roads.”

“Why didn’t you tell her of her danger?”

“Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn’t bear to
face that. Even if she couldn’t love me, it was a great deal to me just
to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear the sound of her
voice.”

“Well,” said I, “you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I should call
it selfishness.”

“Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn’t let her go.
Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have someone
near to look after her. Then, when the cable came, I knew they were
bound to make a move.”

“What cable?”

Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket “That’s it,” said he.

It was short and concise:

The old man is dead.

“Hum!” said Holmes. “I think I see how things worked, and I can
understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a head. But
while you wait, you might tell me what you can.”

The old reprobate with the surplice burst into a volley of bad language.

“By heaven!” said he, “if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers, I’ll serve
you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the girl to your
heart’s content, for that’s your own affair, but if you round on your
pals to this plain-clothes copper, it will be the worst day’s work that
ever you did.”

“Your reverence need not be excited,” said Holmes, lighting a cigarette.
“The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask is a few details
for my private curiosity. However, if there’s any difficulty in your
telling me, I’ll do the talking, and then you will see how far you have
a chance of holding back your secrets. In the first place, three of you
came from South Africa on this game--you Williamson, you Carruthers, and
Woodley.”

“Lie number one,” said the old man; “I never saw either of them until
two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life, so you can
put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!”

“What he says is true,” said Carruthers.

“Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own homemade
article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You had reason
to believe he would not live long. You found out that his niece would
inherit his fortune. How’s that--eh?”

Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

“She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old fellow
would make no will.”

“Couldn’t read or write,” said Carruthers.

“So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl. The idea
was that one of you was to marry her, and the other have a share of the
plunder. For some reason, Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why was
that?”

“We played cards for her on the voyage. He won.”

“I see. You got the young lady into your service, and there Woodley was
to do the courting. She recognized the drunken brute that he was, and
would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, your arrangement was
rather upset by the fact that you had yourself fallen in love with the
lady. You could no longer bear the idea of this ruffian owning her?”

“No, by George, I couldn’t!”

“There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage, and began to
make his own plans independently of you.”

“It strikes me, Williamson, there isn’t very much that we can tell this
gentleman,” cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. “Yes, we quarreled,
and he knocked me down. I am level with him on that, anyhow. Then I lost
sight of him. That was when he picked up with this outcast padre here.
I found that they had set up housekeeping together at this place on the
line that she had to pass for the station. I kept my eye on her after
that, for I knew there was some devilry in the wind. I saw them from
time to time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days
ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which showed that Ralph
Smith was dead. He asked me if I would stand by the bargain. I said I
would not. He asked me if I would marry the girl myself and give him a
share. I said I would willingly do so, but that she would not have me.
He said, ‘Let us get her married first and after a week or two she may
see things a bit different.’ I said I would have nothing to do with
violence. So he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that
he was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving me this
week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station, but I was
so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my bicycle. She had got a
start, however, and before I could catch her, the mischief was done.
The first thing I knew about it was when I saw you two gentlemen driving
back in her dog-cart.”

Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate. “I have
been very obtuse, Watson,” said he. “When in your report you said that
you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his necktie in
the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all. However, we may
congratulate ourselves upon a curious and, in some respects, a unique
case. I perceive three of the county constabulary in the drive, and I am
glad to see that the little ostler is able to keep pace with them, so
it is likely that neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be
permanently damaged by their morning’s adventures. I think, Watson, that
in your medical capacity, you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell her
that if she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy to escort her
to her mother’s home. If she is not quite convalescent you will find
that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a young electrician
in the Midlands would probably complete the cure. As to you, Mr.
Carruthers, I think that you have done what you could to make amends for
your share in an evil plot. There is my card, sir, and if my evidence
can be of help in your trial, it shall be at your disposal.”

In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been difficult for
me, as the reader has probably observed, to round off my narratives, and
to give those final details which the curious might expect. Each case
has been the prelude to another, and the crisis once over, the actors
have passed for ever out of our busy lives. I find, however, a short
note at the end of my manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have
put it upon record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large
fortune, and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior
partner of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians.
Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault, the
former getting seven years the latter ten. Of the fate of Carruthers,
I have no record, but I am sure that his assault was not viewed very
gravely by the court, since Woodley had the reputation of being a most
dangerous ruffian, and I think that a few, months were sufficient to
satisfy the demands of justice.




THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL



We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small stage at
Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more sudden and startling
than the first appearance of Thorneycroft Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc.
His card, which seemed too small to carry the weight of his academic
distinctions, preceded him by a few seconds, and then he entered
himself--so large, so pompous, and so dignified that he was the very
embodiment of self-possession and solidity. And yet his first action,
when the door had closed behind him, was to stagger against the table,
whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that majestic
figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin hearth-rug.

We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared in silent
amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which told of some sudden
and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life. Then Holmes hurried with
a cushion for his head, and I with brandy for his lips. The heavy, white
face was seamed with lines of trouble, the hanging pouches under the
closed eyes were leaden in colour, the loose mouth drooped dolorously at
the corners, the rolling chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore
the grime of a long journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from the
well-shaped head. It was a sorely stricken man who lay before us.

“What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

“Absolute exhaustion--possibly mere hunger and fatigue,” said I, with my
finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life trickled thin and
small.

“Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north of England,” said Holmes,
drawing it from the watch-pocket. “It is not twelve o’clock yet. He has
certainly been an early starter.”

The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of vacant gray
eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had scrambled on to his
feet, his face crimson with shame.

“Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes, I have been a little overwrought.
Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a biscuit, I have no
doubt that I should be better. I came personally, Mr. Holmes, in order
to insure that you would return with me. I feared that no telegram would
convince you of the absolute urgency of the case.”

“When you are quite restored----”

“I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how I came to be so weak. I
wish you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me by the next train.”

My friend shook his head.

“My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very busy at
present. I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Documents, and the
Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial. Only a very important issue
could call me from London at present.”

“Important!” Our visitor threw up his hands. “Have you heard nothing of
the abduction of the only son of the Duke of Holdernesse?”

“What! the late Cabinet Minister?”

“Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there was some
rumor in the GLOBE last night. I thought it might have reached your
ears.”

Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked out Volume “H” in his
encyclopaedia of reference.

“‘Holdernesse, 6th Duke, K.G., P.C.’--half the alphabet! ‘Baron
Beverley, Earl of Carston’--dear me, what a list! ‘Lord Lieutenant
of Hallamshire since 1900. Married Edith, daughter of Sir Charles
Appledore, 1888. Heir and only child, Lord Saltire. Owns about two
hundred and fifty thousand acres. Minerals in Lancashire and Wales.
Address: Carlton House Terrace; Holdernesse Hall, Hallamshire; Carston
Castle, Bangor, Wales. Lord of the Admiralty, 1872; Chief Secretary of
State for----’ Well, well, this man is certainly one of the greatest
subjects of the Crown!”

“The greatest and perhaps the wealthiest. I am aware, Mr. Holmes, that
you take a very high line in professional matters, and that you are
prepared to work for the work’s sake. I may tell you, however, that his
Grace has already intimated that a check for five thousand pounds will
be handed over to the person who can tell him where his son is, and
another thousand to him who can name the man or men who have taken him.”

“It is a princely offer,” said Holmes. “Watson, I think that we shall
accompany Dr. Huxtable back to the north of England. And now, Dr.
Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk, you will kindly tell me what
has happened, when it happened, how it happened, and, finally, what Dr.
Thorneycroft Huxtable, of the Priory School, near Mackleton, has to do
with the matter, and why he comes three days after an event--the state
of your chin gives the date--to ask for my humble services.”

Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits. The light had come back
to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks, as he set himself with great
vigour and lucidity to explain the situation.

“I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is a preparatory school,
of which I am the founder and principal. HUXTABLE’S SIDELIGHTS ON HORACE
may possibly recall my name to your memories. The Priory is, without
exception, the best and most select preparatory school in England. Lord
Leverstoke, the Earl of Blackwater, Sir Cathcart Soames--they all have
intrusted their sons to me. But I felt that my school had reached its
zenith when, weeks ago, the Duke of Holdernesse sent Mr. James Wilder,
his secretary, with intimation that young Lord Saltire, ten years old,
his only son and heir, was about to be committed to my charge. Little
did I think that this would be the prelude to the most crushing
misfortune of my life.

“On May 1st the boy arrived, that being the beginning of the summer
term. He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into our ways. I may
tell you--I trust that I am not indiscreet, but half-confidences are
absurd in such a case--that he was not entirely happy at home. It is an
open secret that the Duke’s married life had not been a peaceful one,
and the matter had ended in a separation by mutual consent, the Duchess
taking up her residence in the south of France. This had occurred very
shortly before, and the boy’s sympathies are known to have been strongly
with his mother. He moped after her departure from Holdernesse Hall,
and it was for this reason that the Duke desired to send him to my
establishment. In a fortnight the boy was quite at home with us and was
apparently absolutely happy.

“He was last seen on the night of May 13th--that is, the night of last
Monday. His room was on the second floor and was approached through
another larger room, in which two boys were sleeping. These boys saw and
heard nothing, so that it is certain that young Saltire did not pass out
that way. His window was open, and there is a stout ivy plant leading to
the ground. We could trace no footmarks below, but it is sure that this
is the only possible exit.

“His absence was discovered at seven o’clock on Tuesday morning. His bed
had been slept in. He had dressed himself fully, before going off, in
his usual school suit of black Eton jacket and dark gray trousers. There
were no signs that anyone had entered the room, and it is quite certain
that anything in the nature of cries or a struggle would have been
heard, since Caunter, the elder boy in the inner room, is a very light
sleeper.

“When Lord Saltire’s disappearance was discovered, I at once called a
roll of the whole establishment--boys, masters, and servants. It was
then that we ascertained that Lord Saltire had not been alone in his
flight. Heidegger, the German master, was missing. His room was on the
second floor, at the farther end of the building, facing the same way
as Lord Saltire’s. His bed had also been slept in, but he had apparently
gone away partly dressed, since his shirt and socks were lying on the
floor. He had undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy, for we could see
the marks of his feet where he had landed on the lawn. His bicycle was
kept in a small shed beside this lawn, and it also was gone.

“He had been with me for two years, and came with the best references,
but he was a silent, morose man, not very popular either with masters
or boys. No trace could be found of the fugitives, and now, on Thursday
morning, we are as ignorant as we were on Tuesday. Inquiry was, of
course, made at once at Holdernesse Hall. It is only a few miles away,
and we imagined that, in some sudden attack of homesickness, he had
gone back to his father, but nothing had been heard of him. The Duke is
greatly agitated, and, as to me, you have seen yourselves the state of
nervous prostration to which the suspense and the responsibility have
reduced me. Mr. Holmes, if ever you put forward your full powers, I
implore you to do so now, for never in your life could you have a case
which is more worthy of them.”

Sherlock Holmes had listened with the utmost intentness to the statement
of the unhappy schoolmaster. His drawn brows and the deep furrow
between them showed that he needed no exhortation to concentrate all
his attention upon a problem which, apart from the tremendous interests
involved must appeal so directly to his love of the complex and the
unusual. He now drew out his notebook and jotted down one or two
memoranda.

“You have been very remiss in not coming to me sooner,” said he,
severely. “You start me on my investigation with a very serious
handicap. It is inconceivable, for example, that this ivy and this lawn
would have yielded nothing to an expert observer.”

“I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes. His Grace was extremely desirous to
avoid all public scandal. He was afraid of his family unhappiness being
dragged before the world. He has a deep horror of anything of the kind.”

“But there has been some official investigation?”

“Yes, sir, and it has proved most disappointing. An apparent clue was
at once obtained, since a boy and a young man were reported to have been
seen leaving a neighbouring station by an early train. Only last night
we had news that the couple had been hunted down in Liverpool, and they
prove to have no connection whatever with the matter in hand. Then it
was that in my despair and disappointment, after a sleepless night, I
came straight to you by the early train.”

“I suppose the local investigation was relaxed while this false clue was
being followed up?”

“It was entirely dropped.”

“So that three days have been wasted. The affair has been most
deplorably handled.”

“I feel it and admit it.”

“And yet the problem should be capable of ultimate solution. I shall be
very happy to look into it. Have you been able to trace any connection
between the missing boy and this German master?”

“None at all.”

“Was he in the master’s class?”

“No, he never exchanged a word with him, so far as I know.”

“That is certainly very singular. Had the boy a bicycle?”

“No.”

“Was any other bicycle missing?”

“No.”

“Is that certain?”

“Quite.”

“Well, now, you do not mean to seriously suggest that this German rode
off upon a bicycle in the dead of the night, bearing the boy in his
arms?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then what is the theory in your mind?”

“The bicycle may have been a blind. It may have been hidden somewhere,
and the pair gone off on foot.”

“Quite so, but it seems rather an absurd blind, does it not? Were there
other bicycles in this shed?”

“Several.”

“Would he not have hidden a couple, had he desired to give the idea that
they had gone off upon them?”

“I suppose he would.”

“Of course he would. The blind theory won’t do. But the incident is an
admirable starting-point for an investigation. After all, a bicycle
is not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy. One other question. Did
anyone call to see the boy on the day before he disappeared?”

“No.”

“Did he get any letters?”

“Yes, one letter.”

“From whom?”

“From his father.”

“Do you open the boys’ letters?”

“No.”

“How do you know it was from the father?”

“The coat of arms was on the envelope, and it was addressed in the
Duke’s peculiar stiff hand. Besides, the Duke remembers having written.”

“When had he a letter before that?”

“Not for several days.”

“Had he ever one from France?”

“No, never.

“You see the point of my questions, of course. Either the boy was
carried off by force or he went of his own free will. In the latter
case, you would expect that some prompting from outside would be needed
to make so young a lad do such a thing. If he has had no visitors, that
prompting must have come in letters; hence I try to find out who were
his correspondents.”

“I fear I cannot help you much. His only correspondent, so far as I
know, was his own father.”

“Who wrote to him on the very day of his disappearance. Were the
relations between father and son very friendly?”

“His Grace is never very friendly with anyone. He is completely immersed
in large public questions, and is rather inaccessible to all ordinary
emotions. But he was always kind to the boy in his own way.”

“But the sympathies of the latter were with the mother?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say so?”

“No.”

“The Duke, then?”

“Good heaven, no!”

“Then how could you know?”

“I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his Grace’s
secretary. It was he who gave me the information about Lord Saltire’s
feelings.”

“I see. By the way, that last letter of the Dukes--was it found in the
boy’s room after he was gone?”

“No, he had taken it with him. I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time that we
were leaving for Euston.”

“I will order a four-wheeler. In a quarter of an hour, we shall be at
your service. If you are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable, it would
be well to allow the people in your neighbourhood to imagine that
the inquiry is still going on in Liverpool, or wherever else that red
herring led your pack. In the meantime I will do a little quiet work at
your own doors, and perhaps the scent is not so cold but that two old
hounds like Watson and myself may get a sniff of it.”

That evening found us in the cold, bracing atmosphere of the Peak
country, in which Dr. Huxtable’s famous school is situated. It was
already dark when we reached it. A card was lying on the hall table,
and the butler whispered something to his master, who turned to us with
agitation in every heavy feature.

“The Duke is here,” said he. “The Duke and Mr. Wilder are in the study.
Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you.”

I was, of course, familiar with the pictures of the famous statesman,
but the man himself was very different from his representation. He was a
tall and stately person, scrupulously dressed, with a drawn, thin face,
and a nose which was grotesquely curved and long. His complexion was
of a dead pallor, which was more startling by contrast with a long,
dwindling beard of vivid red, which flowed down over his white waistcoat
with his watch-chain gleaming through its fringe. Such was the stately
presence who looked stonily at us from the centre of Dr. Huxtable’s
hearthrug. Beside him stood a very young man, whom I understood to
be Wilder, the private secretary. He was small, nervous, alert with
intelligent light-blue eyes and mobile features. It was he who at once,
in an incisive and positive tone, opened the conversation.

“I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to prevent you from
starting for London. I learned that your object was to invite Mr.
Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this case. His Grace is
surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should have taken such a step without
consulting him.”

“When I learned that the police had failed----”

“His Grace is by no means convinced that the police have failed.”

“But surely, Mr. Wilder----”

“You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his Grace is particularly
anxious to avoid all public scandal. He prefers to take as few people as
possible into his confidence.”

“The matter can be easily remedied,” said the brow-beaten doctor; “Mr.
Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the morning train.”

“Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that,” said Holmes, in his blandest voice.
“This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I propose to spend a
few days upon your moors, and to occupy my mind as best I may. Whether
I have the shelter of your roof or of the village inn is, of course, for
you to decide.”

I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of
indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous voice of the
red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a dinner-gong.

“I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have done wisely
to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already been taken into your
confidence, it would indeed be absurd that we should not avail ourselves
of his services. Far from going to the inn, Mr. Holmes, I should be
pleased if you would come and stay with me at Holdernesse Hall.”

“I thank your Grace. For the purposes of my investigation, I think that
it would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of the mystery.”

“Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information which Mr. Wilder or I can
give you is, of course, at your disposal.”

“It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall,” said
Holmes. “I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have formed any
explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious disappearance of your
son?”

“No sir I have not.”

“Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you, but I have no
alternative. Do you think that the Duchess had anything to do with the
matter?”

The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.

“I do not think so,” he said, at last.

“The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been kidnapped
for the purpose of levying ransom. You have not had any demand of the
sort?”

“No, sir.”

“One more question, your Grace. I understand that you wrote to your son
upon the day when this incident occurred.”

“No, I wrote upon the day before.”

“Exactly. But he received it on that day?”

“Yes.”

“Was there anything in your letter which might have unbalanced him or
induced him to take such a step?”

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“Did you post that letter yourself?”

The nobleman’s reply was interrupted by his secretary, who broke in with
some heat.

“His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself,” said he.
“This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and I myself put
them in the post-bag.”

“You are sure this one was among them?”

“Yes, I observed it.”

“How many letters did your Grace write that day?”

“Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence. But surely this is
somewhat irrelevant?”

“Not entirely,” said Holmes.

“For my own part,” the Duke continued, “I have advised the police to
turn their attention to the south of France. I have already said that I
do not believe that the Duchess would encourage so monstrous an action,
but the lad had the most wrong-headed opinions, and it is possible that
he may have fled to her, aided and abetted by this German. I think, Dr.
Huxtable, that we will now return to the Hall.”

I could see that there were other questions which Holmes would have
wished to put, but the nobleman’s abrupt manner showed that the
interview was at an end. It was evident that to his intensely
aristocratic nature this discussion of his intimate family affairs
with a stranger was most abhorrent, and that he feared lest every
fresh question would throw a fiercer light into the discreetly shadowed
corners of his ducal history.

When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend flung himself at
once with characteristic eagerness into the investigation.

The boy’s chamber was carefully examined, and yielded nothing save the
absolute conviction that it was only through the window that he could
have escaped. The German master’s room and effects gave no further clue.
In his case a trailer of ivy had given way under his weight, and we saw
by the light of a lantern the mark on the lawn where his heels had come
down. That one dint in the short, green grass was the only material
witness left of this inexplicable nocturnal flight.

Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after eleven.
He had obtained a large ordnance map of the neighbourhood, and this
he brought into my room, where he laid it out on the bed, and, having
balanced the lamp in the middle of it, he began to smoke over it, and
occasionally to point out objects of interest with the reeking amber of
his pipe.

GRAPHIC: HOLMES’ MAP OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF THE SCHOOL.

“This case grows upon me, Watson,” said he. “There are decidedly some
points of interest in connection with it. In this early stage, I want
you to realize those geographical features which may have a good deal to
do with our investigation.

“Look at this map. This dark square is the Priory School. I’ll put a pin
in it. Now, this line is the main road. You see that it runs east and
west past the school, and you see also that there is no side road for
a mile either way. If these two folk passed away by road, it was THIS
road.”


GRAPHIC


“Exactly.”

“By a singular and happy chance, we are able to some extent to check
what passed along this road during the night in question. At this point,
where my pipe is now resting, a county constable was on duty from twelve
to six. It is, as you perceive, the first cross-road on the east side.
This man declares that he was not absent from his post for an instant,
and he is positive that neither boy nor man could have gone that way
unseen. I have spoken with this policeman to-night and he appears to me
to be a perfectly reliable person. That blocks this end. We have now to
deal with the other. There is an inn here, the Red Bull, the landlady
of which was ill. She had sent to Mackleton for a doctor, but he did not
arrive until morning, being absent at another case. The people at the
inn were alert all night, awaiting his coming, and one or other of them
seems to have continually had an eye upon the road. They declare that no
one passed. If their evidence is good, then we are fortunate enough to
be able to block the west, and also to be able to say that the fugitives
did NOT use the road at all.”

“But the bicycle?” I objected.

“Quite so. We will come to the bicycle presently. To continue our
reasoning: if these people did not go by the road, they must have
traversed the country to the north of the house or to the south of the
house. That is certain. Let us weigh the one against the other. On the
south of the house is, as you perceive, a large district of arable land,
cut up into small fields, with stone walls between them. There, I admit
that a bicycle is impossible. We can dismiss the idea. We turn to the
country on the north. Here there lies a grove of trees, marked as the
‘Ragged Shaw,’ and on the farther side stretches a great rolling moor,
Lower Gill Moor, extending for ten miles and sloping gradually upward.
Here, at one side of this wilderness, is Holdernesse Hall, ten miles by
road, but only six across the moor. It is a peculiarly desolate plain. A
few moor farmers have small holdings, where they rear sheep and cattle.
Except these, the plover and the curlew are the only inhabitants until
you come to the Chesterfield high road. There is a church there,
you see, a few cottages, and an inn. Beyond that the hills become
precipitous. Surely it is here to the north that our quest must lie.”

“But the bicycle?” I persisted.

“Well, well!” said Holmes, impatiently. “A good cyclist does not need a
high road. The moor is intersected with paths, and the moon was at the
full. Halloa! what is this?”

There was an agitated knock at the door, and an instant afterwards Dr.
Huxtable was in the room. In his hand he held a blue cricket-cap with a
white chevron on the peak.

“At last we have a clue!” he cried. “Thank heaven! at last we are on the
dear boy’s track! It is his cap.”

“Where was it found?”

“In the van of the gipsies who camped on the moor. They left on Tuesday.
To-day the police traced them down and examined their caravan. This was
found.”

“How do they account for it?”

“They shuffled and lied--said that they found it on the moor on Tuesday
morning. They know where he is, the rascals! Thank goodness, they are
all safe under lock and key. Either the fear of the law or the Duke’s
purse will certainly get out of them all that they know.”

“So far, so good,” said Holmes, when the doctor had at last left the
room. “It at least bears out the theory that it is on the side of the
Lower Gill Moor that we must hope for results. The police have really
done nothing locally, save the arrest of these gipsies. Look here,
Watson! There is a watercourse across the moor. You see it marked here
in the map. In some parts it widens into a morass. This is particularly
so in the region between Holdernesse Hall and the school. It is vain to
look elsewhere for tracks in this dry weather, but at THAT point there
is certainly a chance of some record being left. I will call you early
to-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we can throw some little
light upon the mystery.”

The day was just breaking when I woke to find the long, thin form of
Holmes by my bedside. He was fully dressed, and had apparently already
been out.

“I have done the lawn and the bicycle shed,” said he. “I have also had
a rumble through the Ragged Shaw. Now, Watson, there is cocoa ready in
the next room. I must beg you to hurry, for we have a great day before
us.”

His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with the exhilaration of the
master workman who sees his work lie ready before him. A very different
Holmes, this active, alert man, from the introspective and pallid
dreamer of Baker Street. I felt, as I looked upon that supple figure,
alive with nervous energy, that it was indeed a strenuous day that
awaited us.

And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment. With high hopes we
struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with a thousand sheep
paths, until we came to the broad, light-green belt which marked the
morass between us and Holdernesse. Certainly, if the lad had gone
homeward, he must have passed this, and he could not pass it without
leaving his traces. But no sign of him or the German could be seen. With
a darkening face my friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant
of every muddy stain upon the mossy surface. Sheep-marks there were
in profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had left their
tracks. Nothing more.

“Check number one,” said Holmes, looking gloomily over the rolling
expanse of the moor. “There is another morass down yonder, and a narrow
neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa! what have we here?”

We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway. In the middle of it,
clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of a bicycle.

“Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”

But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled and expectant
rather than joyous.

“A bicycle, certainly, but not THE bicycle,” said he. “I am familiar
with forty-two different impressions left by tires. This, as you
perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer cover. Heidegger’s
tires were Palmer’s, leaving longitudinal stripes. Aveling, the
mathematical master, was sure upon the point. Therefore, it is not
Heidegger’s track.”

“The boy’s, then?”

“Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle to have been in his possession.
But this we have utterly failed to do. This track, as you perceive, was
made by a rider who was going from the direction of the school.”

“Or towards it?”

“No, no, my dear Watson. The more deeply sunk impression is, of course,
the hind wheel, upon which the weight rests. You perceive several places
where it has passed across and obliterated the more shallow mark of the
front one. It was undoubtedly heading away from the school. It may or
may not be connected with our inquiry, but we will follow it backwards
before we go any farther.”

We did so, and at the end of a few hundred yards lost the tracks as
we emerged from the boggy portion of the moor. Following the path
backwards, we picked out another spot, where a spring trickled across
it. Here, once again, was the mark of the bicycle, though nearly
obliterated by the hoofs of cows. After that there was no sign, but
the path ran right on into Ragged Shaw, the wood which backed on to the
school. From this wood the cycle must have emerged. Holmes sat down on
a boulder and rested his chin in his hands. I had smoked two cigarettes
before he moved.

“Well, well,” said he, at last. “It is, of course, possible that a
cunning man might change the tires of his bicycle in order to leave
unfamiliar tracks. A criminal who was capable of such a thought is a man
whom I should be proud to do business with. We will leave this question
undecided and hark back to our morass again, for we have left a good
deal unexplored.”

We continued our systematic survey of the edge of the sodden portion
of the moor, and soon our perseverance was gloriously rewarded. Right
across the lower part of the bog lay a miry path. Holmes gave a cry
of delight as he approached it. An impression like a fine bundle of
telegraph wires ran down the centre of it. It was the Palmer tires.

“Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!” cried Holmes, exultantly. “My
reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson.”

“I congratulate you.”

“But we have a long way still to go. Kindly walk clear of the path. Now
let us follow the trail. I fear that it will not lead very far.”

We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of the moor is
intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequently lost sight of
the track, we always succeeded in picking it up once more.

“Do you observe,” said Holmes, “that the rider is now undoubtedly
forcing the pace? There can be no doubt of it. Look at this impression,
where you get both tires clear. The one is as deep as the other.
That can only mean that the rider is throwing his weight on to the
handle-bar, as a man does when he is sprinting. By Jove! he has had a
fall.”

There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of the track.
Then there were a few footmarks, and the tire reappeared once more.

“A side-slip,” I suggested.

Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse. To my horror I
perceived that the yellow blossoms were all dabbled with crimson. On the
path, too, and among the heather were dark stains of clotted blood.

“Bad!” said Holmes. “Bad! Stand clear, Watson! Not an unnecessary
footstep! What do I read here? He fell wounded--he stood up--he
remounted--he proceeded. But there is no other track. Cattle on this
side path. He was surely not gored by a bull? Impossible! But I see no
traces of anyone else. We must push on, Watson. Surely, with stains as
well as the track to guide us, he cannot escape us now.”

Our search was not a very long one. The tracks of the tire began to
curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path. Suddenly, as I
looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye from amid the thick
gorse-bushes. Out of them we dragged a bicycle, Palmer-tired, one pedal
bent, and the whole front of it horribly smeared and slobbered with
blood. On the other side of the bushes a shoe was projecting. We
ran round, and there lay the unfortunate rider. He was a tall man,
full-bearded, with spectacles, one glass of which had been knocked out.
The cause of his death was a frightful blow upon the head, which had
crushed in part of his skull. That he could have gone on after receiving
such an injury said much for the vitality and courage of the man. He
wore shoes, but no socks, and his open coat disclosed a nightshirt
beneath it. It was undoubtedly the German master.

Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with great
attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I could see
by his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not, in his opinion,
advanced us much in our inquiry.

“It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson,” said he, at last.
“My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we have already
lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste another hour. On the
other hand, we are bound to inform the police of the discovery, and to
see that this poor fellow’s body is looked after.”

“I could take a note back.”

“But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is a fellow
cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will guide the
police.”

I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the frightened man
with a note to Dr. Huxtable.

“Now, Watson,” said he, “we have picked up two clues this morning. One
is the bicycle with the Palmer tire, and we see what that has led to.
The other is the bicycle with the patched Dunlop. Before we start to
investigate that, let us try to realize what we do know, so as to make
the most of it, and to separate the essential from the accidental.”

“First of all, I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly left of
his own free-will. He got down from his window and he went off, either
alone or with someone. That is sure.”

I assented.

“Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master. The boy was
fully dressed when he fled. Therefore, he foresaw what he would do.
But the German went without his socks. He certainly acted on very short
notice.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw the flight of
the boy, because he wished to overtake him and bring him back. He seized
his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in pursuing him met his death.”

“So it would seem.”

“Now I come to the critical part of my argument. The natural action of
a man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after him. He would know
that he could overtake him. But the German does not do so. He turns to
his bicycle. I am told that he was an excellent cyclist. He would not do
this, if he did not see that the boy had some swift means of escape.”

“The other bicycle.”

“Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death five miles
from the school--not by a bullet, mark you, which even a lad might
conceivably discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a vigorous arm.
The lad, then, HAD a companion in his flight. And the flight was a swift
one, since it took five miles before an expert cyclist could overtake
them. Yet we survey the ground round the scene of the tragedy. What do
we find? A few cattle-tracks, nothing more. I took a wide sweep round,
and there is no path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have
had nothing to do with the actual murder, nor were there any human
foot-marks.”

“Holmes,” I cried, “this is impossible.”

“Admirable!” he said. “A most illuminating remark. It IS impossible as I
state it, and therefore I must in some respect have stated it wrong. Yet
you saw for yourself. Can you suggest any fallacy?”

“He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?”

“In a morass, Watson?”

“I am at my wit’s end.”

“Tut, tut, we have solved some worse problems. At least we have plenty
of material, if we can only use it. Come, then, and, having exhausted
the Palmer, let us see what the Dunlop with the patched cover has to
offer us.”

We picked up the track and followed it onward for some distance, but
soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted curve, and we left the
watercourse behind us. No further help from tracks could be hoped for.
At the spot where we saw the last of the Dunlop tire it might equally
have led to Holdernesse Hall, the stately towers of which rose some
miles to our left, or to a low, gray village which lay in front of us
and marked the position of the Chesterfield high road.

As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the sign of a
game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden groan, and clutched me
by the shoulder to save himself from falling. He had had one of those
violent strains of the ankle which leave a man helpless. With difficulty
he limped up to the door, where a squat, dark, elderly man was smoking a
black clay pipe.

“How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?” said Holmes.

“Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?” the countryman
answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes.

“Well, it’s printed on the board above your head. It’s easy to see a man
who is master of his own house. I suppose you haven’t such a thing as a
carriage in your stables?”

“No, I have not.”

“I can hardly put my foot to the ground.”

“Don’t put it to the ground.”

“But I can’t walk.”

“Well, then hop.”

Mr. Reuben Hayes’s manner was far from gracious, but Holmes took it with
admirable good-humour.

“Look here, my man,” said he. “This is really rather an awkward fix for
me. I don’t mind how I get on.”

“Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.

“The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign for the use
of a bicycle.”

The landlord pricked up his ears.

“Where do you want to go?”

“To Holdernesse Hall.”

“Pals of the Dook, I suppose?” said the landlord, surveying our
mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.

Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

“He’ll be glad to see us, anyhow.”

“Why?”

“Because we bring him news of his lost son.”

The landlord gave a very visible start.

“What, you’re on his track?”

“He has been heard of in Liverpool. They expect to get him every hour.”

Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face. His manner
was suddenly genial.

“I’ve less reason to wish the Dook well than most men,” said he, “for
I was head coachman once, and cruel bad he treated me. It was him that
sacked me without a character on the word of a lying corn-chandler. But
I’m glad to hear that the young lord was heard of in Liverpool, and I’ll
help you to take the news to the Hall.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “We’ll have some food first. Then you can bring
round the bicycle.”

“I haven’t got a bicycle.”

Holmes held up a sovereign.

“I tell you, man, that I haven’t got one. I’ll let you have two horses
as far as the Hall.”

“Well, well,” said Holmes, “we’ll talk about it when we’ve had something
to eat.”

When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen, it was astonishing
how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered. It was nearly nightfall, and
we had eaten nothing since early morning, so that we spent some time
over our meal. Holmes was lost in thought, and once or twice he walked
over to the window and stared earnestly out. It opened on to a squalid
courtyard. In the far corner was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at
work. On the other side were the stables. Holmes had sat down again
after one of these excursions, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair
with a loud exclamation.

“By heaven, Watson, I believe that I’ve got it!” he cried. “Yes, yes, it
must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing any cow-tracks to-day?”

“Yes, several.”

“Where?”

“Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on the path, and
again near where poor Heidegger met his death.”

“Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see on the moor?”

“I don’t remember seeing any.”

“Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our line, but
never a cow on the whole moor. Very strange, Watson, eh?”

“Yes, it is strange.”

“Now, Watson, make an effort, throw your mind back. Can you see those
tracks upon the path?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that, Watson,”--he
arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion--: : : : :--“and
sometimes like this”--: . : . : . : .--“and occasionally like this”--. :
. : . : . “Can you remember that?”

“No, I cannot.”

“But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at our
leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been, not to draw my
conclusion.”

“And what is your conclusion?”

“Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and gallops. By
George! Watson, it was no brain of a country publican that thought out
such a blind as that. The coast seems to be clear, save for that lad in
the smithy. Let us slip out and see what we can see.”

There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-down stable.
Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and laughed aloud.

“Old shoes, but newly shod--old shoes, but new nails. This case deserves
to be a classic. Let us go across to the smithy.”

The lad continued his work without regarding us. I saw Holmes’s eye
darting to right and left among the litter of iron and wood which was
scattered about the floor. Suddenly, however, we heard a step behind
us, and there was the landlord, his heavy eyebrows drawn over his savage
eyes, his swarthy features convulsed with passion. He held a short,
metal-headed stick in his hand, and he advanced in so menacing a fashion
that I was right glad to feel the revolver in my pocket.

“You infernal spies!” the man cried. “What are you doing there?”

“Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes,” said Holmes, coolly, “one might think that you
were afraid of our finding something out.”

The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim mouth
loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing than his frown.

“You’re welcome to all you can find out in my smithy,” said he. “But
look here, mister, I don’t care for folk poking about my place without
my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and get out of this the
better I shall be pleased.”

“All right, Mr. Hayes, no harm meant,” said Holmes. “We have been having
a look at your horses, but I think I’ll walk, after all. It’s not far, I
believe.”

“Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That’s the road to the
left.” He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his premises.

We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the instant
that the curve hid us from the landlord’s view.

“We were warm, as the children say, at that inn,” said he. “I seem
to grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no, I can’t
possibly leave it.”

“I am convinced,” said I, “that this Reuben Hayes knows all about it. A
more self-evident villain I never saw.”

“Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the horses, there
is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this Fighting Cock. I
think we shall have another look at it in an unobtrusive way.”

A long, sloping hillside, dotted with gray limestone boulders, stretched
behind us. We had turned off the road, and were making our way up
the hill, when, looking in the direction of Holdernesse Hall, I saw a
cyclist coming swiftly along.

“Get down, Watson!” cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon my shoulder. We
had hardly sunk from view when the man flew past us on the road. Amid
a rolling cloud of dust, I caught a glimpse of a pale, agitated face--a
face with horror in every lineament, the mouth open, the eyes staring
wildly in front. It was like some strange caricature of the dapper James
Wilder whom we had seen the night before.

“The Duke’s secretary!” cried Holmes. “Come, Watson, let us see what he
does.”

We scrambled from rock to rock, until in a few moments we had made
our way to a point from which we could see the front door of the inn.
Wilder’s bicycle was leaning against the wall beside it. No one was
moving about the house, nor could we catch a glimpse of any faces at the
windows. Slowly the twilight crept down as the sun sank behind the
high towers of Holdernesse Hall. Then, in the gloom, we saw the two
side-lamps of a trap light up in the stable-yard of the inn, and shortly
afterwards heard the rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road
and tore off at a furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.

“What do you make of that, Watson?” Holmes whispered.

“It looks like a flight.”

“A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, it certainly
was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door.”

A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. In the middle of
it was the black figure of the secretary, his head advanced, peering out
into the night. It was evident that he was expecting someone. Then at
last there were steps in the road, a second figure was visible for an
instant against the light, the door shut, and all was black once more.
Five minutes later a lamp was lit in a room upon the first floor.

“It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by the Fighting
Cock,” said Holmes.

“The bar is on the other side.”

“Quite so. These are what one may call the private guests. Now, what in
the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that den at this hour of night,
and who is the companion who comes to meet him there? Come, Watson,
we must really take a risk and try to investigate this a little more
closely.”

Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the door of the
inn. The bicycle still leaned against the wall. Holmes struck a match
and held it to the back wheel, and I heard him chuckle as the light fell
upon a patched Dunlop tire. Up above us was the lighted window.

“I must have a peep through that, Watson. If you bend your back and
support yourself upon the wall, I think that I can manage.”

An instant later, his feet were on my shoulders, but he was hardly up
before he was down again.

“Come, my friend,” said he, “our day’s work has been quite long enough.
I think that we have gathered all that we can. It’s a long walk to the
school, and the sooner we get started the better.”

He hardly opened his lips during that weary trudge across the moor, nor
would he enter the school when he reached it, but went on to Mackleton
Station, whence he could send some telegrams. Late at night I heard him
consoling Dr. Huxtable, prostrated by the tragedy of his master’s death,
and later still he entered my room as alert and vigorous as he had been
when he started in the morning. “All goes well, my friend,” said he. “I
promise that before to-morrow evening we shall have reached the solution
of the mystery.”

At eleven o’clock next morning my friend and I were walking up the
famous yew avenue of Holdernesse Hall. We were ushered through the
magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his Grace’s study. There we
found Mr. James Wilder, demure and courtly, but with some trace of that
wild terror of the night before still lurking in his furtive eyes and in
his twitching features.

“You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry, but the fact is that the
Duke is far from well. He has been very much upset by the tragic news.
We received a telegram from Dr. Huxtable yesterday afternoon, which told
us of your discovery.”

“I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.”

“But he is in his room.”

“Then I must go to his room.”

“I believe he is in his bed.”

“I will see him there.”

Holmes’s cold and inexorable manner showed the secretary that it was
useless to argue with him.

“Very good, Mr. Holmes, I will tell him that you are here.”

After an hour’s delay, the great nobleman appeared. His face was more
cadaverous than ever, his shoulders had rounded, and he seemed to me
to be an altogether older man than he had been the morning before. He
greeted us with a stately courtesy and seated himself at his desk, his
red beard streaming down on the table.

“Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.

But my friend’s eyes were fixed upon the secretary, who stood by his
master’s chair.

“I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr. Wilder’s
absence.”

The man turned a shade paler and cast a malignant glance at Holmes.

“If your Grace wishes----”

“Yes, yes, you had better go. Now, Mr. Holmes, what have you to say?”

My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreating
secretary.

“The fact is, your Grace,” said he, “that my colleague, Dr. Watson, and
myself had an assurance from Dr. Huxtable that a reward had been offered
in this case. I should like to have this confirmed from your own lips.”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

“It amounted, if I am correctly informed, to five thousand pounds to
anyone who will tell you where your son is?”

“Exactly.”

“And another thousand to the man who will name the person or persons who
keep him in custody?”

“Exactly.”

“Under the latter heading is included, no doubt, not only those who
may have taken him away, but also those who conspire to keep him in his
present position?”

“Yes, yes,” cried the Duke, impatiently. “If you do your work well,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will have no reason to complain of niggardly
treatment.”

My friend rubbed his thin hands together with an appearance of avidity
which was a surprise to me, who knew his frugal tastes.

“I fancy that I see your Grace’s check-book upon the table,” said he. “I
should be glad if you would make me out a check for six thousand pounds.
It would be as well, perhaps, for you to cross it. The Capital and
Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch are my agents.”

His Grace sat very stern and upright in his chair and looked stonily at
my friend.

“Is this a joke, Mr. Holmes? It is hardly a subject for pleasantry.”

“Not at all, your Grace. I was never more earnest in my life.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“I mean that I have earned the reward. I know where your son is, and I
know some, at least, of those who are holding him.”

The Duke’s beard had turned more aggressively red than ever against his
ghastly white face.

“Where is he?” he gasped.

“He is, or was last night, at the Fighting Cock Inn, about two miles
from your park gate.”

The Duke fell back in his chair.

“And whom do you accuse?”

Sherlock Holmes’s answer was an astounding one. He stepped swiftly
forward and touched the Duke upon the shoulder.

“I accuse YOU,” said he. “And now, your Grace, I’ll trouble you for that
check.”

Never shall I forget the Duke’s appearance as he sprang up and clawed
with his hands, like one who is sinking into an abyss. Then, with an
extraordinary effort of aristocratic self-command, he sat down and sank
his face in his hands. It was some minutes before he spoke.

“How much do you know?” he asked at last, without raising his head.

“I saw you together last night.”

“Does anyone else beside your friend know?”

“I have spoken to no one.”

The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his check-book.

“I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to write your
check, however unwelcome the information which you have gained may be
to me. When the offer was first made, I little thought the turn which
events might take. But you and your friend are men of discretion, Mr.
Holmes?”

“I hardly understand your Grace.”

“I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes. If only you two know of this
incident, there is no reason why it should go any farther. I think
twelve thousand pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it not?”

But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

“I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be arranged so easily.
There is the death of this schoolmaster to be accounted for.”

“But James knew nothing of that. You cannot hold him responsible for
that. It was the work of this brutal ruffian whom he had the misfortune
to employ.”

“I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks upon a crime,
he is morally guilty of any other crime which may spring from it.”

“Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. But surely not in the eyes
of the law. A man cannot be condemned for a murder at which he was not
present, and which he loathes and abhors as much as you do. The instant
that he heard of it he made a complete confession to me, so filled was
he with horror and remorse. He lost not an hour in breaking entirely
with the murderer. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must save him--you must save
him! I tell you that you must save him!” The Duke had dropped the last
attempt at self-command, and was pacing the room with a convulsed face
and with his clenched hands raving in the air. At last he mastered
himself and sat down once more at his desk. “I appreciate your conduct
in coming here before you spoke to anyone else,” said he. “At least, we
may take counsel how far we can minimize this hideous scandal.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes. “I think, your Grace, that this can only be done
by absolute frankness between us. I am disposed to help your Grace to
the best of my ability, but, in order to do so, I must understand to the
last detail how the matter stands. I realize that your words applied to
Mr. James Wilder, and that he is not the murderer.”

“No, the murderer has escaped.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

“Your Grace can hardly have heard of any small reputation which I
possess, or you would not imagine that it is so easy to escape me. Mr.
Reuben Hayes was arrested at Chesterfield, on my information, at eleven
o’clock last night. I had a telegram from the head of the local police
before I left the school this morning.”

The Duke leaned back in his chair and stared with amazement at my
friend.

“You seem to have powers that are hardly human,” said he. “So Reuben
Hayes is taken? I am right glad to hear it, if it will not react upon
the fate of James.”

“Your secretary?”

“No, sir, my son.”

It was Holmes’s turn to look astonished.

“I confess that this is entirely new to me, your Grace. I must beg you
to be more explicit.”

“I will conceal nothing from you. I agree with you that complete
frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best policy in this
desperate situation to which James’s folly and jealousy have reduced
us. When I was a very young man, Mr. Holmes, I loved with such a love
as comes only once in a lifetime. I offered the lady marriage, but she
refused it on the grounds that such a match might mar my career. Had she
lived, I would certainly never have married anyone else. She died, and
left this one child, whom for her sake I have cherished and cared for.
I could not acknowledge the paternity to the world, but I gave him the
best of educations, and since he came to manhood I have kept him near
my person. He surmised my secret, and has presumed ever since upon the
claim which he has upon me, and upon his power of provoking a scandal
which would be abhorrent to me. His presence had something to do
with the unhappy issue of my marriage. Above all, he hated my young
legitimate heir from the first with a persistent hatred. You may well
ask me why, under these circumstances, I still kept James under my roof.
I answer that it was because I could see his mother’s face in his, and
that for her dear sake there was no end to my long-suffering. All her
pretty ways too--there was not one of them which he could not suggest
and bring back to my memory. I COULD not send him away. But I feared so
much lest he should do Arthur--that is, Lord Saltire--a mischief, that I
dispatched him for safety to Dr. Huxtable’s school.

“James came into contact with this fellow Hayes, because the man was a
tenant of mine, and James acted as agent. The fellow was a rascal from
the beginning, but, in some extraordinary way, James became intimate
with him. He had always a taste for low company. When James determined
to kidnap Lord Saltire, it was of this man’s service that he availed
himself. You remember that I wrote to Arthur upon that last day. Well,
James opened the letter and inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him
in a little wood called the Ragged Shaw, which is near to the school.
He used the Duchess’s name, and in that way got the boy to come. That
evening James bicycled over--I am telling you what he has himself
confessed to me--and he told Arthur, whom he met in the wood, that his
mother longed to see him, that she was awaiting him on the moor, and
that if he would come back into the wood at midnight he would find a man
with a horse, who would take him to her. Poor Arthur fell into the trap.
He came to the appointment, and found this fellow Hayes with a led pony.
Arthur mounted, and they set off together. It appears--though this James
only heard yesterday--that they were pursued, that Hayes struck the
pursuer with his stick, and that the man died of his injuries. Hayes
brought Arthur to his public-house, the Fighting Cock, where he was
confined in an upper room, under the care of Mrs. Hayes, who is a kindly
woman, but entirely under the control of her brutal husband.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, that was the state of affairs when I first saw you
two days ago. I had no more idea of the truth than you. You will ask me
what was James’s motive in doing such a deed. I answer that there was
a great deal which was unreasoning and fanatical in the hatred which
he bore my heir. In his view he should himself have been heir of all
my estates, and he deeply resented those social laws which made it
impossible. At the same time, he had a definite motive also. He was
eager that I should break the entail, and he was of opinion that it lay
in my power to do so. He intended to make a bargain with me--to restore
Arthur if I would break the entail, and so make it possible for the
estate to be left to him by will. He knew well that I should never
willingly invoke the aid of the police against him. I say that he would
have proposed such a bargain to me, but he did not actually do so, for
events moved too quickly for him, and he had not time to put his plans
into practice.

“What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your discovery of this
man Heidegger’s dead body. James was seized with horror at the news. It
came to us yesterday, as we sat together in this study. Dr. Huxtable had
sent a telegram. James was so overwhelmed with grief and agitation that
my suspicions, which had never been entirely absent, rose instantly to
a certainty, and I taxed him with the deed. He made a complete voluntary
confession. Then he implored me to keep his secret for three days
longer, so as to give his wretched accomplice a chance of saving his
guilty life. I yielded--as I have always yielded--to his prayers, and
instantly James hurried off to the Fighting Cock to warn Hayes and
give him the means of flight. I could not go there by daylight without
provoking comment, but as soon as night fell I hurried off to see my
dear Arthur. I found him safe and well, but horrified beyond expression
by the dreadful deed he had witnessed. In deference to my promise, and
much against my will, I consented to leave him there for three days,
under the charge of Mrs. Hayes, since it was evident that it was
impossible to inform the police where he was without telling them also
who was the murderer, and I could not see how that murderer could be
punished without ruin to my unfortunate James. You asked for frankness,
Mr. Holmes, and I have taken you at your word, for I have now told you
everything without an attempt at circumlocution or concealment. Do you
in turn be as frank with me.”

“I will,” said Holmes. “In the first place, your Grace, I am bound to
tell you that you have placed yourself in a most serious position in
the eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony, and you have aided the
escape of a murderer, for I cannot doubt that any money which was taken
by James Wilder to aid his accomplice in his flight came from your
Grace’s purse.”

The Duke bowed his assent.

“This is, indeed, a most serious matter. Even more culpable in my
opinion, your Grace, is your attitude towards your younger son. You
leave him in this den for three days.”

“Under solemn promises----”

“What are promises to such people as these? You have no guarantee that
he will not be spirited away again. To humour your guilty elder son,
you have exposed your innocent younger son to imminent and unnecessary
danger. It was a most unjustifiable action.”

The proud lord of Holdernesse was not accustomed to be so rated in
his own ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high forehead, but his
conscience held him dumb.

“I will help you, but on one condition only. It is that you ring for the
footman and let me give such orders as I like.”

Without a word, the Duke pressed the electric bell. A servant entered.

“You will be glad to hear,” said Holmes, “that your young master is
found. It is the Duke’s desire that the carriage shall go at once to the
Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.

“Now,” said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disappeared, “having
secured the future, we can afford to be more lenient with the past. I am
not in an official position, and there is no reason, so long as the
ends of justice are served, why I should disclose all that I know. As to
Hayes, I say nothing. The gallows awaits him, and I would do nothing
to save him from it. What he will divulge I cannot tell, but I have
no doubt that your Grace could make him understand that it is to his
interest to be silent. From the police point of view he will have
kidnapped the boy for the purpose of ransom. If they do not themselves
find it out, I see no reason why I should prompt them to take a broader
point of view. I would warn your Grace, however, that the continued
presence of Mr. James Wilder in your household can only lead to
misfortune.”

“I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he shall
leave me forever, and go to seek his fortune in Australia.”

“In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that any
unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence I would
suggest that you make such amends as you can to the Duchess, and
that you try to resume those relations which have been so unhappily
interrupted.”

“That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes. I wrote to the Duchess this
morning.”

“In that case,” said Holmes, rising, “I think that my friend and I can
congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results from our little
visit to the North. There is one other small point upon which I desire
some light. This fellow Hayes had shod his horses with shoes which
counterfeited the tracks of cows. Was it from Mr. Wilder that he learned
so extraordinary a device?”

The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of intense surprise
on his face. Then he opened a door and showed us into a large room
furnished as a museum. He led the way to a glass case in a corner, and
pointed to the inscription.

“These shoes,” it ran, “were dug up in the moat of Holdernesse Hall.
They are for the use of horses, but they are shaped below with a cloven
foot of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the track. They are supposed
to have belonged to some of the marauding Barons of Holdernesse in the
Middle Ages.”

Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed it along the
shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.

“Thank you,” said he, as he replaced the glass. “It is the second most
interesting object that I have seen in the North.”

“And the first?”

Holmes folded up his check and placed it carefully in his notebook. “I
am a poor man,” said he, as he patted it affectionately, and thrust it
into the depths of his inner pocket.




THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER


I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental and
physical, than in the year ‘95. His increasing fame had brought with it
an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an indiscretion if I
were even to hint at the identity of some of the illustrious clients who
crossed our humble threshold in Baker Street. Holmes, however, like all
great artists, lived for his art’s sake, and, save in the case of the
Duke of Holdernesse, I have seldom known him claim any large reward for
his inestimable services. So unworldly was he--or so capricious--that
he frequently refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where the
problem made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote weeks of
most intense application to the affairs of some humble client whose case
presented those strange and dramatic qualities which appealed to his
imagination and challenged his ingenuity.

In this memorable year ‘95, a curious and incongruous succession of
cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous investigation
of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca--an inquiry which was carried
out by him at the express desire of His Holiness the Pope--down to
his arrest of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer, which removed a
plague-spot from the East End of London. Close on the heels of these
two famous cases came the tragedy of Woodman’s Lee, and the very obscure
circumstances which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No
record of the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which did
not include some account of this very unusual affair.

During the first week of July, my friend had been absent so often and
so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on hand. The fact
that several rough-looking men called during that time and inquired for
Captain Basil made me understand that Holmes was working somewhere under
one of the numerous disguises and names with which he concealed his own
formidable identity. He had at least five small refuges in different
parts of London, in which he was able to change his personality. He
said nothing of his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a
confidence. The first positive sign which he gave me of the direction
which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary one. He had gone
out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine when he strode into the
room, his hat upon his head and a huge barbed-headed spear tucked like
an umbrella under his arm.

“Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried. “You don’t mean to say that you have
been walking about London with that thing?”

“I drove to the butcher’s and back.”

“The butcher’s?”

“And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no question,
my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast. But I am
prepared to bet that you will not guess the form that my exercise has
taken.”

“I will not attempt it.”

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

“If you could have looked into Allardyce’s back shop, you would have
seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in
his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this weapon. I was that
energetic person, and I have satisfied myself that by no exertion of my
strength can I transfix the pig with a single blow. Perhaps you would
care to try?”

“Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”

“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the mystery of
Woodman’s Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last night, and I have been
expecting you. Come and join us.”

Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age, dressed
in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of one who was
accustomed to official uniform. I recognized him at once as Stanley
Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose future Holmes had high
hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of a pupil
for the scientific methods of the famous amateur. Hopkins’s brow was
clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep dejection.

“No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent the
night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”

“And what had you to report?”

“Failure, sir, absolute failure.”

“You have made no progress?”

“None.”

“Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.”

“I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It’s my first big chance,
and I am at my wit’s end. For goodness’ sake, come down and lend me a
hand.”

“Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the available
evidence, including the report of the inquest, with some care. By the
way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch, found on the scene of the
crime? Is there no clue there?”

Hopkins looked surprised.

“It was the man’s own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it. And it
was of sealskin,--and he was an old sealer.”

“But he had no pipe.”

“No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed, he smoked very little, and yet
he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”

“No doubt. I only mention it because, if I had been handling the case,
I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point of my
investigation. However, my friend, Dr. Watson, knows nothing of this
matter, and I should be none the worse for hearing the sequence of
events once more. Just give us some short sketches of the essentials.”

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

“I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the dead man,
Captain Peter Carey. He was born in ‘45--fifty years of age. He was a
most daring and successful seal and whale fisher. In 1883 he commanded
the steam sealer SEA UNICORN, of Dundee. He had then had several
successful voyages in succession, and in the following year, 1884, he
retired. After that he travelled for some years, and finally he bought
a small place called Woodman’s Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he
has lived for six years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.

“There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary
life, he was a strict Puritan--a silent, gloomy fellow. His household
consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and two female
servants. These last were continually changing, for it was never a very
cheery situation, and sometimes it became past all bearing. The man
was an intermittent drunkard, and when he had the fit on him he was a
perfect fiend. He has been known to drive his wife and daughter out of
doors in the middle of the night and flog them through the park until
the whole village outside the gates was aroused by their screams.

“He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar, who had
called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct. In short,
Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more dangerous man than
Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the same character when he
commanded his ship. He was known in the trade as Black Peter, and the
name was given him, not only on account of his swarthy features and the
colour of his huge beard, but for the humours which were the terror of
all around him. I need not say that he was loathed and avoided by every
one of his neighbours, and that I have not heard one single word of
sorrow about his terrible end.

“You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man’s cabin,
Mr. Holmes, but perhaps your friend here has not heard of it. He had
built himself a wooden outhouse--he always called it the ‘cabin’--a few
hundred yards from his house, and it was here that he slept every night.
It was a little, single-roomed hut, sixteen feet by ten. He kept the
key in his pocket, made his own bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no
other foot to cross the threshold. There are small windows on each side,
which were covered by curtains and never opened. One of these windows
was turned towards the high road, and when the light burned in it at
night the folk used to point it out to each other and wonder what Black
Peter was doing in there. That’s the window, Mr. Holmes, which gave us
one of the few bits of positive evidence that came out at the inquest.

“You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from Forest Row
about one o’clock in the morning--two days before the murder--stopped
as he passed the grounds and looked at the square of light still shining
among the trees. He swears that the shadow of a man’s head turned
sideways was clearly visible on the blind, and that this shadow was
certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom he knew well. It was that of a
bearded man, but the beard was short and bristled forward in a way very
different from that of the captain. So he says, but he had been two
hours in the public-house, and it is some distance from the road to the
window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the crime was done upon
the Wednesday.

“On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods, flushed
with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He roamed about the
house, and the women ran for it when they heard him coming. Late in the
evening, he went down to his own hut. About two o’clock the following
morning, his daughter, who slept with her window open, heard a most
fearful yell from that direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to
bawl and shout when he was in drink, so no notice was taken. On rising
at seven, one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut was open,
but so great was the terror which the man caused that it was midday
before anyone would venture down to see what had become of him. Peeping
into the open door, they saw a sight which sent them flying, with white
faces, into the village. Within an hour, I was on the spot and had taken
over the case.

“Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but I give
you my word, that I got a shake when I put my head into that little
house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies and bluebottles,
and the floor and walls were like a slaughter-house. He had called it a
cabin, and a cabin it was, sure enough, for you would have thought that
you were in a ship. There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and
charts, a picture of the SEA UNICORN, a line of logbooks on a shelf, all
exactly as one would expect to find it in a captain’s room. And there,
in the middle of it, was the man himself--his face twisted like a lost
soul in torment, and his great brindled beard stuck upward in his agony.
Right through his broad breast a steel harpoon had been driven, and it
had sunk deep into the wood of the wall behind him. He was pinned like a
beetle on a card. Of course, he was quite dead, and had been so from the
instant that he had uttered that last yell of agony.

“I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted
anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the ground outside, and
also the floor of the room. There were no footmarks.”

“Meaning that you saw none?”

“I assure you, sir, that there were none.”

“My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have never
yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As long as the
criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be some indentation,
some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be detected by the
scientific searcher. It is incredible that this blood-bespattered room
contained no trace which could have aided us. I understand, however,
from the inquest that there were some objects which you failed to
overlook?”

The young inspector winced at my companion’s ironical comments.

“I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr. Holmes. However, that’s
past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in the room which
called for special attention. One was the harpoon with which the deed
was committed. It had been snatched down from a rack on the wall. Two
others remained there, and there was a vacant place for the third.
On the stock was engraved ‘SS. SEA UNICORN, Dundee.’ This seemed to
establish that the crime had been done in a moment of fury, and that
the murderer had seized the first weapon which came in his way. The fact
that the crime was committed at two in the morning, and yet Peter
Carey was fully dressed, suggested that he had an appointment with the
murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and two
dirty glasses stood upon the table.”

“Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that both inferences are permissible. Was
there any other spirit but rum in the room?”

“Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the decanters
were full, and it had therefore not been used.”

“For all that, its presence has some significance,” said Holmes.
“However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem to you
to bear upon the case.”

“There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table.”

“What part of the table?”

“It lay in the middle. It was of coarse sealskin--the straight-haired
skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was ‘P.C.’ on the flap.
There was half an ounce of strong ship’s tobacco in it.”

“Excellent! What more?”

Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered notebook. The
outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first page
were written the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.” Holmes laid
it on the table and examined it in his minute way, while Hopkins and I
gazed over each shoulder. On the second page were the printed letters
“C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets of numbers. Another heading was
“Argentine,” another “Costa Rica,” and another “San Paulo,” each with
pages of signs and figures after it.

“What do you make of these?” asked Holmes.

“They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought that
‘J.H.N.’ were the initials of a broker, and that ‘C.P.R.’ may have been
his client.”

“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh with his
clenched hand.

“What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you say. Then
‘J.H.N.’ are the only initials we have to solve. I have already examined
the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no one in 1883, either in
the house or among the outside brokers, whose initials correspond with
these. Yet I feel that the clue is the most important one that I hold.
You will admit, Mr. Holmes, that there is a possibility that these
initials are those of the second person who was present--in other words,
of the murderer. I would also urge that the introduction into the case
of a document relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us
for the first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”

Sherlock Holmes’s face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback by this
new development.

“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this notebook,
which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views which I may have
formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in which I can find no
place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace any of the securities here
mentioned?”

“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the
complete register of the stockholders of these South American concerns
is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse before we can trace
the shares.”

Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his magnifying
lens.

“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book off
the floor.”

“Was the blood-stain above or below?”

“On the side next the boards.”

“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the crime was
committed.”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured that
it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay near the
door.”

“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among the
property of the dead man?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was a
knife, was there not?”

“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the dead
man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s property.”

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and have a
look at it.”

Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

“Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But even now
my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you can spare
the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you will call a
four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for Forest Row in a
quarter of an hour.”

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles through
the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of that
great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay--the
impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of Britain. Vast
sections of it have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first
iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled to smelt the
ore. Now the richer fields of the North have absorbed the trade, and
nothing save these ravaged groves and great scars in the earth show the
work of the past. Here, in a clearing upon the green slope of a hill,
stood a long, low, stone house, approached by a curving drive running
through the fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by
bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our
direction. It was the scene of the murder.

Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us to a
haggard, gray-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose gaunt
and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the depths of
her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and ill-usage which
she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl,
whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as she told us that she was glad that
her father was dead, and that she blessed the hand which had struck him
down. It was a terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for
himself, and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in
the sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been worn
across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther side.
Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had stooped to the
lock, when he paused with a look of attention and surprise upon his
face.

“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and the
scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been that
instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed to make
his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”

“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector, “I could swear
that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”

“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the grounds, far
less try to force their way into the cabin. What do you think of it, Mr.
Holmes?”

“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

“You mean that the person will come again?”

“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He tried
to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could not manage
it. What would he do?”

“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to receive
him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture within the
little room still stood as it had been on the night of the crime. For
two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes examined every object
in turn, but his face showed that his quest was not a successful one.
Once only he paused in his patient investigation.

“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

“No, I have moved nothing.”

“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of the
shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its side. It may
have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more. Let us walk in
these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds and the
flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins, and see if we can come
to closer quarters with the gentleman who has paid this visit in the
night.”

It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade. Hopkins
was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was of the opinion
that this would rouse the suspicions of the stranger. The lock was a
perfectly simple one, and only a strong blade was needed to push it
back. Holmes also suggested that we should wait, not inside the hut,
but outside it, among the bushes which grew round the farther window.
In this way we should be able to watch our man if he struck a light, and
see what his object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it something
of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies beside the water-pool,
and waits for the coming of the thirsty beast of prey. What savage
creature was it which might steal upon us out of the darkness? Was it
a fierce tiger of crime, which could only be taken fighting hard with
flashing fang and claw, or would it prove to be some skulking jackal,
dangerous only to the weak and unguarded?

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for whatever
might come. At first the steps of a few belated villagers, or the sound
of voices from the village, lightened our vigil, but one by one these
interruptions died away, and an absolute stillness fell upon us, save
for the chimes of the distant church, which told us of the progress of
the night, and for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid
the foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which precedes
the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click came from the
direction of the gate. Someone had entered the drive. Again there was a
long silence, and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm, when
a stealthy step was heard upon the other side of the hut, and a moment
later a metallic scraping and clinking. The man was trying to force the
lock. This time his skill was greater or his tool was better, for there
was a sudden snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck,
and next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior of
the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted upon the
scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a black
moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He could not
have been much above twenty years of age. I have never seen any human
being who appeared to be in such a pitiable fright, for his teeth were
visibly chattering, and he was shaking in every limb. He was dressed
like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap
upon his head. We watched him staring round with frightened eyes. Then
he laid the candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into
one of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the logbooks
which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the table, he rapidly
turned over the leaves of this volume until he came to the entry which
he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed
the book, replaced it in the corner, and put out the light. He had
hardly turned to leave the hut when Hopkin’s hand was on the fellow’s
collar, and I heard his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he
was taken. The candle was relit, and there was our wretched captive,
shivering and cowering in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon
the sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and what do
you want here?”

The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.

“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am connected
with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you that I am innocent.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your name?”

“It is John Hopley Neligan.”

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I speak confidentially?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”

The young man winced.

“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I hate to
think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life. Did you ever hear
of Dawson and Neligan?”

I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes was
keenly interested.

“You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
disappeared.”

“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a long gap
between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey pinned against the
wall with one of his own harpoons. We all listened intently to the young
man’s words.

“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I was
only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to feel the
shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that my father stole
all the securities and fled. It is not true. It was his belief that if
he were given time in which to realize them, all would be well and every
creditor paid in full. He started in his little yacht for Norway just
before the warrant was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last
night when he bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the
securities he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer. Well,
no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and he vanished
utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and it, with the
securities that he had taken with him, were at the bottom of the sea. We
had a faithful friend, however, who is a business man, and it was he who
discovered some time ago that some of the securities which my father
had with him had reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our
amazement. I spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after
many doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he had
been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the Arctic seas
at the very time when my father was crossing to Norway. The autumn of
that year was a stormy one, and there was a long succession of southerly
gales. My father’s yacht may well have been blown to the north, and
there met by Captain Peter Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had
become of my father? In any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s
evidence how these securities came on the market it would be a proof
that my father had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal
profit when he took them.

“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain, but
it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I read at the
inquest a description of his cabin, in which it stated that the old
logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it. It struck me that if I
could see what occurred in the month of August, 1883, on board the SEA
UNICORN, I might settle the mystery of my father’s fate. I tried
last night to get at these logbooks, but was unable to open the door.
To-night I tried again and succeeded, but I find that the pages which
deal with that month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment
I found myself a prisoner in your hands.”

“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

“You have nothing else to tell us?”

He hesitated.

“No, there is nothing.”

“You have not been here before last night?”

“No.

“Then how do you account for THAT?” cried Hopkins, as he held up the
damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the first leaf
and the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and trembled
all over.

“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I had
lost it at the hotel.”

“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have to
say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to the
police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to you and to
your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns out your presence
was unnecessary, and I would have brought the case to this successful
issue without you, but, none the less, I am grateful. Rooms have been
reserved for you at the Brambletye Hotel, so we can all walk down to the
village together.”

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we travelled
back next morning.

“I can see that you are not satisfied.”

“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
time, Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me. I am
disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better things from him.
One should always look for a possible alternative, and provide against
it. It is the first rule of criminal investigation.”

“What, then, is the alternative?”

“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It may
give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it to the
end.”

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched
one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of
laughter.

“Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten to-morrow
morning.--Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The other is:
‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast
to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable to come.--Sherlock
Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal case has haunted me for ten days.
I hereby banish it completely from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that
we shall hear the last of it forever.”

Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and we sat
down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson had prepared.
The young detective was in high spirits at his success.

“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked Holmes.

“I could not imagine a more complete case.”

“It did not seem to me conclusive.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

“Does your explanation cover every point?”

“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye Hotel
on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of playing golf.
His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get out when he liked.
That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee, saw Peter Carey at
the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him with the harpoon. Then,
horrified by what he had done, he fled out of the hut, dropping the
notebook which he had brought with him in order to question Peter Carey
about these different securities. You may have observed that some of
them were marked with ticks, and the others--the great majority--were
not. Those which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but
the others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and young
Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to recover them in
order to do the right thing by his father’s creditors. After his flight
he did not dare to approach the hut again for some time, but at last
he forced himself to do so in order to obtain the information which he
needed. Surely that is all simple and obvious?”

Holmes smiled and shook his head. “It seems to me to have only one
drawback, Hopkins, and that is that it is intrinsically impossible. Have
you tried to drive a harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir,
you must really pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could
tell you that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy
matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow was
delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon sank deep
into the wall. Do you imagine that this anaemic youth was capable of so
frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed in rum and water with
Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was it his profile that was seen
on the blind two nights before? No, no, Hopkins, it is another and more
formidable person for whom we must seek.”

The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s speech.
His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him. But he would
not abandon his position without a struggle.

“You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. The
book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to satisfy a
jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr. Holmes,
I have laid my hand upon MY man. As to this terrible person of yours,
where is he?”

“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely. “I
think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver where you can
reach it.” He rose and laid a written paper upon a side-table. “Now we
are ready,” said he.

There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs. Hudson
opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring for Captain
Basil.

“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

“The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with ruddy
cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a letter from
his pocket.

“What name?” he asked.

“James Lancaster.”

“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a sovereign
for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait there for a few
minutes.”

The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and sallow
cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his dismissal, his
half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two bold,
dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted, overhung eyebrows.
He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning his cap round in his hands.

“Your name?” asked Holmes.

“Patrick Cairns.”

“Harpooner?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

“Dundee, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What wages?”

“Eight pounds a month.”

“Could you start at once?”

“As soon as I get my kit.”

“Have you your papers?”

“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his pocket.
Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on the
side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.

“This will do,” said he.

I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The next
instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground together. He
was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs
which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have
very quickly overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to
his rescue. Only when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to his
temple did he at last understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his
ankles with cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.

“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I fear that
the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest of your
breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that you have
brought your case to a triumphant conclusion.”

Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last, with a
very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a fool of
myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I should never have
forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I
see what you have done, but I don’t know how you did it or what it
signifies.”

“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by experience,
and your lesson this time is that you should never lose sight of the
alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that you could not
spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Carey.”

The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being man-handled
in this fashion, but I would have you call things by their right names.
You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I KILLED Peter Carey, and there’s
all the difference. Maybe you don’t believe what I say. Maybe you think
I am just slinging you a yarn.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”

“It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I knew
Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a harpoon
through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That’s how he died.
You can call it murder. Anyhow, I’d as soon die with a rope round my
neck as with Black Peter’s knife in my heart.”

“How came you there?” asked Holmes.

“I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so as
I can speak easy. It was in ‘83 that it happened--August of that year.
Peter Carey was master of the SEA UNICORN, and I was spare harpooner. We
were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds and a
week’s southerly gale, when we picked up a little craft that had been
blown north. There was one man on her--a landsman. The crew had thought
she would founder and had made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I
guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and
he and the skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we
took off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man’s name was
never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if he had
never been. It was given out that he had either thrown himself overboard
or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that we were having. Only one
man knew what had happened to him, and that was me, for, with my own
eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail
in the middle watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the
Shetland Lights. Well, I kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see
what would come of it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed
up, and nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it
was nobody’s business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the
sea, and it was long years before I could find where he was. I guessed
that he had done the deed for the sake of what was in that tin box, and
that he could afford now to pay me well for keeping my mouth shut. I
found out where he was through a sailor man that had met him in London,
and down I went to squeeze him. The first night he was reasonable
enough, and was ready to give me what would make me free of the sea for
life. We were to fix it all two nights later. When I came, I found him
three parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we
yarned about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look
on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought I might
need it before I was through. Then at last he broke out at me, spitting
and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great clasp-knife in his
hand. He had not time to get it from the sheath before I had the harpoon
through him. Heavens! what a yell he gave! and his face gets between me
and my sleep. I stood there, with his blood splashing round me, and I
waited for a bit, but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked
round, and there was the tin box on the shelf. I had as much right to
it as Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like a
fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.

“Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had hardly
got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid among the
bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut, gave a cry as if
he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he could run until he was
out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can tell.
For my part I walked ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge Wells, and so
reached London, and no one the wiser.

“Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money in it,
and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I had lost my hold
on Black Peter and was stranded in London without a shilling. There was
only my trade left. I saw these advertisements about harpooners, and
high wages, so I went to the shipping agents, and they sent me here.
That’s all I know, and I say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law
should give me thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”

“A very clear statement said Holmes,” rising and lighting his pipe. “I
think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveying your prisoner
to a place of safety. This room is not well adapted for a cell, and Mr.
Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportion of our carpet.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my gratitude.
Even now I do not understand how you attained this result.”

“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this notebook
it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard
pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the use
of the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskin tobacco-pouch with the
coarse tobacco--all these pointed to a seaman, and one who had been a
whaler. I was convinced that the initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a
coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and
no pipe was found in his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky
and brandy were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are
there who would drink rum when they could get these other spirits? Yes,
I was certain it was a seaman.”

“And how did you find him?”

“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it were
a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on the SEA
UNICORN. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no other ship. I
spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the end of that time I had
ascertained the names of the crew of the SEA UNICORN in 1883. When I
found Patrick Cairns among the harpooners, my research was nearing its
end. I argued that the man was probably in London, and that he would
desire to leave the country for a time. I therefore spent some days in
the East End, devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for
harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil--and behold the result!”

“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”

“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as possible,” said
Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some apology. The tin box
must be returned to him, but, of course, the securities which Peter
Carey has sold are lost forever. There’s the cab, Hopkins, and you can
remove your man. If you want me for the trial, my address and that of
Watson will be somewhere in Norway--I’ll send particulars later.”




THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON


It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and yet it
is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time, even with the
utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been impossible to make
the facts public, but now the principal person concerned is beyond the
reach of human law, and with due suppression the story may be told
in such fashion as to injure no one. It records an absolutely unique
experience in the career both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The
reader will excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which
he might trace the actual occurrence.

We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and had
returned about six o’clock on a cold, frosty winter’s evening. As Holmes
turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card on the table. He glanced
at it, and then, with an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on the floor.
I picked it up and read:

CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON, Appledore Towers, Hampstead. Agent.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and stretched
his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of the card?”

I turned it over.

“Will call at 6:30--C.A.M.,” I read.

“Hum! He’s about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking sensation,
Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo, and see the
slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and
wicked, flattened faces? Well, that’s how Milverton impresses me. I’ve
had to do with fifty murderers in my career, but the worst of them never
gave me the repulsion which I have for this fellow. And yet I can’t get
out of doing business with him--indeed, he is here at my invitation.”

“But who is he?”

“I’ll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers. Heaven
help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and reputation come
into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face and a heart of marble,
he will squeeze and squeeze until he has drained them dry. The fellow is
a genius in his way, and would have made his mark in some more savoury
trade. His method is as follows: He allows it to be known that he is
prepared to pay very high sums for letters which compromise people of
wealth and position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous
valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have gained
the confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals with no niggard
hand. I happen to know that he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman
for a note two lines in length, and that the ruin of a noble family was
the result. Everything which is in the market goes to Milverton, and
there are hundreds in this great city who turn white at his name. No
one knows where his grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far too
cunning to work from hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years
in order to play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning.
I have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you how
could one compare the ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his mate,
with this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul and
wrings the nerves in order to add to his already swollen money-bags?”

I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of feeling.

“But surely,” said I, “the fellow must be within the grasp of the law?”

“Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit a
woman, for example, to get him a few months’ imprisonment if her own
ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit back. If ever he
blackmailed an innocent person, then indeed we should have him, but he
is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no, we must find other ways to fight
him.”

“And why is he here?”

“Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my hands.
It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful debutante of last
season. She is to be married in a fortnight to the Earl of Dovercourt.
This fiend has several imprudent letters--imprudent, Watson, nothing
worse--which were written to an impecunious young squire in the country.
They would suffice to break off the match. Milverton will send the
letters to the Earl unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been
commissioned to meet him, and--to make the best terms I can.”

At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street below.
Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the brilliant lamps
gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble chestnuts. A footman
opened the door, and a small, stout man in a shaggy astrakhan overcoat
descended. A minute later he was in the room.

Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual frozen
smile, and two keen gray eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind broad,
gold-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr. Pickwick’s benevolence
in his appearance, marred only by the insincerity of the fixed smile and
by the hard glitter of those restless and penetrating eyes. His voice
was as smooth and suave as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump
little hand extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his
first visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at him
with a face of granite. Milverton’s smile broadened, he shrugged his
shoulders removed his overcoat, folded it with great deliberation over
the back of a chair, and then took a seat.

“This gentleman?” said he, with a wave in my direction. “Is it discreet?
Is it right?”

“Dr. Watson is my friend and partner.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client’s interests that I
protested. The matter is so very delicate----”

“Dr. Watson has already heard of it.”

“Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for Lady
Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?”

“What are your terms?”

“Seven thousand pounds.”

“And the alternative?”

“My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the money is
not paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no marriage on the 18th.”
 His insufferable smile was more complacent than ever.

Holmes thought for a little.

“You appear to me,” he said, at last, “to be taking matters too much for
granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of these letters.
My client will certainly do what I may advise. I shall counsel her to
tell her future husband the whole story and to trust to his generosity.”

Milverton chuckled.

“You evidently do not know the Earl,” said he.

From the baffled look upon Holmes’s face, I could see clearly that he
did.

“What harm is there in the letters?” he asked.

“They are sprightly--very sprightly,” Milverton answered. “The lady
was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the Earl of
Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since you think
otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a matter of
business. If you think that it is in the best interests of your client
that these letters should be placed in the hands of the Earl, then you
would indeed be foolish to pay so large a sum of money to regain them.”
 He rose and seized his astrakhan coat.

Holmes was gray with anger and mortification.

“Wait a little,” he said. “You go too fast. We should certainly make
every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter.”

Milverton relapsed into his chair.

“I was sure that you would see it in that light,” he purred.

“At the same time,” Holmes continued, “Lady Eva is not a wealthy
woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain upon her
resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond her power. I beg,
therefore, that you will moderate your demands, and that you will return
the letters at the price I indicate, which is, I assure you, the highest
that you can get.”

Milverton’s smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

“I am aware that what you say is true about the lady’s resources,”
 said he. “At the same time you must admit that the occasion of a lady’s
marriage is a very suitable time for her friends and relatives to
make some little effort upon her behalf. They may hesitate as to an
acceptable wedding present. Let me assure them that this little bundle
of letters would give more joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes
in London.”

“It is impossible,” said Holmes.

“Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!” cried Milverton, taking out a bulky
pocketbook. “I cannot help thinking that ladies are ill-advised in
not making an effort. Look at this!” He held up a little note with a
coat-of-arms upon the envelope. “That belongs to--well, perhaps it is
hardly fair to tell the name until to-morrow morning. But at that time
it will be in the hands of the lady’s husband. And all because she will
not find a beggarly sum which she could get by turning her diamonds
into paste. It IS such a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of the
engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking? Only
two days before the wedding, there was a paragraph in the MORNING POST
to say that it was all off. And why? It is almost incredible, but
the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds would have settled the whole
question. Is it not pitiful? And here I find you, a man of sense,
boggling about terms, when your client’s future and honour are at stake.
You surprise me, Mr. Holmes.”

“What I say is true,” Holmes answered. “The money cannot be found.
Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum which I offer
than to ruin this woman’s career, which can profit you in no way?”

“There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit me
indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten similar cases
maturing. If it was circulated among them that I had made a severe
example of the Lady Eva, I should find all of them much more open to
reason. You see my point?”

Holmes sprang from his chair.

“Get behind him, Watson! Don’t let him out! Now, sir, let us see the
contents of that notebook.”

Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room and stood
with his back against the wall.

“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” he said, turning the front of his coat and
exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from the inside
pocket. “I have been expecting you to do something original. This has
been done so often, and what good has ever come from it? I assure you
that I am armed to the teeth, and I am perfectly prepared to use my
weapons, knowing that the law will support me. Besides, your supposition
that I would bring the letters here in a notebook is entirely mistaken.
I would do nothing so foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or two
little interviews this evening, and it is a long drive to Hampstead.”
 He stepped forward, took up his coat, laid his hand on his revolver, and
turned to the door. I picked up a chair, but Holmes shook his head, and
I laid it down again. With bow, a smile, and a twinkle, Milverton
was out of the room, and a few moments after we heard the slam of the
carriage door and the rattle of the wheels as he drove away.

Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his trouser
pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the glowing
embers. For half an hour he was silent and still. Then, with the gesture
of a man who has taken his decision, he sprang to his feet and passed
into his bedroom. A little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee
beard and a swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending
into the street. “I’ll be back some time, Watson,” said he, and vanished
into the night. I understood that he had opened his campaign against
Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed the strange shape which
that campaign was destined to take.

For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire, but
beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and that it was
not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At last, however, on
a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind screamed and rattled against
the windows, he returned from his last expedition, and having removed
his disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in his silent
inward fashion.

“You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”

“No, indeed!”

“You’ll be interested to hear that I’m engaged.”

“My dear fellow! I congrat----”

“To Milverton’s housemaid.”

“Good heavens, Holmes!”

“I wanted information, Watson.”

“Surely you have gone too far?”

“It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising business,
Escott, by name. I have walked out with her each evening, and I have
talked with her. Good heavens, those talks! However, I have got all I
wanted. I know Milverton’s house as I know the palm of my hand.”

“But the girl, Holmes?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You can’t help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as best you
can when such a stake is on the table. However, I rejoice to say that
I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut me out the instant that my
back is turned. What a splendid night it is!”

“You like this weather?”

“It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton’s house
to-night.”

I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the words,
which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated resolution. As a
flash of lightning in the night shows up in an instant every detail of
a wild landscape, so at one glance I seemed to see every possible result
of such an action--the detection, the capture, the honoured career
ending in irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at
the mercy of the odious Milverton.

“For heaven’s sake, Holmes, think what you are doing,” I cried.

“My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never
precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and, indeed,
so dangerous a course, if any other were possible. Let us look at the
matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will admit that the action
is morally justifiable, though technically criminal. To burgle his house
is no more than to forcibly take his pocketbook--an action in which you
were prepared to aid me.”

I turned it over in my mind.

“Yes,” I said, “it is morally justifiable so long as our object is to
take no articles save those which are used for an illegal purpose.”

“Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to consider the
question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much stress
upon this, when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?”

“You will be in such a false position.”

“Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way of
regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the money, and
there are none of her people in whom she could confide. To-morrow is
the last day of grace, and unless we can get the letters to-night, this
villain will be as good as his word and will bring about her ruin. I
must, therefore, abandon my client to her fate or I must play this
last card. Between ourselves, Watson, it’s a sporting duel between
this fellow Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first
exchanges, but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned to fight
it to a finish.”

“Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When do we
start?”

“You are not coming.”

“Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of honour--and
I never broke it in my life--that I will take a cab straight to the
police-station and give you away, unless you let me share this adventure
with you.”

“You can’t help me.”

“How do you know that? You can’t tell what may happen. Anyway, my
resolution is taken. Other people besides you have self-respect, and
even reputations.”

Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped me on
the shoulder.

“Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this same room
for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the
same cell. You know, Watson, I don’t mind confessing to you that I have
always had an idea that I would have made a highly efficient criminal.
This is the chance of my lifetime in that direction. See here!” He took
a neat little leather case out of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited
a number of shining instruments. “This is a first-class, up-to-date
burgling kit, with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter,
adaptable keys, and every modern improvement which the march of
civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything is in
order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?”

“I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.”

“Excellent! And a mask?”

“I can make a couple out of black silk.”

“I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of thing.
Very good, do you make the masks. We shall have some cold supper before
we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall drive as far as
Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour’s walk from there to Appledore
Towers. We shall be at work before midnight. Milverton is a heavy
sleeper, and retires punctually at ten-thirty. With any luck we should
be back here by two, with the Lady Eva’s letters in my pocket.”

Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to be two
theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked up a hansom and
drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid off our cab, and with our
great coats buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold, and the wind seemed
to blow through us, we walked along the edge of the heath.

“It’s a business that needs delicate treatment,” said Holmes. “These
documents are contained in a safe in the fellow’s study, and the study
is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand, like all these
stout, little men who do themselves well, he is a plethoric sleeper.
Agatha--that’s my fiancee--says it is a joke in the servants’ hall that
it’s impossible to wake the master. He has a secretary who is devoted
to his interests, and never budges from the study all day. That’s why we
are going at night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden.
I met Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so
as to give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its own
grounds. Through the gate--now to the right among the laurels. We might
put on our masks here, I think. You see, there is not a glimmer of light
in any of the windows, and everything is working splendidly.”

With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of the most
truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent, gloomy house.
A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of it, lined by several
windows and two doors.

“That’s his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door opens straight into
the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well as locked,
and we should make too much noise getting in. Come round here. There’s a
greenhouse which opens into the drawing-room.”

The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and turned
the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had closed the door
behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes of the law. The thick,
warm air of the conservatory and the rich, choking fragrance of exotic
plants took us by the throat. He seized my hand in the darkness and led
me swiftly past banks of shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes
had remarkable powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark.
Still holding my hand in one of his, he opened a door, and I was vaguely
conscious that we had entered a large room in which a cigar had been
smoked not long before. He felt his way among the furniture, opened
another door, and closed it behind us. Putting out my hand I felt
several coats hanging from the wall, and I understood that I was in a
passage. We passed along it and Holmes very gently opened a door upon
the right-hand side. Something rushed out at us and my heart sprang into
my mouth, but I could have laughed when I realized that it was the cat.
A fire was burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with
tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow, and
then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton’s study, and a
portiere at the farther side showed the entrance to his bedroom.

It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the door I
saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was unnecessary, even if it
had been safe, to turn it on. At one side of the fireplace was a heavy
curtain which covered the bay window we had seen from outside. On the
other side was the door which communicated with the veranda. A desk
stood in the centre, with a turning-chair of shining red leather.
Opposite was a large bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top.
In the corner, between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall,
green safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs
upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he crept
to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting head listening
intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had struck me that
it would be wise to secure our retreat through the outer door, so
I examined it. To my amazement, it was neither locked nor bolted.
I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his masked face in that
direction. I saw him start, and he was evidently as surprised as I.

“I don’t like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear. “I
can’t quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Yes, stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the inside,
and we can get away as we came. If they come the other way, we can
get through the door if our job is done, or hide behind these window
curtains if it is not. Do you understand?”

I nodded, and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had passed
away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had ever enjoyed when
we were the defenders of the law instead of its defiers. The high object
of our mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish and chivalrous,
the villainous character of our opponent, all added to the sporting
interest of the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and
exulted in our dangers. With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes
unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his tool with the calm,
scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I
knew that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I
understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this green
and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the reputations of
many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his dress-coat--he had placed
his overcoat on a chair--Holmes laid out two drills, a jemmy, and
several skeleton keys. I stood at the centre door with my eyes glancing
at each of the others, ready for any emergency, though, indeed, my plans
were somewhat vague as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For
half an hour, Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down one
tool, picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy
of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green door
swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper packets,
each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out, but it was as
hard to read by the flickering fire, and he drew out his little dark
lantern, for it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the next room, to
switch on the electric light. Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently,
and then in an instant he had swung the door of the safe to, picked
up his coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the
window curtain, motioning me to do the same.

It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had alarmed
his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within the house. A door
slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull murmur broke itself into
the measured thud of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. They were in
the passage outside the room. They paused at the door. The door opened.
There was a sharp snick as the electric light was turned on. The door
closed once more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne
to our nostrils. Then the footsteps continued backward and forward,
backward and forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there was a
creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a
lock, and I heard the rustle of papers.

So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the division
of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From the pressure
of Holmes’s shoulder against mine, I knew that he was sharing my
observations. Right in front of us, and almost within our reach, was the
broad, rounded back of Milverton. It was evident that we had entirely
miscalculated his movements, that he had never been to his bedroom,
but that he had been sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the
farther wing of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His
broad, grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in the red
leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black cigar projecting
at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military smoking jacket,
claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In his hand he held a long,
legal document which he was reading in an indolent fashion, blowing
rings of tobacco smoke from his lips as he did so. There was no promise
of a speedy departure in his composed bearing and his comfortable
attitude.

I felt Holmes’s hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring shake, as
if to say that the situation was within his powers, and that he was
easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen what was only too
obvious from my position, that the door of the safe was imperfectly
closed, and that Milverton might at any moment observe it. In my own
mind I had determined that if I were sure, from the rigidity of his
gaze, that it had caught his eye, I would at once spring out, throw my
great coat over his head, pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But
Milverton never looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in
his hand, and page after page was turned as he followed the argument of
the lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the document and
the cigar he will go to his room, but before he had reached the end of
either, there came a remarkable development, which turned our thoughts
into quite another channel.

Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch, and
once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience. The
idea, however, that he might have an appointment at so strange an
hour never occurred to me until a faint sound reached my ears from
the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his papers and sat rigid in his
chair. The sound was repeated, and then there came a gentle tap at the
door. Milverton rose and opened it.

“Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”

So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the nocturnal
vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a woman’s dress. I
had closed the slit between the curtains as Milverton’s face had turned
in our direction, but now I ventured very carefully to open it once
more. He had resumed his seat, the cigar still projecting at an insolent
angle from the corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare
of the electric light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over
her face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and fast,
and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with strong emotion.

“Well,” said Milverton, “you made me lose a good night’s rest, my dear.
I hope you’ll prove worth it. You couldn’t come any other time--eh?”

The woman shook her head.

“Well, if you couldn’t you couldn’t. If the Countess is a hard mistress,
you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless the girl, what are
you shivering about? That’s right. Pull yourself together. Now, let us
get down to business.” He took a notebook from the drawer of his desk.
“You say that you have five letters which compromise the Countess
d’Albert. You want to sell them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It
only remains to fix a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of
course. If they are really good specimens--Great heavens, is it you?”

The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the mantle
from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face which confronted
Milverton--a face with a curved nose, strong, dark eyebrows shading
hard, glittering eyes, and a straight, thin-lipped mouth set in a
dangerous smile.

“It is I,” she said, “the woman whose life you have ruined.”

Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so very
obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such extremities? I
assure you I wouldn’t hurt a fly of my own accord, but every man has his
business, and what was I to do? I put the price well within your means.
You would not pay.”

“So you sent the letters to my husband, and he--the noblest gentleman
that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace--he broke
his gallant heart and died. You remember that last night, when I came
through that door, I begged and prayed you for mercy, and you laughed
in my face as you are trying to laugh now, only your coward heart cannot
keep your lips from twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here
again, but it was that night which taught me how I could meet you face
to face, and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?”

“Don’t imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his feet. “I
have only to raise my voice and I could call my servants and have you
arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural anger. Leave the
room at once as you came, and I will say no more.”

The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same deadly
smile on her thin lips.

“You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You will wring
no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of a poisonous
thing. Take that, you hound--and that!--and that!--and that!”

She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after
barrel into Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt
front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the table, coughing
furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he staggered to his feet,
received another shot, and rolled upon the floor. “You’ve done me,” he
cried, and lay still. The woman looked at him intently, and ground her
heel into his upturned face. She looked again, but there was no sound
or movement. I heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated
room, and the avenger was gone.

No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate,
but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton’s shrinking
body I was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes’s cold, strong grasp
upon my wrist. I understood the whole argument of that firm, restraining
grip--that it was no affair of ours, that justice had overtaken a
villain, that we had our own duties and our own objects, which were not
to be lost sight of. But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when
Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned
the key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices in the house
and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots had roused the
household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the safe,
filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured them all into
the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe was empty. Someone
turned the handle and beat upon the outside of the door. Holmes looked
swiftly round. The letter which had been the messenger of death for
Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed
it in among the blazing papers. Then he drew the key from the outer
door, passed through after me, and locked it on the outside. “This way,
Watson,” said he, “we can scale the garden wall in this direction.”

I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so swiftly.
Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The front door
was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The whole garden was
alive with people, and one fellow raised a view-halloa as we emerged
from the veranda and followed hard at our heels. Holmes seemed to
know the grounds perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly among
a plantation of small trees, I close at his heels, and our foremost
pursuer panting behind us. It was a six-foot wall which barred our path,
but he sprang to the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand
of the man behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free and
scrambled over a grass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among some
bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant, and together we
dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead Heath. We had run two
miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last halted and listened intently.
All was absolute silence behind us. We had shaken off our pursuers and
were safe.

We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day after
the remarkable experience which I have recorded, when Mr. Lestrade, of
Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was ushered into our modest
sitting-room.

“Good-morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “good-morning. May I ask if you are
very busy just now?”

“Not too busy to listen to you.”

“I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand, you
might care to assist us in a most remarkable case, which occurred only
last night at Hampstead.”

“Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”

“A murder--a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen you
are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour if you
would step down to Appledore Towers, and give us the benefit of your
advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our eyes upon this Mr.
Milverton for some time, and, between ourselves, he was a bit of a
villain. He is known to have held papers which he used for blackmailing
purposes. These papers have all been burned by the murderers. No article
of value was taken, as it is probable that the criminals were men of
good position, whose sole object was to prevent social exposure.”

“Criminals?” said Holmes. “Plural?”

“Yes, there were two of them. They were as nearly as possible captured
red-handed. We have their footmarks, we have their description, it’s ten
to one that we trace them. The first fellow was a bit too active, but
the second was caught by the under-gardener, and only got away after a
struggle. He was a middle-sized, strongly built man--square jaw, thick
neck, moustache, a mask over his eyes.”

“That’s rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes. “My, it might be a
description of Watson!”

“It’s true,” said the inspector, with amusement. “It might be a
description of Watson.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “The fact is
that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one of the most
dangerous men in London, and that I think there are certain crimes
which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify
private revenge. No, it’s no use arguing. I have made up my mind. My
sympathies are with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I
will not handle this case.”

Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had
witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most
thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes and
his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall something to
his memory. We were in the middle of our lunch, when he suddenly sprang
to his feet. “By Jove, Watson, I’ve got it!” he cried. “Take your hat!
Come with me!” He hurried at his top speed down Baker Street and along
Oxford Street, until we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here, on the
left hand, there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the
celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes’s eyes fixed themselves upon
one of them, and following his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and
stately lady in Court dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble
head. I looked at that delicately curved nose, at the marked eyebrows,
at the straight mouth, and the strong little chin beneath it. Then I
caught my breath as I read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman
and statesman whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and
he put his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.




THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS


It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to
look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock
Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on
at the police headquarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would
bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the
details of any case upon which the detective was engaged, and was able
occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or
suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience.

On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather and
the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his
cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes--nothing very particular.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Lestrade laughed.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there IS something on my
mind. And yet it is such an absurd business, that I hesitated to
bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is
undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out
of the common. But, in my opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson’s line
than ours.”

“Disease?” said I.

“Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn’t think there was
anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of Napoleon the
First that he would break any image of him that he could see.”

Holmes sank back in his chair.

“That’s no business of mine,” said he.

“Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary
in order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away from
the doctor and on to the policeman.”

Holmes sat up again.

“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”

Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory from
its pages.

“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at the
shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and
statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop
for an instant, when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a
plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art
upon the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the
road, but, although several passers-by declared that they had noticed a
man run out of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he
find any means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those
senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was
reported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast was not
worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too
childish for any particular investigation.

“The second case, however, was more serious, and also more singular. It
occurred only last night.

“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson’s
shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr. Barnicot,
who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of the Thames.
His residence and principal consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but
he has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles
away. This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his
house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Some
little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster
casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the French sculptor, Devine. One
of these he placed in his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the
other on the mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr.
Barnicot came down this morning he was astonished to find that his house
had been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save
the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been
dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splintered
fragments were discovered.”

Holmes rubbed his hands.

“This is certainly very novel,” said he.

“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet. Dr.
Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and you can imagine
his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window had been
opened in the night and that the broken pieces of his second bust were
strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to atoms where it stood.
In neither case were there any signs which could give us a clue as to
the criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you
have got the facts.”

“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I ask
whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms were the exact
duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson’s shop?”

“They were taken from the same mould.”

“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them
is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how many
hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London, it is
too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast
should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust.”

“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand, this
Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and these
three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years. So,
although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it
is very probable that these three were the only ones in that district.
Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What do you think, Dr.
Watson?”

“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I answered.
“There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have
called the ‘IDEE FIXE,’ which may be trifling in character, and
accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read
deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary
family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such an IDEE
FIXE and under its influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”

“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head, “for no
amount of IDEE FIXE would enable your interesting monomaniac to find out
where these busts were situated.”

“Well, how do YOU explain it?”

“I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a certain
method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr.
Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was
taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there
was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair
seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I
reflect that some of my most classic cases have had the least promising
commencement. You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of
the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which
the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford,
therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall
be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any fresh
development of so singular a chain of events.”


The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and an
infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still
dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a tap at the door
and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:


“Come instantly, 131 Pitt Street, Kensington.

“LESTRADE.”


“What is it, then?” I asked.

“Don’t know--may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the
story of the statues. In that case our friend the image-breaker has
begun operations in another quarter of London. There’s coffee on the
table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door.”

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater
just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was one
of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings.
As we drove up, we found the railings in front of the house lined by a
curious crowd. Holmes whistled.

“By George! It’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will hold
the London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicated in that
fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’s this, Watson? The
top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow!
Well, well, there’s Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know
all about it.”

The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a
sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly
man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was
introduced to us as the owner of the house--Mr. Horace Harker, of the
Central Press Syndicate.

“It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You seemed
interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be
glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver
turn.”

“What has it turned to, then?”

“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has
occurred?”

The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy face.

“It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have been
collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece of news has
come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can’t put two
words together. If I had come in here as a journalist, I should have
interviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it is,
I am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over to a
string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However,
I’ve heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll only explain
this queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the
story.”

Holmes sat down and listened.

“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought for
this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from Harding
Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great deal of my
journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early
morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den, which is at the back
of the top of the house, about three o’clock, when I was convinced that
I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,
and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about five
minutes later, there came a most horrible yell--the most dreadful sound,
Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I
live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the
poker and went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window
wide open, and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the
mantelpiece. Why any burglar should take such a thing passes my
understanding, for it was only a plaster cast and of no real value
whatever.

“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open window
could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This was clearly
what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door. Stepping
out into the dark, I nearly fell over a dead man, who was lying there. I
ran back for a light and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his
throat and the whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his
knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my
dreams. I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must
have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman
standing over me in the hall.”

“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall see the
body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now. He is a
tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is poorly
dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled clasp
knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon
which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not
know. There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save
an apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here
it is.”

It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It represented
an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick eyebrows and a very
peculiar projection of the lower part of the face, like the muzzle of a
baboon.

“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful study of
this picture.

“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the front
garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken into
fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?”

“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the carpet and
the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or was a most active
man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach
that window ledge and open that window. Getting back was comparatively
simple. Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr.
Harker?”

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no doubt
that the first editions of the evening papers are out already with
full details. It’s like my luck! You remember when the stand fell at
Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and my journal
the only one that had no account of it, for I was too shaken to write
it. And now I’ll be too late with a murder done on my own doorstep.”

As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
foolscap.

The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a
few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this
presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic
and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered, in
splintered shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them and
examined them carefully. I was convinced, from his intent face and his
purposeful manner, that at last he was upon a clue.

“Well?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet--and yet--well, we
have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this trifling
bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strange criminal, than a human
life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact that he did not
break it in the house, or immediately outside the house, if to break it
was his sole object.”

“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly knew
what he was doing.”

“Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very
particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of which the
bust was destroyed.”

Lestrade looked about him.

“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed in
the garden.”

“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he
must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it
there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried it increased
the risk of someone meeting him?”

“I give it up,” said Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

“He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there. That was
his reason.”

“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to think of
it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr.
Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”

“To remember it--to docket it. We may come on something later which will
bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?”

“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to identify
the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When we have
found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a good start
in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night, and who it was
who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t
you think so?”

“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach
the case.”

“What would you do then?”

“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that you
go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and each
will supplement the other.”

“Very good,” said Lestrade.

“If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace Harker.
Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and that it is
certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with Napoleonic delusions,
was in his house last night. It will be useful for his article.”

Lestrade stared.

“You don’t seriously believe that?”

Holmes smiled.

“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will interest Mr.
Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate.
Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and rather
complex day’s work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could
make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six o’clock this
evening. Until then I should like to keep this photograph, found in the
dead man’s pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask your company
and assistance upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken
to-night, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until
then good-bye and good luck!”

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where we
stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been
purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be
absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a newcomer, who could
give us no information. Holmes’s face showed his disappointment and
annoyance.

“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,” he
said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr. Harding
will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised,
endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in order to find if
there is not something peculiar which may account for their remarkable
fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see
if he can throw any light upon the problem.”

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s establishment. He
was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.

“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates and
taxes for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and break one’s
goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.
Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot--that’s what I make it. No one but an
anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red republicans--that’s what
I call ‘em. Who did I get the statues from? I don’t see what that has to
do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder
& Co., in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the
trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three--two and
one are three--two of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broad daylight
on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don’t. Yes, I do,
though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who
made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a bit, and gild and
frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last week, and I’ve heard
nothing of him since. No, I don’t know where he came from nor where he
went to. I had nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two
days before the bust was smashed.”

“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,” said
Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as a common
factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is worth a
ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder & Co., of Stepney,
the source and origin of the busts. I shall be surprised if we don’t get
some help down there.”

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable London,
hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial London,
and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a
hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter and reek with
the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode
of wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we
searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry.
Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding.
The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear
answer to all Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showed that
hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of Devine’s head of
Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year
or so before had been half of a batch of six, the other three being sent
to Harding Brothers, of Kensington. There was no reason why those six
should be different from any of the other casts. He could suggest no
possible cause why anyone should wish to destroy them--in fact, he
laughed at the idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the
retailer would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from
each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris
were joined together to make the complete bust. The work was usually
done by Italians, in the room we were in. When finished, the busts were
put on a table in the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was
all he could tell us.

But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the
manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his
blue Teutonic eyes.

“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This has
always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that we have
ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was more than a
year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he came
to the works with the police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo
was his name--his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging
a man with such a face. But he was a good workman--one of the best.”

“What did he get?”

“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out
now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of his
here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin--not a word, I beg
of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it, the
more important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the
sale of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last year.
Could you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?”

“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered. “Yes,”
 he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was paid last on May
20th.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon your
time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution that he should
say nothing as to our researches, we turned our faces westward once
more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty
luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced
“Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the contents of the paper
showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print after
all. Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and flowery
rendering of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against the
cruet-stand and read it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:

“It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of opinion
upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced
members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well known
consulting expert, have each come to the conclusion that the grotesque
series of incidents, which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from
lunacy rather than from deliberate crime. No explanation save mental
aberration can cover the facts.

“The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only know how
to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will hark back to
Kensington and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say on
the matter.”

The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little
person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.

“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr.
Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust some
months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder & Co., of
Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I daresay by consulting our
sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries here.
One to Mr. Harker you see, and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum
Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove
Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this face which you show me in the
photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir, for I’ve seldom
seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes, sir, we have
several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay they might get a
peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There is no particular reason
for keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it’s a very strange
business, and I hope that you will let me know if anything comes of your
inquiries.”

Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and I
could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs
were taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we hurried,
we should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when
we reached Baker Street the detective was already there, and we found
him pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His look of importance
showed that his day’s work had not been in vain.

“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my friend
explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the wholesale
manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning.”

“The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own methods, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them, but
I think I have done a better day’s work than you. I have identified the
dead man.”

“You don’t say so?”

“And found a cause for the crime.”

“Splendid!”

“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the
Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round his
neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from the
South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His
name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the greatest
cut-throats in London. He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you
know, is a secret political society, enforcing its decrees by murder.
Now, you see how the affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is
probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has broken
the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the
photograph we found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not
knife the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house,
he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own
death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite follow
your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”

“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After all,
that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is the murder
that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am gathering all
the threads into my hands.”

“And the next stage?”

“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian Quarter,
find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on the charge
of murder. Will you come with us?”

“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can’t
say for certain, because it all depends--well, it all depends upon
a factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great
hopes--in fact, the betting is exactly two to one--that if you will come
with us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the heels.”

“In the Italian Quarter?”

“No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him. If
you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I’ll promise to go
to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be done by
the delay. And now I think that a few hours’ sleep would do us all good,
for I do not propose to leave before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely
that we shall be back before morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and
then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In
the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an express
messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is important that it
should go at once.”

Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old daily
papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at last
he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said nothing to
either of us as to the result of his researches. For my own part, I had
followed step by step the methods by which he had traced the various
windings of this complex case, and, though I could not yet perceive the
goal which we would reach, I understood clearly that Holmes expected
this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts,
one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our
journey was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the
cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the evening
paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could continue his
scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that
I should take my revolver with me. He had himself picked up the loaded
hunting-crop, which was his favourite weapon.

A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a spot
at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was directed to
wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed with pleasant
houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light of a street
lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the gate-post of one of them. The
occupants had evidently retired to rest, for all was dark save for a
fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single blurred circle on to
the garden path. The wooden fence which separated the grounds from the
road threw a dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was
that we crouched.

“I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may thank
our stars that it is not raining. I don’t think we can even venture to
smoke to pass the time. However, it’s a two to one chance that we get
something to pay us for our trouble.”

It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes had
led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In
an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his coming, the garden
gate swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an
ape, rushed up the garden path. We saw it whisk past the light thrown
from over the door and disappear against the black shadow of the house.
There was a long pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very
gentle creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The
noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was making
his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside
the room. What he sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the
flash through another blind, and then through another.

“Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,”
 Lestrade whispered.

But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he came out into
the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried something white
under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence of the
deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he laid down
his burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a sharp tap,
followed by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was
doing that he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot.
With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later
Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs had been
fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with
writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I knew that it was
indeed the man of the photograph whom we had secured.

But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention.
Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining
that which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of
Napoleon, like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been
broken into similar fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate shard
to the light, but in no way did it differ from any other shattered piece
of plaster. He had just completed his examination when the hall lights
flew up, the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund
figure in shirt and trousers, presented himself.

“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note
which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you told
me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments. Well,
I’m very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen,
that you will come in and have some refreshment.”

However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so
within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four upon
our way to London. Not a word would our captive say, but he glared at us
from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my hand seemed within
his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough
at the police-station to learn that a search of his clothing revealed
nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of
which bore copious traces of recent blood.

“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all these
gentry, and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that my theory of
the Mafia will work out all right. But I’m sure I am exceedingly obliged
to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in which you laid hands upon
him. I don’t quite understand it all yet.”

“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said Holmes.
“Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off, and
it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end.
If you will come round once more to my rooms at six o’clock to-morrow, I
think I shall be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the
entire meaning of this business, which presents some features which make
it absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you
to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee that you
will enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure of the
Napoleonic busts.”

When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much
information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo,
second name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-well among the Italian
colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest
living, but he had taken to evil courses and had twice already been in
jail--once for a petty theft, and once, as we had already heard, for
stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk English perfectly well. His
reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown, and he refused to
answer any questions upon the subject, but the police had discovered
that these same busts might very well have been made by his own hands,
since he was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of
Gelder & Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew,
Holmes listened with polite attention, but I, who knew him so well,
could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a
mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which
he was wont to assume. At last he started in his chair, and his eyes
brightened. There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard
steps upon the stairs, and an elderly red-faced man with grizzled
side-whiskers was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an
old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.

“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”

My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?” said
he.

“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were awkward.
You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”

“Exactly.”

“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy of
Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one
which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”

“Certainly.”

“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine how
you knew that I owned such a thing.”

“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very
simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you
their last copy, and he gave me your address.”

“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”

“No, he did not.”

“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave
fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that
before I take ten pounds from you.

“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have named
that price, so I intend to stick to it.”

“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up
with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his bag, and at
last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust which
we had already seen more than once in fragments.

Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon the
table.

“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of
these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible
right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you
see, and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank
you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good
evening.”

When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes’s movements were such
as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white cloth from
a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly acquired
bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop
and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure
broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered
remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one
splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a
pudding.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black pearl
of the Borgias.”

Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous
impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the well-wrought crisis of a
play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to
us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience.
It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning
machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The
same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain
from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by
spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now existing
in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain of
inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at
the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last
of the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co.,
of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the London
police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case, but I was
unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the maid of the
Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a brother
in London, but we failed to trace any connection between them. The
maid’s name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that
this Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been
looking up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of
Beppo, for some crime of violence--an event which took place in the
factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts were being
made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you see them,
of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented
themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have
stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro’s confederate, he
may have been the go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no
consequence to us which is the correct solution.

“The main fact is that he HAD the pearl, and at that moment, when it was
on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the factory in
which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in which to
conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found
on him when he was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying
in the passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a
skilful workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the
pearl, and with a few touches covered over the aperture once more. It
was an admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo
was condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six
busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which contained his
treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell
him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl
would adhere to it--as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and
he conducted his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance.
Through a cousin who works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms
who had bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse
Hudson, and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not
there. Then, with the help of some Italian employee, he succeeded in
finding out where the other three busts had gone. The first was at
Harker’s. There he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo
responsible for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle
which followed.”

“If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?” I
asked.

“As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him from any
third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder
I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so
he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could
not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker’s bust. I had not even
concluded for certain that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me
that he was looking for something, since he carried the bust past
the other houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp
overlooking it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three, the chances were
exactly as I told you--two to one against the pearl being inside it.
There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the
London one first. I warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid a
second tragedy, and we went down, with the happiest results. By that
time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the Borgia pearl that we
were after. The name of the murdered man linked the one event with the
other. There only remained a single bust--the Reading one--and the pearl
must be there. I bought it in your presence from the owner--and there it
lies.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.
Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than
that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very
proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow, there’s not a man, from
the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t be glad to
shake you by the hand.”

“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, it seemed
to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions than I
had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical thinker
once more. “Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,” said he, “and get out
the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If
any little problem comes your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give
you a hint or two as to its solution.”





THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS


It was in the year ‘95 that a combination of events, into which I need
not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in
one of our great university towns, and it was during this time that the
small but instructive adventure which I am about to relate befell us. It
will be obvious that any details which would help the reader exactly to
identify the college or the criminal would be injudicious and offensive.
So painful a scandal may well be allowed to die out. With due discretion
the incident itself may, however, be described, since it serves to
illustrate some of those qualities for which my friend was remarkable.
I will endeavour, in my statement, to avoid such terms as would serve
to limit the events to any particular place, or give a clue as to the
people concerned.

We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library
where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in early
English charters--researches which led to results so striking that they
may be the subject of one of my future narratives. Here it was that one
evening we received a visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames,
tutor and lecturer at the College of St. Luke’s. Mr. Soames was a tall,
spare man, of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always known
him to be restless in his manner, but on this particular occasion he was
in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it was clear something
very unusual had occurred.

“I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your valuable
time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke’s, and really, but
for the happy chance of your being in town, I should have been at a loss
what to do.”

“I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions,” my friend
answered. “I should much prefer that you called in the aid of the
police.”

“No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When once the
law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is just one of those
cases where, for the credit of the college, it is most essential to
avoid scandal. Your discretion is as well known as your powers, and you
are the one man in the world who can help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to
do what you can.”

My friend’s temper had not improved since he had been deprived of the
congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his scrapbooks, his
chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an uncomfortable man. He
shrugged his shoulders in ungracious acquiescence, while our visitor
in hurried words and with much excitable gesticulation poured forth his
story.

“I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first day
of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of the
examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers consists of
a large passage of Greek translation which the candidate has not seen.
This passage is printed on the examination paper, and it would naturally
be an immense advantage if the candidate could prepare it in advance.
For this reason, great care is taken to keep the paper secret.

“To-day, about three o’clock, the proofs of this paper arrived from the
printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of Thucydides. I had
to read it over carefully, as the text must be absolutely correct. At
four-thirty my task was not yet completed. I had, however, promised to
take tea in a friend’s rooms, so I left the proof upon my desk. I was
absent rather more than an hour.

“You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double--a green
baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I approached my outer
door, I was amazed to see a key in it. For an instant I imagined that I
had left my own there, but on feeling in my pocket I found that it was
all right. The only duplicate which existed, so far as I knew, was that
which belonged to my servant, Bannister--a man who has looked after my
room for ten years, and whose honesty is absolutely above suspicion. I
found that the key was indeed his, that he had entered my room to know
if I wanted tea, and that he had very carelessly left the key in the
door when he came out. His visit to my room must have been within a very
few minutes of my leaving it. His forgetfulness about the key would
have mattered little upon any other occasion, but on this one day it has
produced the most deplorable consequences.

“The moment I looked at my table, I was aware that someone had rummaged
among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I had left them all
together. Now, I found that one of them was lying on the floor, one was
on the side table near the window, and the third was where I had left
it.”

Holmes stirred for the first time.

“The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third where
you left it,” said he.

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know that?”

“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpardonable
liberty of examining my papers. He denied it, however, with the utmost
earnestness, and I am convinced that he was speaking the truth. The
alternative was that someone passing had observed the key in the door,
had known that I was out, and had entered to look at the papers. A large
sum of money is at stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one,
and an unscrupulous man might very well run a risk in order to gain an
advantage over his fellows.

“Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly fainted
when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been tampered with. I gave
him a little brandy and left him collapsed in a chair, while I made a
most careful examination of the room. I soon saw that the intruder had
left other traces of his presence besides the rumpled papers. On the
table in the window were several shreds from a pencil which had been
sharpened. A broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the
rascal had copied the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil, and
had been compelled to put a fresh point to it.”

“Excellent!” said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as his
attention became more engrossed by the case. “Fortune has been your
friend.”

“This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface of red
leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that it was
smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about three inches
long--not a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not only this, but on
the table I found a small ball of black dough or clay, with specks of
something which looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced that these
marks were left by the man who rifled the papers. There were no
footmarks and no other evidence as to his identity. I was at my wit’s
end, when suddenly the happy thought occurred to me that you were in the
town, and I came straight round to put the matter into your hands. Do
help me, Mr. Holmes. You see my dilemma. Either I must find the man or
else the examination must be postponed until fresh papers are prepared,
and since this cannot be done without explanation, there will ensue a
hideous scandal, which will throw a cloud not only on the college,
but on the university. Above all things, I desire to settle the matter
quietly and discreetly.”

“I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as I
can,” said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. “The case is not
entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you in your room after
the papers came to you?”

“Yes, young Daulat Ras, an Indian student, who lives on the same stair,
came in to ask me some particulars about the examination.”

“For which he was entered?”

“Yes.”

“And the papers were on your table?”

“To the best of my belief, they were rolled up.”

“But might be recognized as proofs?”

“Possibly.”

“No one else in your room?”

“No.”

“Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”

“No one save the printer.”

“Did this man Bannister know?”

“No, certainly not. No one knew.”

“Where is Bannister now?”

“He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair. I was
in such a hurry to come to you.”

“You left your door open?”

“I locked up the papers first.”

“Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames: that, unless the Indian student
recognized the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered with them came
upon them accidentally without knowing that they were there.”

“So it seems to me.”

Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

“Well,” said he, “let us go round. Not one of your cases,
Watson--mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now, Mr.
Soames--at your disposal!”

The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed window on
to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A Gothic arched
door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground floor was the tutor’s
room. Above were three students, one on each story. It was already
twilight when we reached the scene of our problem. Holmes halted and
looked earnestly at the window. Then he approached it, and, standing on
tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into the room.

“He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except the
one pane,” said our learned guide.

“Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he glanced
at our companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be learned here, we had
best go inside.”

The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We
stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination of the carpet.

“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly hope
for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite recovered.
You left him in a chair, you say. Which chair?”

“By the window there.”

“I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished
with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of course, what has
happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers, sheet by
sheet, from the central table. He carried them over to the window table,
because from there he could see if you came across the courtyard, and so
could effect an escape.”

“As a matter of fact, he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered by the
side door.”

“Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the
three strips. No finger impressions--no! Well, he carried over this one
first, and he copied it. How long would it take him to do that, using
every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less. Then he
tossed it down and seized the next. He was in the midst of that when
your return caused him to make a very hurried retreat--VERY hurried,
since he had not time to replace the papers which would tell you that he
had been there. You were not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as
you entered the outer door?”

“No, I can’t say I was.”

“Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as you
observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson. The pencil
was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size, with a soft lead,
the outer colour was dark blue, the maker’s name was printed in silver
lettering, and the piece remaining is only about an inch and a half
long. Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have got your man.
When I add that he possesses a large and very blunt knife, you have an
additional aid.”

Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information. “I can
follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this matter of the
length----”

Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear
wood after them.

“You see?”

“No, I fear that even now----”

“Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What
could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware that Johann
Faber is the most common maker’s name. Is it not clear that there is
just as much of the pencil left as usually follows the Johann?” He held
the small table sideways to the electric light. “I was hoping that
if the paper on which he wrote was thin, some trace of it might come
through upon this polished surface. No, I see nothing. I don’t think
there is anything more to be learned here. Now for the central table.
This small pellet is, I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke of.
Roughly pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say,
there appear to be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this is very
interesting. And the cut--a positive tear, I see. It began with a
thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am much indebted to you for
directing my attention to this case, Mr. Soames. Where does that door
lead to?”

“To my bedroom.”

“Have you been in it since your adventure?”

“No, I came straight away for you.”

“I should like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned
room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute, until I have examined the
floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain? You hang your clothes
behind it. If anyone were forced to conceal himself in this room he must
do it there, since the bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No
one there, I suppose?”

As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and
alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an emergency. As a
matter of fact, the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or four
suits of clothes hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away, and
stooped suddenly to the floor.

“Halloa! What’s this?” said he.

It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like the one
upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his open palm in the
glare of the electric light.

“Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well as in
your sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”

“What could he have wanted there?”

“I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and so
he had no warning until you were at the very door. What could he do?
He caught up everything which would betray him, and he rushed into your
bedroom to conceal himself.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that, all the time I
was talking to Bannister in this room, we had the man prisoner if we had
only known it?”

“So I read it.”

“Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know whether
you observed my bedroom window?”

“Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging on
hinge, and large enough to admit a man.”

“Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be
partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance there, left
traces as he passed through the bedroom, and finally, finding the door
open, have escaped that way.”

Holmes shook his head impatiently.

“Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that there are
three students who use this stair, and are in the habit of passing your
door?”

“Yes, there are.”

“And they are all in for this examination?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the others?”

Soames hesitated.

“It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to throw
suspicion where there are no proofs.”

“Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”

“I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men
who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine
scholar and athlete, plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for
the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles and the long jump. He is
a fine, manly fellow. His father was the notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist,
who ruined himself on the turf. My scholar has been left very poor, but
he is hard-working and industrious. He will do well.

“The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a quiet,
inscrutable fellow; as most of those Indians are. He is well up in his
work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady and methodical.

“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow when
he chooses to work--one of the brightest intellects of the university;
but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He was nearly expelled
over a card scandal in his first year. He has been idling all this term,
and he must look forward with dread to the examination.”

“Then it is he whom you suspect?”

“I dare not go so far as that. But, of the three, he is perhaps the
least unlikely.”

“Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
Bannister.”

He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of
fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of the quiet
routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with his nervousness,
and his fingers could not keep still.

“We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his
master.

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very day
when there were these papers inside?”

“It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same
thing at other times.”

“When did you enter the room?”

“It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames’ tea time.”

“How long did you stay?”

“When I saw that he was absent, I withdrew at once.”

“Did you look at these papers on the table?”

“No, sir--certainly not.”

“How came you to leave the key in the door?”

“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the key.
Then I forgot.”

“Has the outer door a spring lock?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it was open all the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone in the room could get out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
disturbed?”

“Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years that I
have been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”

“So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”

“Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”

“That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder near
the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”

“I don’t know, sir, it didn’t matter to me where I sat.”

“I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was looking
very bad--quite ghastly.”

“You stayed here when your master left?”

“Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my room.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don’t believe there is any
gentleman in this university who is capable of profiting by such an
action. No, sir, I’ll not believe it.”

“Thank you, that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You have not
mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend that anything is
amiss?”

“No, sir--not a word.”

“You haven’t seen any of them?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle, if
you please.”

Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.

“Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking up.
“Halloa! What’s that? One of them seems restless enough.”

It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his
blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

“I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is it
possible?”

“No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms is
quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors to
go over them. Come along, and I will personally conduct you.”

“No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist’s door. A
tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome
when he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces of
mediaeval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with
one of them that he insisted on drawing it in his notebook, broke his
pencil, had to borrow one from our host and finally borrowed a knife to
sharpen his own. The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms
of the Indian--a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance,
and was obviously glad when Holmes’s architectural studies had come to
an end. I could not see that in either case Holmes had come upon the
clue for which he was searching. Only at the third did our visit prove
abortive. The outer door would not open to our knock, and nothing more
substantial than a torrent of bad language came from behind it. “I
don’t care who you are. You can go to blazes!” roared the angry voice.
“Tomorrow’s the exam, and I won’t be drawn by anyone.”

“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew
down the stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it was I who was
knocking, but none the less his conduct was very uncourteous, and,
indeed, under the circumstances rather suspicious.”

Holmes’s response was a curious one.

“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the
Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six would be about
it.”

“That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I wish you
good-night.”

Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good gracious,
Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt fashion!
You don’t seem to realize the position. To-morrow is the examination. I
must take some definite action to-night. I cannot allow the examination
to be held if one of the papers has been tampered with. The situation
must be faced.”

“You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow morning
and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a position
then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile, you change
nothing--nothing at all.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”

“You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some
way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me, also
the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”

When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again looked
up at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were
invisible.

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came out
into the main street. “Quite a little parlour game--sort of three-card
trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be one of them. You
take your choice. Which is yours?”

“The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst
record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be
pacing his room all the time?”

“There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to learn
anything by heart.”

“He looked at us in a queer way.”

“So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were
preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was of
value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives--all was
satisfactory. But that fellow DOES puzzle me.”

“Who?”

“Why, Bannister, the servant. What’s his game in the matter?”

“He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”

“So he did me. That’s the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
honest man--Well, well, here’s a large stationer’s. We shall begin our
researches here.”

There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town, and at
each Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid high for a duplicate. All
were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it was not a usual size
of pencil and that it was seldom kept in stock. My friend did not
appear to be depressed by his failure, but shrugged his shoulders in
half-humorous resignation.

“No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run
to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a
sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly nine,
and the landlady babbled of green peas at seven-thirty. What with your
eternal tobacco, Watson, and your irregularity at meals, I expect that
you will get notice to quit, and that I shall share your downfall--not,
however, before we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the
careless servant, and the three enterprising students.”

Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he sat
lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At eight in
the morning, he came into my room just as I finished my toilet.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke’s. Can you
do without breakfast?”

“Certainly.”

“Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell him
something positive.”

“Have you anything positive to tell him?”

“I think so.”

“You have formed a conclusion?”

“Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery.”

“But what fresh evidence could you have got?”

“Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at the
untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours’ hard work and covered at
least five miles, with something to show for it. Look at that!”

He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of black,
doughy clay.

“Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday.”

“And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever No. 3
came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well, come
along and put friend Soames out of his pain.”

The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agitation
when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the examination would
commence, and he was still in the dilemma between making the facts
public and allowing the culprit to compete for the valuable scholarship.
He could hardly stand still so great was his mental agitation, and he
ran towards Holmes with two eager hands outstretched.

“Thank heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it up in
despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?”

“Yes, let it proceed, by all means.”

“But this rascal?”

“He shall not compete.”

“You know him?”

“I think so. If this matter is not to become public, we must give
ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small private
court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson you here! I’ll
take the armchair in the middle. I think that we are now sufficiently
imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast. Kindly ring the bell!”

Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear at our
judicial appearance.

“You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister, will you
please tell us the truth about yesterday’s incident?”

The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

“I have told you everything, sir.”

“Nothing to add?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat down
on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal some object
which would have shown who had been in the room?”

Bannister’s face was ghastly.

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit that
I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since the moment
that Mr. Soames’s back was turned, you released the man who was hiding
in that bedroom.”

Bannister licked his dry lips.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Ah, that’s a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the truth,
but now I know that you have lied.”

The man’s face set in sullen defiance.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Come, come, Bannister!”

“No, sir, there was no one.”

“In that case, you can give us no further information. Would you please
remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom door. Now, Soames,
I am going to ask you to have the great kindness to go up to the room of
young Gilchrist, and to ask him to step down into yours.”

An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student. He
was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with a springy step
and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at each of us,
and finally rested with an expression of blank dismay upon Bannister in
the farther corner.

“Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all
quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what passes
between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We want to know,
Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever came to commit such an
action as that of yesterday?”

The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look full of horror
and reproach at Bannister.

“No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word--never one word!” cried
the servant.

“No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that after
Bannister’s words your position is hopeless, and that your only chance
lies in a frank confession.”

For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees beside
the table, and burying his face in his hands, he had burst into a storm
of passionate sobbing.

“Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly, “it is human to err, and at least
no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it would be
easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what occurred, and you can
check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don’t trouble to
answer. Listen, and see that I do you no injustice.

“From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one, not even
Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your room, the case
began to take a definite shape in my mind. The printer one could, of
course, dismiss. He could examine the papers in his own office. The
Indian I also thought nothing of. If the proofs were in a roll, he
could not possibly know what they were. On the other hand, it seemed an
unthinkable coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room,
and that by chance on that very day the papers were on the table. I
dismissed that. The man who entered knew that the papers were there. How
did he know?

“When I approached your room, I examined the window. You amused me by
supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of someone having
in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these opposite rooms, forced
himself through it. Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall a
man would need to be in order to see, as he passed, what papers were on
the central table. I am six feet high, and I could do it with an effort.
No one less than that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason
to think that, if one of your three students was a man of unusual
height, he was the most worth watching of the three.

“I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions of
the side table. Of the centre table I could make nothing, until in
your description of Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a long-distance
jumper. Then the whole thing came to me in an instant, and I only needed
certain corroborative proofs, which I speedily obtained.

“What happened with {sic} this: This young fellow had employed his
afternoon at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising the
jump. He returned carrying his jumping-shoes, which are provided, as you
are aware, with several sharp spikes. As he passed your window he
saw, by means of his great height, these proofs upon your table, and
conjectured what they were. No harm would have been done had it not been
that, as he passed your door, he perceived the key which had been left
by the carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to
enter, and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a dangerous
exploit for he could always pretend that he had simply looked in to ask
a question.

“Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that
he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What was it you
put on that chair near the window?”

“Gloves,” said the young man.

Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on the
chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them. He thought
the tutor must return by the main gate and that he would see him. As we
know, he came back by the side gate. Suddenly he heard him at the very
door. There was no possible escape. He forgot his gloves but he caught
up his shoes and darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch
on that table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the
bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe had been
drawn in that direction, and that the culprit had taken refuge there.
The earth round the spike had been left on the table, and a second
sample was loosened and fell in the bedroom. I may add that I walked out
to the athletic grounds this morning, saw that tenacious black clay is
used in the jumping-pit and carried away a specimen of it, together with
some of the fine tan or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the
athlete from slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?”

The student had drawn himself erect.

“Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.

“Good heavens! have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.

“Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to you
early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was before I
knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You will see that I
have said, ‘I have determined not to go in for the examination. I have
been offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to
South Africa at once.’”

“I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by your
unfair advantage,” said Soames. “But why did you change your purpose?”

Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

“There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.

“Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you, from what
I have said, that only you could have let this young man out, since you
were left in the room, and must have locked the door when you went out.
As to his escaping by that window, it was incredible. Can you not clear
up the last point in this mystery, and tell us the reasons for your
action?”

“It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known, but, with all your
cleverness, it was impossible that you could know. Time was, sir, when
I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman’s father.
When he was ruined I came to the college as servant, but I never forgot
my old employer because he was down in the world. I watched his son all
I could for the sake of the old days. Well, sir, when I came into this
room yesterday, when the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was
Mr. Gilchrist’s tan gloves a-lying in that chair. I knew those gloves
well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them, the game
was up. I flopped down into that chair, and nothing would budge me until
Mr. Soames he went for you. Then out came my poor young master, whom I
had dandled on my knee, and confessed it all to me. Wasn’t it natural,
sir, that I should save him, and wasn’t it natural also that I should
try to speak to him as his dead father would have done, and make him
understand that he could not profit by such a deed? Could you blame me,
sir?”

“No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. “Well,
Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up, and our
breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you, sir, I trust that
a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For once you have fallen low.
Let us see, in the future, how high you can rise.”





THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ


When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our
work for the year 1894, I confess that it is very difficult for me,
out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most
interesting in themselves, and at the same time most conducive to a
display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. As I
turn over the pages, I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the red
leech and the terrible death of Crosby, the banker. Here also I find
an account of the Addleton tragedy, and the singular contents of the
ancient British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes
also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret,
the Boulevard assassin--an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph
letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of the Legion
of Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on the whole
I am of opinion that none of them unites so many singular points of
interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the
lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also those subsequent
developments which threw so curious a light upon the causes of the
crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November.
Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a
powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon
a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the
wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the
windows. It was strange there, in the very depths of the town, with ten
miles of man’s handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of
Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London
was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps
gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab
was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

“Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to turn out to-night,” said
Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. “I’ve done
enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far as I can
make out, it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey’s accounts dating
from the second half of the fifteenth century. Halloa! halloa! halloa!
What’s this?”

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse’s
hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the curb. The
cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

“What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

“Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and cravats
and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight the weather.
Wait a bit, though! There’s the cab off again! There’s hope yet. He’d
have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and
open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed.”

When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor, I had no
difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising
detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very
practical interest.

“Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.

“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from above. “I hope you have
no designs upon us such a night as this.”

The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his shining
waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes knocked a blaze out of
the logs in the grate.

“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he. “Here’s
a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a
lemon, which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be something
important which has brought you out in such a gale.”

“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had a bustling afternoon, I promise you.
Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?”

“I’ve seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day.”

“Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have not
missed anything. I haven’t let the grass grow under my feet. It’s down
in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway line. I
was wired for at 3:15, reached Yoxley Old Place at 5, conducted my
investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the last train, and straight
to you by cab.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?”

“It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I can
see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet at
first it seemed so simple that one couldn’t go wrong. There’s no motive,
Mr. Holmes. That’s what bothers me--I can’t put my hand on a motive.
Here’s a man dead--there’s no denying that--but, so far as I can see, no
reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm.”

Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

“Let us hear about it,” said he.

“I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I want now
is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out,
is like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old Place, was
taken by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor Coram. He was
an invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the other half hobbling
round the house with a stick or being pushed about the grounds by the
gardener in a Bath chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who
called upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very
learned man. His household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper,
Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with him
since his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character. The
professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary, about
a year ago, to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were
not successes, but the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man
straight from the university, seems to have been just what his employer
wanted. His work consisted in writing all the morning to the professor’s
dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references and
passages which bore upon the next day’s work. This Willoughby Smith has
nothing against him, either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at
Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the first he was a
decent, quiet, hard-working fellow, with no weak spot in him at all.
And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in the
professor’s study under circumstances which can point only to murder.”

The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer to
the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point by point developed
his singular narrative.

“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don’t suppose you could
find a household more self-contained or freer from outside influences.
Whole weeks would pass, and not one of them go past the garden gate.
The professor was buried in his work and existed for nothing else.
Young Smith knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived very much as
his employer did. The two women had nothing to take them from the
house. Mortimer, the gardener, who wheels the Bath chair, is an army
pensioner--an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live
in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the
garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the grounds
of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the garden is a
hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. It opens with a
latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from walking in.

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only
person who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the
forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in
hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram was
still in bed, for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before midday.
The housekeeper was busied with some work in the back of the
house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a
sitting-room, but the maid heard him at that moment pass along the
passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not
see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm
tread. She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later
there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse
scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from a
man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy thud, which shook
the old house, and then all was silence. The maid stood petrified for a
moment, and then, recovering her courage, she ran downstairs. The study
door was shut and she opened it. Inside, young Mr. Willoughby Smith was
stretched upon the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she
tried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of
his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had
divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury had
been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small
sealing-wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with
an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the
professor’s own desk.

“At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on
pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his eyes
for an instant. ‘The professor,’ he murmured--‘it was she.’ The maid is
prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried desperately
to say something else, and he held his right hand up in the air. Then he
fell back dead.

“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but
she was just too late to catch the young man’s dying words. Leaving
Susan with the body, she hurried to the professor’s room. He was sitting
up in bed, horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to convince him
that something terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear
that the professor was still in his night-clothes, and indeed it was
impossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orders
were to come at twelve o’clock. The professor declares that he heard the
distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation
of the young man’s last words, ‘The professor--it was she,’ but imagines
that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that Willoughby
Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no reason for the
crime. His first action was to send Mortimer, the gardener, for the
local police. A little later the chief constable sent for me. Nothing
was moved before I got there, and strict orders were given that no
one should walk upon the paths leading to the house. It was a splendid
chance of putting your theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
There was really nothing wanting.”

“Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat bitter
smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of a job did you make of
it?”

“I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, which
will give you a general idea of the position of the professor’s study
and the various points of the case. It will help you in following my
investigation.”

He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce,


GRAPHIC


and he laid it across Holmes’s knee. I rose and, standing behind Holmes,
studied it over his shoulder.

“It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points
which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for
yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the
house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and the
back door, from which there is direct access to the study. Any other way
would have been exceedingly complicated. The escape must have also been
made along that line, for of the two other exits from the room one was
blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to
the professor’s bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once
to the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain, and would
certainly show any footmarks.

“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert
criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no
question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which
lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a
track. I could not find anything in the nature of a distinct impression,
but the grass was trodden down, and someone had undoubtedly passed. It
could only have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone
else had been there that morning, and the rain had only begun during the
night.”

“One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”

“To the road.”

“How long is it?”

“A hundred yards or so.”

“At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could surely
pick up the tracks?”

“Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”

“Well, on the road itself?”

“No, it was all trodden into mire.”

“Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming or
going?”

“It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”

“A large foot or a small?”

“You could not distinguish.”

Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

“It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,” said
he. “It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well, it
can’t be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain
that you had made certain of nothing?”

“I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that someone
had entered the house cautiously from without. I next examined the
corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had taken no impression
of any kind. This brought me into the study itself. It is a scantily
furnished room. The main article is a large writing-table with a fixed
bureau. This bureau consists of a double column of drawers, with a
central small cupboard between them. The drawers were open, the cupboard
locked. The drawers, it seems, were always open, and nothing of value
was kept in them. There were some papers of importance in the cupboard,
but there were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the
professor assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no
robbery has been committed.

“I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the bureau,
and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The stab was on
the right side of the neck and from behind forward, so that it is almost
impossible that it could have been self-inflicted.”

“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.

“Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet
away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there are
the man’s own dying words. And, finally, there was this very important
piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man’s right hand.”

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded
it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of black
silk cord dangling from the end of it. “Willoughby Smith had excellent
sight,” he added. “There can be no question that this was snatched from
the face or the person of the assassin.”

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined them with
the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose, endeavoured
to read through them, went to the window and stared up the street with
them, looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp, and
finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table and wrote a few
lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

“That’s the best I can do for you,” said he. “It may prove to be of some
use.”

The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:


“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side
of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression, and probably
rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had recourse to an
optician at least twice during the last few months. As her glasses are
of remarkable strength, and as opticians are not very numerous, there
should be no difficulty in tracing her.”


Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have been
reflected upon my features. “Surely my deductions are simplicity
itself,” said he. “It would be difficult to name any articles which
afford a finer field for inference than a pair of glasses, especially
so remarkable a pair as these. That they belong to a woman I infer from
their delicacy, and also, of course, from the last words of the dying
man. As to her being a person of refinement and well dressed, they
are, as you perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is
inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in
other respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your nose,
showing that the lady’s nose was very broad at the base. This sort of
nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there is a sufficient number
of exceptions to prevent me from being dogmatic or from insisting upon
this point in my description. My own face is a narrow one, and yet I
find that I cannot get my eyes into the centre, nor near the centre, of
these glasses. Therefore, the lady’s eyes are set very near to the sides
of the nose. You will perceive, Watson, that the glasses are concave
and of unusual strength. A lady whose vision has been so extremely
contracted all her life is sure to have the physical characteristics
of such vision, which are seen in the forehead, the eyelids, and the
shoulders.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of your arguments. I confess, however,
that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the double visit to the
optician.”

Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

“You will perceive,” he said, “that the clips are lined with tiny
bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these is
discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is new.
Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should judge that the
older of them has not been there more than a few months. They
exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went back to the same
establishment for the second.”

“By George, it’s marvellous!” cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
admiration. “To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and
never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the London
opticians.”

“Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us about
the case?”

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
now--probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger seen
on the country roads or at the railway station. We have heard of none.
What beats me is the utter want of all object in the crime. Not a ghost
of a motive can anyone suggest.”

“Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you want us
to come out to-morrow?”

“If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There’s a train from Charing
Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be at Yoxley Old
Place between eight and nine.”

“Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of great
interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well, it’s nearly
one, and we had best get a few hours’ sleep. I daresay you can manage
all right on the sofa in front of the fire. I’ll light my spirit lamp,
and give you a cup of coffee before we start.”

The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter morning when
we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise over the
dreary marshes of the Thames and the long, sullen reaches of the river,
which I shall ever associate with our pursuit of the Andaman Islander
in the earlier days of our career. After a long and weary journey, we
alighted at a small station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was
being put into a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast,
and so we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley
Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.

“Well, Wilson, any news?”

“No, sir--nothing.”

“No reports of any stranger seen?”

“No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger either
came or went yesterday.”

“Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?”

“Yes, sir: there is no one that we cannot account for.”

“Well, it’s only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay there
or take a train without being observed. This is the garden path of
which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I’ll pledge my word there was no mark on it
yesterday.”

“On which side were the marks on the grass?”

“This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the
flower-bed. I can’t see the traces now, but they were clear to me then.”

“Yes, yes: someone has passed along,” said Holmes, stooping over the
grass border. “Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must she
not, since on the one side she would leave a track on the path, and on
the other an even clearer one on the soft bed?”

“Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.”

I saw an intent look pass over Holmes’s face.

“You say that she must have come back this way?”

“Yes, sir, there is no other.”

“On this strip of grass?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hum! It was a very remarkable performance--very remarkable. Well, I
think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door is
usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor had nothing to do but
to walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would have
provided herself with some sort of weapon, instead of having to pick
this knife off the writing-table. She advanced along this corridor,
leaving no traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in
this study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging.”

“Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long
before--about a quarter of an hour, she says.”

“Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and what does
she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not for anything
in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking, it would
surely have been locked up. No, it was for something in that wooden
bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch upon the face of it? Just hold a
match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?”

The mark which he was examining began upon the brass-work on the
right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches,
where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

“I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you’ll always find scratches round a
keyhole.”

“This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is
cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at it
through my lens. There’s the varnish, too, like earth on each side of a
furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?”

A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

“Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice this scratch?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these shreds
of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?”

“The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”

“Is it a simple key?”

“No, sir, it is a Chubb’s key.”

“Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and either
opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged, young Willoughby
Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key, she makes this
scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and she, snatching up the nearest
object, which happens to be this knife, strikes at him in order to make
him let go his hold. The blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes,
either with or without the object for which she has come. Is Susan, the
maid, there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the time
that you heard the cry, Susan?”

“No sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I’d have seen
anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, or I would have
heard it.”

“That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she
came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the professor’s
room. There is no exit that way?”

“No, sir.”

“We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor. Halloa,
Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed. The professor’s
corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.”

“Well, sir, what of that?”

“Don’t you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well. I don’t insist
upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be suggestive.
Come with me and introduce me.”

We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that which
led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps ending in
a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the professor’s
bedroom.

It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which had
overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or were
stacked all round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the centre
of the room, and in it, propped up with pillows, was the owner of the
house. I have seldom seen a more remarkable-looking person. It was a
gaunt, aquiline face which was turned towards us, with piercing dark
eyes, which lurked in deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His
hair and beard were white, save that the latter was curiously stained
with yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of
white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco smoke.
As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived that it was also stained
with yellow nicotine.

“A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking in well-chosen English, with
a curious little mincing accent. “Pray take a cigarette. And you, sir?
I can recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionides, of
Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I
have to arrange for a fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad,
but an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work--that is all that
is left to me.”

Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting little darting glances all
over the room.

“Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man exclaimed.
“Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have foreseen such a
terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that, after
a few months’ training, he was an admirable assistant. What do you think
of the matter, Mr. Holmes?”

“I have not yet made up my mind.”

“I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where all is
so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself such a blow
is paralyzing. I seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But you are
a man of action--you are a man of affairs. It is part of the everyday
routine of your life. You can preserve your balance in every emergency.
We are fortunate, indeed, in having you at our side.”

Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with extraordinary
rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host’s liking for the fresh
Alexandrian cigarettes.

“Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my MAGNUM
OPUS--the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is my analysis of
the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria and Egypt, a work
which will cut deep at the very foundation of revealed religion. With my
enfeebled health I do not know whether I shall ever be able to complete
it, now that my assistant has been taken from me. Dear me! Mr. Holmes,
why, you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself.”

Holmes smiled.

“I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the
box--his fourth--and lighting it from the stub of that which he had
finished. “I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination,
Professor Coram, since I gather that you were in bed at the time of the
crime, and could know nothing about it. I would only ask this: What
do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last words: ‘The
professor--it was she’?”

The professor shook his head.

“Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible
stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some
incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into this
meaningless message.”

“I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”

“Possibly an accident, possibly--I only breathe it among ourselves--a
suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles--some affair of the heart,
perhaps, which we have never known. It is a more probable supposition
than murder.”

“But the eyeglasses?”

“Ah! I am only a student--a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend, that
love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take another cigarette.
It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them so. A fan, a glove,
glasses--who knows what article may be carried as a token or treasured
when a man puts an end to his life? This gentleman speaks of footsteps
in the grass, but, after all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point.
As to the knife, it might well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as
he fell. It is possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that
Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand.”

Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued to
walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and consuming cigarette
after cigarette.

“Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that cupboard
in the bureau?”

“Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my poor
wife, diplomas of universities which have done me honour. Here is the
key. You can look for yourself.”

Holmes picked up the key, and looked at it for an instant, then he
handed it back.

“No, I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should prefer
to go quietly down to your garden, and turn the whole matter over in my
head. There is something to be said for the theory of suicide which
you have put forward. We must apologize for having intruded upon you,
Professor Coram, and I promise that we won’t disturb you until after
lunch. At two o’clock we will come again, and report to you anything
which may have happened in the interval.”

Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the garden path
for some time in silence.

“Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.

“It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is
possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me.”

“My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth----”

“Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there’s no harm done. Of
course, we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I take
a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker! Let us
enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her.”

I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a peculiarly
ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily established terms
of confidence with them. In half the time which he had named, he had
captured the housekeeper’s goodwill and was chatting with her as if he
had known her for years.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I’ve seen that room of
a morning--well, sir, you’d have thought it was a London fog. Poor young
Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad as the professor. His
health--well, I don’t know that it’s better nor worse for the smoking.”

“Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, sir.”

“I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?”

“Well, he is variable. I’ll say that for him.”

“I’ll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won’t face his lunch
after all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”

“Well, you’re out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable big
breakfast this morning. I don’t know when I’ve known him make a
better one, and he’s ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch. I’m
surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and saw
young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor, I couldn’t bear to look at
food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the professor hasn’t
let it take his appetite away.”

We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone
down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman who had
been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous morning. As
to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to have deserted him. I had
never known him handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion. Even the
news brought back by Hopkins that he had found the children, and that
they had undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes’s
description, and wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed to
rouse any sign of keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who
waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed
Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had
only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not
myself see the bearing of this incident, but I clearly perceived that
Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme which he had formed in his
brain. Suddenly he sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch. “Two
o’clock, gentlemen,” said he. “We must go up and have it out with our
friend, the professor.”

The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish
bore evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had
credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white mane
and his glowing eyes towards us. The eternal cigarette smouldered in his
mouth. He had been dressed and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved the
large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my
companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and between
them they tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two we were all
on our knees retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible places. When we
rose again, I observed Holmes’s eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged
with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.

“Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”

Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer
quivered over the gaunt features of the old professor.

“Indeed! In the garden?”

“No, here.”

“Here! When?”

“This instant.”

“You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell you
that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a fashion.”

“I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram, and I
am sure that it is sound. What your motives are, or what exact part
you play in this strange business, I am not yet able to say. In a few
minutes I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile I will
reconstruct what is past for your benefit, so that you may know the
information which I still require.

“A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of
possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau. She
had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining yours, and
I do not find that slight discolouration which the scratch made upon the
varnish would have produced. You were not an accessory, therefore, and
she came, so far as I can read the evidence, without your knowledge to
rob you.”

The professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most interesting and
instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add? Surely, having traced
this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her.”

“I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your
secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am
inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that the
lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous an injury. An assassin
does not come unarmed. Horrified by what she had done, she rushed wildly
away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for her, she had lost
her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she
was really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she
imagined to be that by which she had come--both were lined with cocoanut
matting--and it was only when it was too late that she understood that
she had taken the wrong passage, and that her retreat was cut off behind
her. What was she to do? She could not go back. She could not remain
where she was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed
open a door, and found herself in your room.”

The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at Holmes. Amazement
and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now, with an effort,
he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere laughter.

“All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little flaw
in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it
during the day.”

“I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”

“And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware
that a woman had entered my room?”

“I never said so. You WERE aware of it. You spoke with her. You
recognized her. You aided her to escape.”

Again the professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to his
feet, and his eyes glowed like embers.

“You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her to
escape? Where is she now?”

“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the
corner of the room.

I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed over
his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same instant the
bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a hinge, and a woman
rushed out into the room. “You are right!” she cried, in a strange
foreign voice. “You are right! I am here.”

She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had come
from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked with
grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome, for she had
the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined, with, in
addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural blindness,
and what with the change from dark to light, she stood as one dazed,
blinking about her to see where and who we were. And yet, in spite of
all these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman’s
bearing--a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head, which
compelled something of respect and admiration.

Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his
prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an over-mastering
dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay back in his chair
with a twitching face, and stared at her with brooding eyes.

“Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I could
hear everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I confess
it all. It was I who killed the young man. But you are right--you who
say it was an accident. I did not even know that it was a knife which
I held in my hand, for in my despair I snatched anything from the table
and struck at him to make him let me go. It is the truth that I tell.”

“Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that you
are far from well.”

She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the bed;
then she resumed.

“I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you to
know the whole truth. I am this man’s wife. He is not an Englishman. He
is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”

For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he cried.
“God bless you!”

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why should you
cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?” said she. “It
has done harm to many and good to none--not even to yourself. However,
it is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped before God’s
time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold
of this cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.

“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man’s wife. He was fifty and I
a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of Russia, a
university--I will not name the place.”

“God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.

“We were reformers--revolutionists--Nihilists, you understand. He and I
and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police officer was
killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order to save
his own life and to earn a great reward, my husband betrayed his own
wife and his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his confession.
Some of us found our way to the gallows, and some to Siberia. I was
among these last, but my term was not for life. My husband came to
England with his ill-gotten gains and has lived in quiet ever since,
knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a week would
pass before justice would be done.”

The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
cigarette. “I am in your hands, Anna,” said he. “You were always good to
me.”

“I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she. “Among
our comrades of the Order, there was one who was the friend of my heart.
He was noble, unselfish, loving--all that my husband was not. He hated
violence. We were all guilty--if that is guilt--but he was not. He wrote
forever dissuading us from such a course. These letters would have saved
him. So would my diary, in which, from day to day, I had entered both my
feelings towards him and the view which each of us had taken. My husband
found and kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to
swear away the young man’s life. In this he failed, but Alexis was sent
a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he works in a salt
mine. Think of that, you villain, you villain!--now, now, at this very
moment, Alexis, a man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works and
lives like a slave, and yet I have your life in my hands, and I let you
go.”

“You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing at his
cigarette.

She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to get
the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian government, would
procure my friend’s release. I knew that my husband had come to England.
After months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew that he
still had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him
once, reproaching me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was
sure that, with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me of
his own free-will. I must get it for myself. With this object I engaged
an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my husband’s house
as a secretary--it was your second secretary, Sergius, the one who left
you so hurriedly. He found that papers were kept in the cupboard, and he
got an impression of the key. He would not go farther. He furnished me
with a plan of the house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study
was always empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I
took my courage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for
myself. I succeeded; but at what a cost!

“I had just taken the paper; and was locking the cupboard, when the
young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met me
on the road, and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram lived,
not knowing that he was in his employ.”

“Exactly! Exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back, and told his
employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last breath, he tried to
send a message that it was she--the she whom he had just discussed with
him.”

“You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice, and
her face contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen I rushed from the
room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband’s room. He
spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so, his life was in
my hands. If he gave me to the law, I could give him to the Brotherhood.
It was not that I wished to live for my own sake, but it was that
I desired to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I would do what I
said--that his own fate was involved in mine. For that reason, and for
no other, he shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place--a
relic of old days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own
room, and so was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed that
when the police left the house I should slip away by night and come back
no more. But in some way you have read our plans.” She tore from the
bosom of her dress a small packet. “These are my last words,” said she;
“here is the packet which will save Alexis. I confide it to your honour
and to your love of justice. Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian
Embassy. Now, I have done my duty, and----”

“Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
wrenched a small phial from her hand.

“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took the
poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I
charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”

“A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one,” Holmes
remarked, as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from the outset upon
the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man having
seized these, I am not sure that we could ever have reached our
solution. It was clear to me, from the strength of the glasses, that
the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when deprived of them.
When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow strip of
grass without once making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember,
that it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an
impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a second
pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to consider seriously the
hypothesis that she had remained within the house. On perceiving the
similarity of the two corridors, it became clear that she might very
easily have made such a mistake, and, in that case, it was evident that
she must have entered the professor’s room. I was keenly on the alert,
therefore, for whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined
the room narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The
carpet seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of
a trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As you are
aware, such devices are common in old libraries. I observed that books
were piled on the floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was
left clear. This, then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide
me, but the carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well
to examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent
cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of the
suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective.
I then went downstairs, and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson,
without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram’s
consumption of food had increased--as one would expect when he is
supplying a second person. We then ascended to the room again, when,
by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent view of
the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces upon the
cigarette ash, that the prisoner had in our absence come out from her
retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate
you on having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You are
going to headquarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will drive
together to the Russian Embassy.”




THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER


We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street,
but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy
February morning, some seven or eight years ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock
Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran
thus:


Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter missing,
indispensable to-morrow. OVERTON.


“Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six,” said Holmes, reading
it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited when
he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he will
be here, I daresay, by the time I have looked through the TIMES, and
then we shall know all about it. Even the most insignificant problem
would be welcome in these stagnant days.”

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread
such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my companion’s
brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it without
material upon which to work. For years I had gradually weaned him
from that drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable
career. Now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved
for this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was
not dead but sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one
and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn
look upon Holmes’s ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set and
inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton whoever he might
be, since he had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous
calm which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his
tempestuous life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and
the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge, announced
the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone and
muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders, and looked
from one of us to the other with a comely face which was haggard with
anxiety.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My companion bowed.

“I’ve been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley
Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he
could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police.”

“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”

“It’s awful, Mr. Holmes--simply awful I wonder my hair isn’t gray.
Godfrey Staunton--you’ve heard of him, of course? He’s simply the hinge
that the whole team turns on. I’d rather spare two from the pack,
and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it’s passing, or
tackling, or dribbling, there’s no one to touch him, and then, he’s got
the head, and can hold us all together. What am I to do? That’s what I
ask you, Mr. Holmes. There’s Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained
as a half, and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of
keeping out on the touchline. He’s a fine place-kick, it’s true, but
then he has no judgment, and he can’t sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or
Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is
fast enough, but he couldn’t drop from the twenty-five line, and a
three-quarter who can’t either punt or drop isn’t worth a place for
pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find
Godfrey Staunton.”

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, which
was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every point
being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker’s
knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took
down letter “S” of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into
that mine of varied information.

“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he, “and
there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is
a new name to me.”

It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I suppose,
then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you don’t know Cyril
Overton either?”

Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

“Great Scott!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for England
against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ‘Varsity all this year. But that’s
nothing! I didn’t think there was a soul in England who didn’t know
Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and
five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where HAVE you lived?”

Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naive astonishment.

“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton--a sweeter and
healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the
best and soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected visit this
morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and fair play,
there may be work for me to do. So now, my good sir, I beg you to sit
down and to tell me, slowly and quietly, exactly what it is that has
occurred, and how you desire that I should help you.”

Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more
accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by degrees, with many
repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laid
his strange story before us.

“It’s this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of the
Rugger team of Cambridge ‘Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man.
To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up, and we settled at
Bentley’s private hotel. At ten o’clock I went round and saw that all
the fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training and
plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey
before he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked
him what was the matter. He said he was all right--just a touch of
headache. I bade him good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the
porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note
for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to his room.
Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed.
The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfrey
stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself together. Then
he went downstairs, said a few words to the man who was waiting in the
hall, and the two of them went off together. The last that the porter
saw of them, they were almost running down the street in the direction
of the Strand. This morning Godfrey’s room was empty, his bed had never
been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
before. He had gone off at a moment’s notice with this stranger, and no
word has come from him since. I don’t believe he will ever come back. He
was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn’t have
stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not for some
cause that was too strong for him. No: I feel as if he were gone for
good, and we should never see him again.”

Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular
narrative.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him there.
I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”

“Could he have got back to Cambridge?”

“Yes, there is a late train--quarter-past eleven.”

“But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?”

“No, he has not been seen.”

“What did you do next?”

“I wired to Lord Mount-James.”

“Why to Lord Mount-James?”

“Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest relative--his
uncle, I believe.”

“Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is one
of the richest men in England.”

“So I’ve heard Godfrey say.”

“And your friend was closely related?”

“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty--cram full of
gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his knuckles.
He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an absolute
miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”

“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”

“No.”

“What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?”

“Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to do
with money it is possible that he would make for his nearest relative,
who had so much of it, though from all I have heard he would not have
much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old man. He would
not go if he could help it.”

“Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to his
relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visit of this
rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitation that was
caused by his coming.”

Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can make nothing of it,”
 said he.

“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into the
matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you to make your
preparations for your match without reference to this young gentleman.
It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity which tore him
away in such a fashion, and the same necessity is likely to hold him
away. Let us step round together to the hotel, and see if the porter can
throw any fresh light upon the matter.”

Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey Staunton’s
abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter had to tell.
The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman, neither was he a
workingman. He was simply what the porter described as a “medium-looking
chap,” a man of fifty, beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed.
He seemed himself to be agitated. The porter had observed his hand
trembling when he had held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed
the note into his pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in
the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter had
only distinguished the one word “time.” Then they had hurried off in the
manner described. It was just half-past ten by the hall clock.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton’s bed. “You are
the day porter, are you not?”

“Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven.”

“The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”

“No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else.”

“Were you on duty all day yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”

“Yes, sir, one telegram.”

“Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”

“About six.”

“Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”

“Here in his room.”

“Were you present when he opened it?”

“Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer.”

“Well, was there?”

“Yes, sir, he wrote an answer.”

“Did you take it?”

“No, he took it himself.”

“But he wrote it in your presence.”

“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned at
that table. When he had written it, he said: ‘All right, porter, I will
take this myself.’”

“What did he write it with?”

“A pen, sir.”

“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”

“Yes, sir, it was the top one.”

Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window and
carefully examined that which was uppermost.

“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them down
again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt frequently
observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through--a fact which has
dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I
rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill
pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”

He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the
following hieroglyphic:


GRAPHIC


Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.

“That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and the reverse
will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over, and we read:


GRAPHIC [Stand by us for Gods sake]


“So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at least
six words of the message which have escaped us; but what remains--‘Stand
by us for God’s sake!’--proves that this young man saw a formidable
danger which approached him, and from which someone else could protect
him. ‘US,’ mark you! Another person was involved. Who should it be but
the pale-faced, bearded man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state?
What, then, is the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded
man? And what is the third source from which each of them sought for
help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to
that.”

“We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I suggested.

“Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had already
crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your notice that,
counterfoil of another man’s message, there may be some disinclination
on the part of the officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape in
these matters. However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy
and finesse the end may be attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your
presence, Mr. Overton, to go through these papers which have been left
upon the table.”

There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which Holmes
turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting,
penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By the way, I
suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow--nothing amiss with him?”

“Sound as a bell.”

“Have you ever known him ill?”

“Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped his
knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

“Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he may
have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will put one or two
of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our future
inquiry.”

“One moment--one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked up to
find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway. He
was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed top-hat and a
loose white necktie--the whole effect being that of a very rustic parson
or of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd
appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick
intensity which commanded attention.

“Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman’s
papers?” he asked.

“I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
disappearance.”

“Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”

“This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend, was referred to me by Scotland
Yard.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am Cyril Overton.”

“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord Mount-James. I
came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would bring me. So you have
instructed a detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will be
prepared to do that.”

“But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”

“In that case, no doubt his family----”

“Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don’t look to me
for a penny--not a penny! You understand that, Mr. Detective! I am all
the family that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am not
responsible. If he has any expectations it is due to the fact that I
have never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As
to those papers with which you are making so free, I may tell you that
in case there should be anything of any value among them, you will be
held strictly to account for what you do with them.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask, in the meanwhile,
whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man’s
disappearance?”

“No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look after
himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I entirely refuse
to accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”

“I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don’t quite understand mine. Godfrey
Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped, it
could not have been for anything which he himself possesses. The fame
of your wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely
possible that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to
gain from him some information as to your house, your habits, and your
treasure.”

The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.

“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy! What
inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad--a
staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away. I’ll
have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the meantime
spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no stone unturned to
bring him safely back. As to money, well, so far as a fiver or even a
tenner goes you can always look to me.”

Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give us no
information which could help us, for he knew little of the private life
of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a
copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find a second link for
his chain. We had shaken off Lord Mount-James, and Overton had gone to
consult with the other members of his team over the misfortune which had
befallen them.

There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel. We
halted outside it.

“It’s worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a warrant we
could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not reached that stage
yet. I don’t suppose they remember faces in so busy a place. Let us
venture it.”

“I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to the
young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake about a
telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear
that I must have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me if
this was so?”

The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

“What o’clock was it?” she asked.

“A little after six.”

“Whom was it to?”

Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last words
in it were ‘For God’s sake,’” he whispered, confidentially; “I am very
anxious at getting no answer.”

The young woman separated one of the forms.

“This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon the
counter.

“Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said Holmes.
“Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure! Good-morning, miss, and
many thanks for having relieved my mind.” He chuckled and rubbed his
hands when we found ourselves in the street once more.

“Well?” I asked.

“We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different schemes
for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly hope to
succeed the very first time.”

“And what have you gained?”

“A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab. “King’s Cross
Station,” said he.

“We have a journey, then?”

“Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the
indications seem to me to point in that direction.”

“Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray’s Inn Road, “have you any
suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don’t think that
among all our cases I have known one where the motives are more obscure.
Surely you don’t really imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to
give information against his wealthy uncle?”

“I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a very
probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the one which was
most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person.”

“It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?”

“I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and
suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this important
match, and should involve the only man whose presence seems essential to
the success of the side. It may, of course, be a coincidence, but it
is interesting. Amateur sport is free from betting, but a good deal of
outside betting goes on among the public, and it is possible that it
might be worth someone’s while to get at a player as the ruffians of
the turf get at a race-horse. There is one explanation. A second
very obvious one is that this young man really is the heir of a great
property, however modest his means may at present be, and it is not
impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted.”

“These theories take no account of the telegram.”

“Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid thing
with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to
wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the purpose of this
telegram that we are now upon our way to Cambridge. The path of our
investigation is at present obscure, but I shall be very much surprised
if before evening we have not cleared it up, or made a considerable
advance along it.”

It was already dark when we reached the old university city. Holmes took
a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to the house of Dr.
Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had stopped at a large mansion
in the busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and after a long wait
were at last admitted into the consulting-room, where we found the
doctor seated behind his table.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that
the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware that he
is not only one of the heads of the medical school of the university,
but a thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science.
Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be
impressed by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the
brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim,
ascetic, self-contained, formidable--so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He
held my friend’s card in his hand, and he looked up with no very pleased
expression upon his dour features.

“I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your
profession--one of which I by no means approve.”

“In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

“So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of crime,
sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of the
community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply
sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling is more open to criticism
is when you pry into the secrets of private individuals, when you rake
up family matters which are better hidden, and when you incidentally
waste the time of men who are more busy than yourself. At the present
moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of
conversing with you.”

“No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more important
than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we are doing the
reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring
to prevent anything like public exposure of private matters which must
necessarily follow when once the case is fairly in the hands of the
official police. You may look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer,
who goes in front of the regular forces of the country. I have come to
ask you about Mr. Godfrey Staunton.”

“What about him?”

“You know him, do you not?”

“He is an intimate friend of mine.”

“You are aware that he has disappeared?”

“Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged features
of the doctor.

“He left his hotel last night--he has not been heard of.”

“No doubt he will return.”

“To-morrow is the ‘Varsity football match.”

“I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man’s fate
interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The football match
does not come within my horizon at all.”

“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton’s
fate. Do you know where he is?”

“Certainly not.”

“You have not seen him since yesterday?”

“No, I have not.”

“Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you ever know him ill?”

“Never.”

Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor’s eyes. “Then perhaps
you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas, paid by Mr.
Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong, of Cambridge. I
picked it out from among the papers upon his desk.”

The doctor flushed with anger.

“I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. “If you prefer a public
explanation, it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have already
told you that I can hush up that which others will be bound to publish,
and you would really be wiser to take me into your complete confidence.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

“Certainly not.”

“Dear me, dear me--the postoffice again!” Holmes sighed, wearily.
“A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by Godfrey
Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening--a telegram which is
undoubtedly associated with his disappearance--and yet you have not had
it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go down to the office here
and register a complaint.”

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark face
was crimson with fury.

“I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You can tell
your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to have anything to
do either with him or with his agents. No, sir--not another word!” He
rang the bell furiously. “John, show these gentlemen out!” A pompous
butler ushered us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the
street. Holmes burst out laughing.

“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and character,” said
he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turns his talents that way, was
more calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty.
And now, my poor Watson, here we are, stranded and friendless in this
inhospitable town, which we cannot leave without abandoning our case.
This little inn just opposite Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to
our needs. If you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries
for the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”

These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy proceeding
than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the inn until nearly
nine o’clock. He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and exhausted
with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was ready upon the table, and
when his needs were satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take
that half comic and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him
when his affairs were going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused
him to rise and glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of grays,
under the glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor’s door.

“It’s been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past six, and
here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or twelve miles, and
he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”

“No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”

“But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a lecturer and
a consultant, but he does not care for general practice, which distracts
him from his literary work. Why, then, does he make these long journeys,
which must be exceedingly irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”

“His coachman----”

“My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first applied?
I do not know whether it came from his own innate depravity or from the
promptings of his master, but he was rude enough to set a dog at me.
Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick, however, and the matter
fell through. Relations were strained after that, and further inquiries
out of the question. All that I have learned I got from a friendly
native in the yard of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor’s
habits and of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his
words, the carriage came round to the door.”

“Could you not follow it?”

“Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea did
cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle shop next
to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and was able to get
started before the carriage was quite out of sight. I rapidly overtook
it, and then, keeping at a discreet distance of a hundred yards or so, I
followed its lights until we were clear of the town. We had got well out
on the country road, when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The
carriage stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I
had also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that
he feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did not
impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been more admirable
than his way of putting it. I at once rode past the carriage, and,
keeping to the main road, I went on for a few miles, and then halted in
a convenient place to see if the carriage passed. There was no sign of
it, however, and so it became evident that it had turned down one of
several side roads which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw
nothing of the carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after
me. Of course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect
these journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only
inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that everything
which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to us, but, now
that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon anyone who may follow him
on these excursions, the affair appears more important, and I shall not
be satisfied until I have made the matter clear.”

“We can follow him to-morrow.”

“Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not familiar
with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend itself to
concealment. All this country that I passed over to-night is as flat and
clean as the palm of your hand, and the man we are following is no fool,
as he very clearly showed to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us
know any fresh London developments at this address, and in the meantime
we can only concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name
the obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon the
counterfoil of Staunton’s urgent message. He knows where the young man
is--to that I’ll swear, and if he knows, then it must be our own fault
if we cannot manage to know also. At present it must be admitted that
the odd trick is in his possession, and, as you are aware, Watson, it is
not my habit to leave the game in that condition.”

And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes passed
across to me with a smile.


SIR [it ran]:

I can assure you that you are wasting your time in dogging my movements.
I have, as you discovered last night, a window at the back of my
brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which will lead you to
the spot from which you started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile,
I can inform you that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey
Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that
gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to your employer
that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge will certainly
be wasted. Yours faithfully, LESLIE ARMSTRONG.


“An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,” said Holmes. “Well,
well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know before I leave
him.”

“His carriage is at his door now,” said I. “There he is stepping into
it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose I try my
luck upon the bicycle?”

“No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural acumen, I do
not think that you are quite a match for the worthy doctor. I think that
possibly I can attain our end by some independent explorations of my
own. I am afraid that I must leave you to your own devices, as the
appearance of TWO inquiring strangers upon a sleepy countryside might
excite more gossip than I care for. No doubt you will find some sights
to amuse you in this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more
favourable report to you before evening.”

Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He came
back at night weary and unsuccessful.

“I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor’s general
direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that side
of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other local news
agencies. I have covered some ground. Chesterton, Histon, Waterbeach,
and Oakington have each been explored, and have each proved
disappointing. The daily appearance of a brougham and pair could hardly
have been overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once
more. Is there a telegram for me?”

“Yes, I opened it. Here it is:

“Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in answer
to a question from me. I’ll just send round a note to Mr. Jeremy Dixon,
and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn. By the way, is there
any news of the match?”

“Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its last
edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last sentences of the
description say:

“‘The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the
unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton, whose
want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack of combination in
the three-quarter line and their weakness both in attack and defence
more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy and hard-working pack.’”

“Then our friend Overton’s forebodings have been justified,” said
Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and football
does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night, Watson, for I
foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.”

I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for he
sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I associated that
instrument with the single weakness of his nature, and I feared the
worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He laughed at my expression
of dismay and laid it upon the table.

“No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not upon
this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove to be the
key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I base all my hopes.
I have just returned from a small scouting expedition, and everything is
favourable. Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr.
Armstrong’s trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or
food until I run him to his burrow.”

“In that case,” said I, “we had best carry our breakfast with us, for he
is making an early start. His carriage is at the door.”

“Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where I
cannot follow him. When you have finished, come downstairs with me, and
I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent specialist in
the work that lies before us.”

When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where
he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

“Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey is the pride of the
local draghounds--no very great flier, as his build will show, but
a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not be fast, but
I expect you will be too fast for a couple of middle-aged London
gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of fastening this leather leash to
your collar. Now, boy, come along, and show what you can do.” He led him
across to the doctor’s door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and
then with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an hour, we
were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.

“What have you done, Holmes?” I asked.

“A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I walked
into the doctor’s yard this morning, and shot my syringe full of aniseed
over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow aniseed from here to John
o’Groat’s, and our friend, Armstrong, would have to drive through the
Cam before he would shake Pompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal!
This is how he gave me the slip the other night.”

The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a grass-grown
lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another broad road, and the
trail turned hard to the right in the direction of the town, which we
had just quitted. The road took a sweep to the south of the town, and
continued in the opposite direction to that in which we started.

“This DETOUR has been entirely for our benefit, then?” said Holmes.
“No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers led to nothing. The
doctor has certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one would
like to know the reason for such elaborate deception. This should be
the village of Trumpington to the right of us. And, by Jove! here is the
brougham coming round the corner. Quick, Watson--quick, or we are done!”

He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant Pompey
after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the hedge when the
carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his
shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very image of distress.
I could tell by my companion’s graver face that he also had seen.

“I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,” said he. “It cannot
be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the cottage in the
field!”

There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our journey.
Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate, where the marks
of the brougham’s wheels were still to be seen. A footpath led across
to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to the hedge, and we hastened
onward. My friend knocked at the little rustic door, and knocked again
without response. And yet the cottage was not deserted, for a low
sound came to our ears--a kind of drone of misery and despair which was
indescribably melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced
back at the road which he had just traversed. A brougham was coming down
it, and there could be no mistaking those gray horses.

“By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried Holmes. “That settles it. We
are bound to see what it means before he comes.”

He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall. The droning sound
swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep wail of
distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up, and I followed him.
He pushed open a half-closed door, and we both stood appalled at the
sight before us.

A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her calm pale
face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward from amid a great
tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed, half sitting, half
kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was a young man, whose frame
was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was he by his bitter grief, that he
never looked up until Holmes’s hand was on his shoulder.

“Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?”

“Yes, yes, I am--but you are too late. She is dead.”

The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that we
were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance. Holmes
was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation and to explain the
alarm which had been caused to his friends by his sudden disappearance
when there was a step upon the stairs, and there was the heavy, stern,
questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at the door.

“So, gentlemen,” said he, “you have attained your end and have certainly
chosen a particularly delicate moment for your intrusion. I would not
brawl in the presence of death, but I can assure you that if I were a
younger man your monstrous conduct would not pass with impunity.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at cross-purposes,”
 said my friend, with dignity. “If you could step downstairs with us,
we may each be able to give some light to the other upon this miserable
affair.”

A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the sitting-room
below.

“Well, sir?” said he.

“I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not employed
by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this matter are entirely
against that nobleman. When a man is lost it is my duty to ascertain his
fate, but having done so the matter ends so far as I am concerned, and
so long as there is nothing criminal I am much more anxious to hush up
private scandals than to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is
no breach of the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my
discretion and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the papers.”

Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the hand.

“You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged you. I thank heaven
that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in this plight
caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make your acquaintance.
Knowing as much as you do, the situation is very easily explained.
A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in London for a time and became
passionately attached to his landlady’s daughter, whom he married. She
was as good as she was beautiful and as intelligent as she was good.
No man need be ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this
crabbed old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his
marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the lad
well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did all I
could to help him to keep things straight. We did our very best to keep
the thing from everyone, for, when once such a whisper gets about, it is
not long before everyone has heard it. Thanks to this lonely cottage and
his own discretion, Godfrey has up to now succeeded. Their secret was
known to no one save to me and to one excellent servant, who has at
present gone for assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a
terrible blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was
consumption of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with
grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he could
not get out of it without explanations which would expose his secret. I
tried to cheer him up by wire, and he sent me one in reply, imploring
me to do all I could. This was the telegram which you appear in some
inexplicable way to have seen. I did not tell him how urgent the danger
was, for I knew that he could do no good here, but I sent the truth to
the girl’s father, and he very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey.
The result was that he came straight away in a state bordering on
frenzy, and has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her
bed, until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is all,
Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your discretion and that
of your friend.”

Holmes grasped the doctor’s hand.

“Come, Watson,” said he, and we passed from that house of grief into the
pale sunlight of the winter day.




THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE


It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of the
winter of ‘97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder. It was
Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his eager, stooping face, and
told me at a glance that something was amiss.

“Come, Watson, come!” he cried. “The game is afoot. Not a word! Into
your clothes and come!”

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the silent
streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first faint winter’s
dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly see the occasional
figure of an early workman as he passed us, blurred and indistinct in
the opalescent London reek. Holmes nestled in silence into his heavy
coat, and I was glad to do the same, for the air was most bitter, and
neither of us had broken our fast.

It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and taken
our places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently thawed, he
to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his pocket, and read
aloud:

Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent, 3:30 A.M. MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:

I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what promises to
be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in your line. Except
for releasing the lady I will see that everything is kept exactly as I
have found it, but I beg you not to lose an instant, as it is difficult
to leave Sir Eustace there. Yours faithfully, STANLEY HOPKINS.


“Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his summons
has been entirely justified,” said Holmes. “I fancy that every one of
his cases has found its way into your collection, and I must admit,
Watson, that you have some power of selection, which atones for much
which I deplore in your narratives. Your fatal habit of looking at
everything from the point of view of a story instead of as a scientific
exercise has ruined what might have been an instructive and even
classical series of demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost
finesse and delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which
may excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”

“Why do you not write them yourself?” I said, with some bitterness.

“I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know, fairly
busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the composition of a
textbook, which shall focus the whole art of detection into one volume.
Our present research appears to be a case of murder.”

“You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“I should say so. Hopkins’s writing shows considerable agitation, and he
is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been violence, and
that the body is left for our inspection. A mere suicide would not
have caused him to send for me. As to the release of the lady, it would
appear that she has been locked in her room during the tragedy. We
are moving in high life, Watson, crackling paper, ‘E.B.’ monogram,
coat-of-arms, picturesque address. I think that friend Hopkins will live
up to his reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. The
crime was committed before twelve last night.”

“How can you possibly tell?”

“By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time. The local
police had to be called in, they had to communicate with Scotland Yard,
Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send for me. All that makes
a fair night’s work. Well, here we are at Chiselhurst Station, and we
shall soon set our doubts at rest.”

A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought us
to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old lodge-keeper, whose
haggard face bore the reflection of some great disaster. The avenue ran
through a noble park, between lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low,
widespread house, pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The
central part was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the
large windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one
wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful figure and
alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins confronted us in the open
doorway.

“I’m very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, Dr. Watson. But,
indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not have troubled you, for
since the lady has come to herself, she has given so clear an account of
the affair that there is not much left for us to do. You remember that
Lewisham gang of burglars?”

“What, the three Randalls?”

“Exactly; the father and two sons. It’s their work. I have not a doubt
of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were seen and
described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so near, but it is
they, beyond all doubt. It’s a hanging matter this time.”

“Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker.”

“Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.”

“Exactly--one of the richest men in Kent--Lady Brackenstall is in the
morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful experience. She
seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think you had best see her
and hear her account of the facts. Then we will examine the dining-room
together.”

Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so graceful
a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a face. She was
a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no doubt have had the
perfect complexion which goes with such colouring, had not her recent
experience left her drawn and haggard. Her sufferings were physical as
well as mental, for over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling,
which her maid, a tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with
vinegar and water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her
quick, observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expression
of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her courage
had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was enveloped in a
loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a black sequin-covered
dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her.

“I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said, wearily.
“Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it necessary, I will
tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they been in the dining-room
yet?”

“I thought they had better hear your ladyship’s story first.”

“I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to me to
think of him still lying there.” She shuddered and buried her face in
her hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back from her forearms.
Holmes uttered an exclamation.

“You have other injuries, madam! What is this?” Two vivid red spots
stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily covered it.

“It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business
to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you all I
can.

“I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married about
a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to conceal that our
marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that all our neighbours would
tell you that, even if I were to attempt to deny it. Perhaps the fault
may be partly mine. I was brought up in the freer, less conventional
atmosphere of South Australia, and this English life, with its
proprieties and its primness, is not congenial to me. But the main
reason lies in the one fact, which is notorious to everyone, and that is
that Sir Eustace was a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an
hour is unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive
and high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a
sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is binding.
I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a curse upon the
land--God will not let such wickedness endure.” For an instant she sat
up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing from under the terrible
mark upon her brow. Then the strong, soothing hand of the austere maid
drew her head down on to the cushion, and the wild anger died away into
passionate sobbing. At last she continued:

“I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that in this
house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This central block is
made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen behind and our bedroom
above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my room. There is no one else, and
no sound could alarm those who are in the farther wing. This must have
been well known to the robbers, or they would not have acted as they
did.

“Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had already gone
to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had remained in her room
at the top of the house until I needed her services. I sat until after
eleven in this room, absorbed in a book. Then I walked round to see
that all was right before I went upstairs. It was my custom to do this
myself, for, as I have explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be
trusted. I went into the kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the gun-room,
the billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As I
approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I suddenly
felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was open. I flung
the curtain aside and found myself face to face with a broad-shouldered
elderly man, who had just stepped into the room. The window is a long
French one, which really forms a door leading to the lawn. I held my
bedroom candle lit in my hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I
saw two others, who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the
fellow was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then
by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a savage
blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the ground. I must
have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when I came to myself, I
found that they had torn down the bell-rope, and had secured me tightly
to the oaken chair which stands at the head of the dining-table. I was
so firmly bound that I could not move, and a handkerchief round my
mouth prevented me from uttering a sound. It was at this instant that
my unfortunate husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some
suspicious sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found.
He was dressed in nightshirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn
cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the burglars, but another--it was an
elderly man--stooped, picked the poker out of the grate and struck him a
horrible blow as he passed. He fell with a groan and never moved again.
I fainted once more, but again it could only have been for a very few
minutes during which I was insensible. When I opened my eyes I found
that they had collected the silver from the sideboard, and they had
drawn a bottle of wine which stood there. Each of them had a glass in
his hand. I have already told you, have I not, that one was elderly,
with a beard, and the others young, hairless lads. They might have been
a father with his two sons. They talked together in whispers. Then
they came over and made sure that I was securely bound. Finally they
withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a quarter of an
hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams brought the
maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon alarmed, and we sent
for the local police, who instantly communicated with London. That is
really all that I can tell you, gentlemen, and I trust that it will not
be necessary for me to go over so painful a story again.”

“Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.

“I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall’s patience and
time,” said Holmes. “Before I go into the dining-room, I should like to
hear your experience.” He looked at the maid.

“I saw the men before ever they came into the house,” said she. “As I
sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight down by the
lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the time. It was more
than an hour after that I heard my mistress scream, and down I ran, to
find her, poor lamb, just as she says, and him on the floor, with his
blood and brains over the room. It was enough to drive a woman out of
her wits, tied there, and her very dress spotted with him, but she never
wanted courage, did Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall
of Abbey Grange hasn’t learned new ways. You’ve questioned her long
enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room, just with
her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.”

With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
mistress and led her from the room.

“She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins. “Nursed her as
a baby, and came with her to England when they first left Australia,
eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and the kind of maid
you don’t pick up nowadays. This way, Mr. Holmes, if you please!”

The keen interest had passed out of Holmes’s expressive face, and I
knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had departed. There
still remained an arrest to be effected, but what were these commonplace
rogues that he should soil his hands with them? An abstruse and learned
specialist who finds that he has been called in for a case of measles
would experience something of the annoyance which I read in my
friend’s eyes. Yet the scene in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was
sufficiently strange to arrest his attention and to recall his waning
interest.

It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling, oaken
panelling, and a fine array of deer’s heads and ancient weapons around
the walls. At the further end from the door was the high French window
of which we had heard. Three smaller windows on the right-hand side
filled the apartment with cold winter sunshine. On the left was a large,
deep fireplace, with a massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside
the fireplace was a heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the
bottom. In and out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord,
which was secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the
lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which it
had been secured still remained. These details only struck our attention
afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by the terrible
object which lay upon the tigerskin hearthrug in front of the fire.

It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of age.
He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white teeth grinning
through his short, black beard. His two clenched hands were raised
above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick lay across them. His dark,
handsome, aquiline features were convulsed into a spasm of vindictive
hatred, which had set his dead face in a terribly fiendish expression.
He had evidently been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he
wore a foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected from
his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room bore
witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck him down.
Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by the concussion.
Holmes examined both it and the indescribable wreck which it had
wrought.

“He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall,” he remarked.

“Yes,” said Hopkins. “I have some record of the fellow, and he is a
rough customer.”

“You should have no difficulty in getting him.”

“Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and there was
some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we know that the
gang are here, I don’t see how they can escape. We have the news at
every seaport already, and a reward will be offered before evening. What
beats me is how they could have done so mad a thing, knowing that the
lady could describe them and that we could not fail to recognize the
description.”

“Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence Lady
Brackenstall as well.”

“They may not have realized,” I suggested, “that she had recovered from
her faint.”

“That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they would not
take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem to have
heard some queer stories about him.”

“He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend when
he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he seldom really
went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him at such times, and he
was capable of anything. From what I hear, in spite of all his wealth
and his title, he very nearly came our way once or twice. There was
a scandal about his drenching a dog with petroleum and setting it on
fire--her ladyship’s dog, to make the matter worse--and that was only
hushed up with difficulty. Then he threw a decanter at that maid,
Theresa Wright--there was trouble about that. On the whole, and between
ourselves, it will be a brighter house without him. What are you looking
at now?”

Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the
knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured. Then he
carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it had snapped off
when the burglar had dragged it down.

“When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have rung
loudly,” he remarked.

“No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of the
house.”

“How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull at a
bell-rope in that reckless fashion?”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I have
asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that this fellow
must have known the house and its habits. He must have perfectly
understood that the servants would all be in bed at that comparatively
early hour, and that no one could possibly hear a bell ring in the
kitchen. Therefore, he must have been in close league with one of the
servants. Surely that is evident. But there are eight servants, and all
of good character.”

“Other things being equal,” said Holmes, “one would suspect the one
at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would involve
treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems devoted. Well,
well, the point is a minor one, and when you have Randall you will
probably find no difficulty in securing his accomplice. The lady’s story
certainly seems to be corroborated, if it needed corroboration, by every
detail which we see before us.” He walked to the French window and threw
it open. “There are no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and one
would not expect them. I see that these candles in the mantelpiece have
been lighted.”

“Yes, it was by their light and that of the lady’s bedroom candle, that
the burglars saw their way about.”

“And what did they take?”

“Well, they did not take much--only half a dozen articles of plate off
the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were themselves so
disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did not ransack the
house, as they would otherwise have done.”

“No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I understand.”

“To steady their nerves.”

“Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been untouched, I
suppose?”

“Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it.”

“Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?”

The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with wine,
and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing. The bottle stood near
them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a long, deeply stained cork.
Its appearance and the dust upon the bottle showed that it was no common
vintage which the murderers had enjoyed.

A change had come over Holmes’s manner. He had lost his listless
expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his keen,
deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

“How did they draw it?” he asked.

Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table linen and
a large corkscrew.

“Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?”

“No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the bottle
was opened.”

“Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was not used. This bottle was
opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a knife, and not more
than an inch and a half long. If you will examine the top of the cork,
you will observe that the screw was driven in three times before the
cork was extracted. It has never been transfixed. This long screw would
have transfixed it and drawn it up with a single pull. When you catch
this fellow, you will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in
his possession.”

“Excellent!” said Hopkins.

“But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall actually
SAW the three men drinking, did she not?”

“Yes; she was clear about that.”

“Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet, you must
admit, that the three glasses are very remarkable, Hopkins. What? You
see nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it pass. Perhaps, when a man has
special knowledge and special powers like my own, it rather encourages
him to seek a complex explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of
course, it must be a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning,
Hopkins. I don’t see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear
to have your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is
arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust that I
shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful conclusion. Come,
Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves more profitably at home.”

During our return journey, I could see by Holmes’s face that he was much
puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now and then, by an
effort, he would throw off the impression, and talk as if the matter
were clear, but then his doubts would settle down upon him again, and
his knitted brows and abstracted eyes would show that his thoughts had
gone back once more to the great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in
which this midnight tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden
impulse, just as our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he
sprang on to the platform and pulled me out after him.

“Excuse me, my dear fellow,” said he, as we watched the rear carriages
of our train disappearing round a curve, “I am sorry to make you the
victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life, Watson, I simply
CAN’T leave that case in this condition. Every instinct that I possess
cries out against it. It’s wrong--it’s all wrong--I’ll swear that it’s
wrong. And yet the lady’s story was complete, the maid’s corroboration
was sufficient, the detail was fairly exact. What have I to put up
against that? Three wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken
things for granted, if I had examined everything with the care which
I should have shown had we approached the case DE NOVO and had no
cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have found
something more definite to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down on this
bench, Watson, until a train for Chiselhurst arrives, and allow me to
lay the evidence before you, imploring you in the first instance to
dismiss from your mind the idea that anything which the maid or her
mistress may have said must necessarily be true. The lady’s charming
personality must not be permitted to warp our judgment.

“Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in cold
blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a considerable
haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of them and of their
appearance was in the papers, and would naturally occur to anyone who
wished to invent a story in which imaginary robbers should play a part.
As a matter of fact, burglars who have done a good stroke of business
are, as a rule, only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet
without embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual
for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for burglars
to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one would imagine that
was the sure way to make her scream, it is unusual for them to commit
murder when their numbers are sufficient to overpower one man, it is
unusual for them to be content with a limited plunder when there was
much more within their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was
very unusual for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these
unusuals strike you, Watson?”

“Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each of them
is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of all, as it seems
to me, is that the lady should be tied to the chair.”

“Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident that they
must either kill her or else secure her in such a way that she could
not give immediate notice of their escape. But at any rate I have shown,
have I not, that there is a certain element of improbability about the
lady’s story? And now, on the top of this, comes the incident of the
wineglasses.”

“What about the wineglasses?”

“Can you see them in your mind’s eye?”

“I see them clearly.”

“We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you as
likely?”

“Why not? There was wine in each glass.”

“Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must have
noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”

“The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing.”

“Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable that
the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily charged with it.
There are two possible explanations, and only two. One is that after the
second glass was filled the bottle was violently agitated, and so the
third glass received the beeswing. That does not appear probable. No,
no, I am sure that I am right.”

“What, then, do you suppose?”

“That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were poured
into a third glass, so as to give the false impression that three people
had been here. In that way all the beeswing would be in the last glass,
would it not? Yes, I am convinced that this is so. But if I have hit
upon the true explanation of this one small phenomenon, then in
an instant the case rises from the commonplace to the exceedingly
remarkable, for it can only mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid
have deliberately lied to us, that not one word of their story is to be
believed, that they have some very strong reason for covering the real
criminal, and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any
help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and here,
Watson, is the Sydenham train.”

The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our return, but
Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had gone off to report to
headquarters, took possession of the dining-room, locked the door upon
the inside, and devoted himself for two hours to one of those minute
and laborious investigations which form the solid basis on which his
brilliant edifices of deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an
interested student who observes the demonstration of his professor,
I followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the
curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope--each in turn was minutely
examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate baronet had
been removed, and all else remained as we had seen it in the morning.
Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on to the massive
mantelpiece. Far above his head hung the few inches of red cord which
were still attached to the wire. For a long time he gazed upward at it,
and then in an attempt to get nearer to it he rested his knee upon a
wooden bracket on the wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of
the broken end of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket
itself which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he sprang down
with an ejaculation of satisfaction.

“It’s all right, Watson,” said he. “We have got our case--one of the
most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how slow-witted I have
been, and how nearly I have committed the blunder of my lifetime! Now, I
think that, with a few missing links, my chain is almost complete.”

“You have got your men?”

“Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong as a
lion--witness the blow that bent that poker! Six foot three in height,
active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers, finally, remarkably
quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story is of his concoction. Yes,
Watson, we have come upon the handiwork of a very remarkable individual.
And yet, in that bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have
left us a doubt.”

“Where was the clue?”

“Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would you
expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached to the wire.
Why should it break three inches from the top, as this one has done?”

“Because it is frayed there?”

“Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was cunning
enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is not frayed. You
could not observe that from here, but if you were on the mantelpiece you
would see that it is cut clean off without any mark of fraying whatever.
You can reconstruct what occurred. The man needed the rope. He would not
tear it down for fear of giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did
he do? He sprang up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put
his knee on the bracket--you will see the impression in the dust--and so
got his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by at
least three inches--from which I infer that he is at least three inches
a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat of the oaken chair!
What is it?”

“Blood.”

“Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady’s story out of court.
If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done, how comes
that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair AFTER the death of her
husband. I’ll wager that the black dress shows a corresponding mark to
this. We have not yet met our Waterloo, Watson, but this is our Marengo,
for it begins in defeat and ends in victory. I should like now to have
a few words with the nurse, Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if we
are to get the information which we want.”

She was an interesting person, this stern Australian nurse--taciturn,
suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before Holmes’s pleasant
manner and frank acceptance of all that she said thawed her into a
corresponding amiability. She did not attempt to conceal her hatred for
her late employer.

“Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard him call
my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not dare to speak so if
her brother had been there. Then it was that he threw it at me. He
might have thrown a dozen if he had but left my bonny bird alone. He was
forever ill-treating her, and she too proud to complain. She will not
even tell me all that he has done to her. She never told me of those
marks on her arm that you saw this morning, but I know very well that
they come from a stab with a hatpin. The sly devil--God forgive me that
I should speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, if
ever one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him--only
eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen years. She
had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first voyage--she had
never been from home before. He won her with his title and his money
and his false London ways. If she made a mistake she has paid for it,
if ever a woman did. What month did we meet him? Well, I tell you it was
just after we arrived. We arrived in June, and it was July. They were
married in January of last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room
again, and I have no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too
much of her, for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will
stand.”

Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked brighter
than before. The maid had entered with us, and began once more to foment
the bruise upon her mistress’s brow.

“I hope,” said the lady, “that you have not come to cross-examine me
again?”

“No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, “I will not cause you any
unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole desire is to make
things easy for you, for I am convinced that you are a much-tried woman.
If you will treat me as a friend and trust me, you may find that I will
justify your trust.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“To tell me the truth.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“No, no, Lady Brackenstall--it is no use. You may have heard of any
little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the fact that
your story is an absolute fabrication.”

Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and
frightened eyes.

“You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do you mean to say that my
mistress has told a lie?”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“Have you nothing to tell me?”

“I have told you everything.”

“Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be
frank?”

For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then some new
strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

“I have told you all I know.”

Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he said,
and without another word we left the room and the house. There was a
pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way. It was frozen
over, but a single hole was left for the convenience of a solitary
swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then passed on to the lodge gate. There
he scribbled a short note for Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the
lodge-keeper.

“It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do something
for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,” said he. “I will
not quite take him into my confidence yet. I think our next scene of
operations must be the shipping office of the Adelaide-Southampton line,
which stands at the end of Pall Mall, if I remember right. There is a
second line of steamers which connect South Australia with England, but
we will draw the larger cover first.”

Holmes’s card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention, and he
was not long in acquiring all the information he needed. In June of
‘95, only one of their line had reached a home port. It was the ROCK
OF GIBRALTAR, their largest and best boat. A reference to the passenger
list showed that Miss Fraser, of Adelaide, with her maid had made the
voyage in her. The boat was now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on
her way to Australia. Her officers were the same as in ‘95, with one
exception. The first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain
and was to take charge of their new ship, the BASS ROCK, sailing in two
days’ time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was likely to
be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to wait for him.

No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to know more
about his record and character.

His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet to
touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a wild,
desperate fellow off the deck of his ship--hot-headed, excitable, but
loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith of the information
with which Holmes left the office of the Adelaide-Southampton company.
Thence he drove to Scotland Yard, but, instead of entering, he sat in
his cab with his brows drawn down, lost in profound thought. Finally he
drove round to the Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message,
and then, at last, we made for Baker Street once more.

“No, I couldn’t do it, Watson,” said he, as we reentered our room. “Once
that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would save him. Once
or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my
discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I have
learned caution now, and I had rather play tricks with the law of
England than with my own conscience. Let us know a little more before we
act.”

Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Things
were not going very well with him.

“I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do sometimes
think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how on earth could
you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom of that pond?”

“I didn’t know it.”

“But you told me to examine it.”

“You got it, then?”

“Yes, I got it.”

“I am very glad if I have helped you.”

“But you haven’t helped me. You have made the affair far more difficult.
What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and then throw it into
the nearest pond?”

“It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going on
the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did not
want it--who merely took it for a blind, as it were--then they would
naturally be anxious to get rid of it.”

“But why should such an idea cross your mind?”

“Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the French
window, there was the pond with one tempting little hole in the ice,
right in front of their noses. Could there be a better hiding-place?”

“Ah, a hiding-place--that is better!” cried Stanley Hopkins. “Yes, yes,
I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the roads, they
were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they sank it in the pond,
intending to return for it when the coast was clear. Excellent, Mr.
Holmes--that is better than your idea of a blind.”

“Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that my
own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have ended in
discovering the silver.”

“Yes, sir--yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad setback.”

“A setback?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this
morning.”

“Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory that
they committed a murder in Kent last night.”

“It is fatal, Mr. Holmes--absolutely fatal. Still, there are other gangs
of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang of which the
police have never heard.”

“Quite so, it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to the bottom
of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?”

“I have given you one.”

“Which?”

“Well, I suggested a blind.”

“But why, Mr. Holmes, why?”

“Ah, that’s the question, of course. But I commend the idea to your
mind. You might possibly find that there was something in it. You won’t
stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know how you get on.”

Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to the
matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet to the
cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his watch.

“I expect developments, Watson.”

“When?”

“Now--within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather badly
to Stanley Hopkins just now?”

“I trust your judgment.”

“A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way: what
I know is unofficial, what he knows is official. I have the right to
private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all, or he is a
traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not put him in so
painful a position, and so I reserve my information until my own mind is
clear upon the matter.”

“But when will that be?”

“The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of a
remarkable little drama.”

There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to admit as
fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He was a very
tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a skin which had been
burned by tropical suns, and a springy step, which showed that the huge
frame was as active as it was strong. He closed the door behind him, and
then he stood with clenched hands and heaving breast, choking down some
overmastering emotion.

“Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?”

Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the other of us
with questioning eyes.

“I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard that you
had been down to the office. There was no getting away from you. Let’s
hear the worst. What are you going to do with me? Arrest me? Speak out,
man! You can’t sit there and play with me like a cat with a mouse.”

“Give him a cigar,” said Holmes. “Bite on that, Captain Crocker, and
don’t let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit here smoking
with you if I thought that you were a common criminal, you may be sure
of that. Be frank with me and we may do some good. Play tricks with me,
and I’ll crush you.”

“What do you wish me to do?”

“To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey Grange last
night--a TRUE account, mind you, with nothing added and nothing taken
off. I know so much already that if you go one inch off the straight,
I’ll blow this police whistle from my window and the affair goes out of
my hands forever.”

The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his great
sunburned hand.

“I’ll chance it,” he cried. “I believe you are a man of your word, and
a white man, and I’ll tell you the whole story. But one thing I will say
first. So far as I am concerned, I regret nothing and I fear nothing,
and I would do it all again and be proud of the job. Damn the beast, if
he had as many lives as a cat, he would owe them all to me! But it’s
the lady, Mary--Mary Fraser--for never will I call her by that accursed
name. When I think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life
just to bring one smile to her dear face, it’s that that turns my soul
into water. And yet--and yet--what less could I do? I’ll tell you my
story, gentlemen, and then I’ll ask you, as man to man, what less could
I do?

“I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect that you
know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was first officer of
the ROCK OF GIBRALTAR. From the first day I met her, she was the only
woman to me. Every day of that voyage I loved her more, and many a time
since have I kneeled down in the darkness of the night watch and kissed
the deck of that ship because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was
never engaged to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated
a man. I have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all
good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a free
woman, but I could never again be a free man.

“Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage. Well, why
shouldn’t she marry whom she liked? Title and money--who could carry
them better than she? She was born for all that is beautiful and dainty.
I didn’t grieve over her marriage. I was not such a selfish hound as
that. I just rejoiced that good luck had come her way, and that she had
not thrown herself away on a penniless sailor. That’s how I loved Mary
Fraser.

“Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was promoted,
and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait for a couple of
months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in a country lane I met
Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me all about her, about him,
about everything. I tell you, gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This
drunken hound, that he should dare to raise his hand to her, whose
boots he was not worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary
herself--and met her again. Then she would meet me no more. But the
other day I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage within a week,
and I determined that I would see her once before I left. Theresa was
always my friend, for she loved Mary and hated this villain almost as
much as I did. From her I learned the ways of the house. Mary used to
sit up reading in her own little room downstairs. I crept round there
last night and scratched at the window. At first she would not open to
me, but in her heart I know that now she loves me, and she could not
leave me in the frosty night. She whispered to me to come round to the
big front window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me into
the dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips things that made my
blood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the woman I
loved. Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just inside the window,
in all innocence, as God is my judge, when he rushed like a madman into
the room, called her the vilest name that a man could use to a woman,
and welted her across the face with the stick he had in his hand. I had
sprung for the poker, and it was a fair fight between us. See here,
on my arm, where his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went
through him as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was
sorry? Not I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it was
his life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this madman?
That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what would either of
you gentlemen have done, if you had been in my position?”

“She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old Theresa down
from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on the sideboard, and I
opened it and poured a little between Mary’s lips, for she was half dead
with shock. Then I took a drop myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, and
it was her plot as much as mine. We must make it appear that burglars
had done the thing. Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress,
while I swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed her in
her chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it look natural,
else they would wonder how in the world a burglar could have got up
there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates and pots of silver, to
carry out the idea of the robbery, and there I left them, with orders
to give the alarm when I had a quarter of an hour’s start. I dropped the
silver into the pond, and made off for Sydenham, feeling that for once
in my life I had done a real good night’s work. And that’s the truth and
the whole truth, Mr. Holmes, if it costs me my neck.”

Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the room, and
shook our visitor by the hand.

“That’s what I think,” said he. “I know that every word is true, for you
have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but an acrobat or a
sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from the bracket, and no one
but a sailor could have made the knots with which the cord was fastened
to the chair. Only once had this lady been brought into contact with
sailors, and that was on her voyage, and it was someone of her own class
of life, since she was trying hard to shield him, and so showing that
she loved him. You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon you
when once I had started upon the right trail.”

“I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge.”

“And the police haven’t, nor will they, to the best of my belief. Now,
look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious matter, though I am
willing to admit that you acted under the most extreme provocation to
which any man could be subjected. I am not sure that in defence of your
own life your action will not be pronounced legitimate. However, that is
for a British jury to decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you
that, if you choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I will
promise you that no one will hinder you.”

“And then it will all come out?”

“Certainly it will come out.”

The sailor flushed with anger.

“What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of law to
understand that Mary would be held as accomplice. Do you think I would
leave her alone to face the music while I slunk away? No, sir, let them
do their worst upon me, but for heaven’s sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way
of keeping my poor Mary out of the courts.”

Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

“I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it is a
great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have given Hopkins
an excellent hint and if he can’t avail himself of it I can do no more.
See here, Captain Crocker, we’ll do this in due form of law. You are the
prisoner. Watson, you are a British jury, and I never met a man who was
more eminently fitted to represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman
of the jury, you have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner
guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty, my lord,” said I.

“VOX POPULI, VOX DEI. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So long as the
law does not find some other victim you are safe from me. Come back
to this lady in a year, and may her future and yours justify us in the
judgment which we have pronounced this night!”




THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN


I had intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” to be the last of
those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I should ever
communicate to the public. This resolution of mine was not due to any
lack of material, since I have notes of many hundreds of cases to which
I have never alluded, nor was it caused by any waning interest on the
part of my readers in the singular personality and unique methods of
this remarkable man. The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr.
Holmes has shown to the continued publication of his experiences.
So long as he was in actual professional practice the records of
his successes were of some practical value to him, but since he
has definitely retired from London and betaken himself to study and
bee-farming on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him,
and he has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should
be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him that I
had given a promise that “The Adventure of the Second Stain” should be
published when the times were ripe, and pointing out to him that it is
only appropriate that this long series of episodes should culminate in
the most important international case which he has ever been called
upon to handle, that I at last succeeded in obtaining his consent that a
carefully guarded account of the incident should at last be laid before
the public. If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in
certain details, the public will readily understand that there is an
excellent reason for my reticence.

It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be nameless,
that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two visitors of
European fame within the walls of our humble room in Baker Street. The
one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and dominant, was none other than
the illustrious Lord Bellinger, twice Premier of Britain. The other,
dark, clear-cut, and elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with
every beauty of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney
Hope, Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in
the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered settee,
and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces that it was
business of the most pressing importance which had brought them. The
Premier’s thin, blue-veined hands were clasped tightly over the ivory
head of his umbrella, and his gaunt, ascetic face looked gloomily from
Holmes to me. The European Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache
and fidgeted with the seals of his watch-chain.

“When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight o’clock this
morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It was at his suggestion
that we have both come to you.”

“Have you informed the police?”

“No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive manner for
which he was famous. “We have not done so, nor is it possible that we
should do so. To inform the police must, in the long run, mean to inform
the public. This is what we particularly desire to avoid.”

“And why, sir?”

“Because the document in question is of such immense importance that
its publication might very easily--I might almost say probably--lead to
European complications of the utmost moment. It is not too much to say
that peace or war may hang upon the issue. Unless its recovery can be
attended with the utmost secrecy, then it may as well not be recovered
at all, for all that is aimed at by those who have taken it is that its
contents should be generally known.”

“I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged if
you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this document
disappeared.”

“That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter--for it
was a letter from a foreign potentate--was received six days ago. It was
of such importance that I have never left it in my safe, but have taken
it across each evening to my house in Whitehall Terrace, and kept it in
my bedroom in a locked despatch-box. It was there last night. Of that
I am certain. I actually opened the box while I was dressing for dinner
and saw the document inside. This morning it was gone. The despatch-box
had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all night. I am a
light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to swear that no
one could have entered the room during the night. And yet I repeat that
the paper is gone.”

“What time did you dine?”

“Half-past seven.”

“How long was it before you went to bed?”

“My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was half-past
eleven before we went to our room.”

“Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?”

“No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid in the
morning, and my valet, or my wife’s maid, during the rest of the day.
They are both trusty servants who have been with us for some time.
Besides, neither of them could possibly have known that there was
anything more valuable than the ordinary departmental papers in my
despatch-box.”

“Who did know of the existence of that letter?”

“No one in the house.”

“Surely your wife knew?”

“No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper this
morning.”

The Premier nodded approvingly.

“I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,” said
he. “I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this importance it
would rise superior to the most intimate domestic ties.”

The European Secretary bowed.

“You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have never
breathed one word to my wife upon this matter.”

“Could she have guessed?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed--nor could anyone have
guessed.”

“Have you lost any documents before?”

“No, sir.”

“Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this letter?”

“Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but the pledge
of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was increased by the
solemn warning which was given by the Prime Minister. Good heavens,
to think that within a few hours I should myself have lost it!” His
handsome face was distorted with a spasm of despair, and his hands
tore at his hair. For a moment we caught a glimpse of the natural man,
impulsive, ardent, keenly sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was
replaced, and the gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members of
the Cabinet there are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who
know of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”

“But abroad?”

“I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote it. I
am well convinced that his Ministers--that the usual official channels
have not been employed.”

Holmes considered for some little time.

“Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document is, and
why its disappearance should have such momentous consequences?”

The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier’s shaggy
eyebrows gathered in a frown.

“Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue colour. There
is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion. It is addressed in
large, bold handwriting to----”

“I fear, sir,” said Holmes, “that, interesting and indeed essential as
these details are, my inquiries must go more to the root of things. What
WAS the letter?”

“That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that I
cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the aid of the
powers which you are said to possess you can find such an envelope as
I describe with its enclosure, you will have deserved well of your
country, and earned any reward which it lies in our power to bestow.”

Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

“You are two of the most busy men in the country,” said he, “and in
my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I regret
exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any continuation
of this interview would be a waste of time.”

The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of his
deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. “I am not accustomed,
sir,” he began, but mastered his anger and resumed his seat. For a
minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the old statesman shrugged
his shoulders.

“We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right, and
it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give you our
entire confidence.”

“I agree with you,” said the younger statesman.

“Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that of
your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism also, for
I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the country than that this
affair should come out.”

“You may safely trust us.”

“The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has been
ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this country. It
has been written hurriedly and upon his own responsibility entirely.
Inquiries have shown that his Ministers know nothing of the matter.
At the same time it is couched in so unfortunate a manner, and certain
phrases in it are of so provocative a character, that its publication
would undoubtedly lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this
country. There would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to
say that within a week of the publication of that letter this country
would be involved in a great war.”

Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the Premier.

“Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter--this letter which may well
mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of a hundred
thousand men--which has become lost in this unaccountable fashion.”

“Have you informed the sender?”

“Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched.”

“Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter.”

“No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already understands
that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed manner. It would be a
greater blow to him and to his country than to us if this letter were to
come out.”

“If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come out?
Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?”

“There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high international
politics. But if you consider the European situation you will have no
difficulty in perceiving the motive. The whole of Europe is an armed
camp. There is a double league which makes a fair balance of military
power. Great Britain holds the scales. If Britain were driven into
war with one confederacy, it would assure the supremacy of the other
confederacy, whether they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?”

“Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this potentate
to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a breach between his
country and ours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the hands of an
enemy?”

“To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably speeding on
its way thither at the present instant as fast as steam can take it.”

Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned aloud. The
Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

“It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you. There is
no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes, you are in full
possession of the facts. What course do you recommend?”

Holmes shook his head mournfully.

“You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there will be
war?”

“I think it is very probable.”

“Then, sir, prepare for war.”

“That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.”

“Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken after
eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope and his wife
were both in the room from that hour until the loss was found out.
It was taken, then, yesterday evening between seven-thirty and
eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour, since whoever took it
evidently knew that it was there and would naturally secure it as early
as possible. Now, sir, if a document of this importance were taken at
that hour, where can it be now? No one has any reason to retain it. It
has been passed rapidly on to those who need it. What chance have we now
to overtake or even to trace it? It is beyond our reach.”

The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

“What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the matter
is indeed out of our hands.”

“Let us presume, for argument’s sake, that the document was taken by the
maid or by the valet----”

“They are both old and tried servants.”

“I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor, that
there is no entrance from without, and that from within no one could go
up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the house who has taken it.
To whom would the thief take it? To one of several international spies
and secret agents, whose names are tolerably familiar to me. There are
three who may be said to be the heads of their profession. I will begin
my research by going round and finding if each of them is at his post.
If one is missing--especially if he has disappeared since last night--we
will have some indication as to where the document has gone.”

“Why should he be missing?” asked the European Secretary. “He would take
the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not.”

“I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their relations with
the Embassies are often strained.”

The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

“I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a prize
to headquarters with his own hands. I think that your course of action
is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot neglect all our other
duties on account of this one misfortune. Should there be any fresh
developments during the day we shall communicate with you, and you will
no doubt let us know the results of your own inquiries.”

The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had opened
the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime which had
occurred in London the night before, when my friend gave an exclamation,
sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

“Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. The situation
is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could be sure which of
them has taken it, it is just possible that it has not yet passed out of
his hands. After all, it is a question of money with these fellows, and
I have the British treasury behind me. If it’s on the market I’ll buy
it--if it means another penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable
that the fellow might hold it back to see what bids come from this
side before he tries his luck on the other. There are only those three
capable of playing so bold a game--there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and
Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.”

I glanced at my morning paper.

“Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?”

“Yes.”

“You will not see him.”

“Why not?”

“He was murdered in his house last night.”

My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our adventures
that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized how completely I
had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and then snatched the
paper from my hands. This was the paragraph which I had been engaged in
reading when he rose from his chair.


MURDER IN WESTMINSTER


A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16 Godolphin
Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of eighteenth century
houses which lie between the river and the Abbey, almost in the shadow
of the great Tower of the Houses of Parliament. This small but select
mansion has been inhabited for some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well
known in society circles both on account of his charming personality
and because he has the well-deserved reputation of being one of the
best amateur tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man,
thirty-four years of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs.
Pringle, an elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former
retires early and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet was out for
the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o’clock onward
Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during that time has
not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve Police-constable Barrett,
passing along Godolphin Street observed that the door of No. 16 was
ajar. He knocked, but received no answer. Perceiving a light in the
front room, he advanced into the passage and again knocked, but without
reply. He then pushed open the door and entered. The room was in a state
of wild disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side, and one
chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and still
grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the house. He
had been stabbed to the heart and must have died instantly. The knife
with which the crime had been committed was a curved Indian dagger,
plucked down from a trophy of Oriental arms which adorned one of the
walls. Robbery does not appear to have been the motive of the crime, for
there had been no attempt to remove the valuable contents of the room.
Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so well known and popular that his violent and
mysterious fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a
widespread circle of friends.

“Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” asked Holmes, after a long
pause.

“It is an amazing coincidence.”

“A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death during the
very hours when we know that that drama was being enacted. The odds are
enormous against its being coincidence. No figures could express them.
No, my dear Watson, the two events are connected--MUST be connected. It
is for us to find the connection.”

“But now the official police must know all.”

“Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They know--and
shall know--nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only WE know of both events,
and can trace the relation between them. There is one obvious point
which would, in any case, have turned my suspicions against Lucas.
Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only a few minutes’ walk from
Whitehall Terrace. The other secret agents whom I have named live in
the extreme West End. It was easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the
others to establish a connection or receive a message from the
European Secretary’s household--a small thing, and yet where events are
compressed into a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we
here?”

Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady’s card upon her salver. Holmes
glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to me.

“Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step up,”
 said he.

A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished that
morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most lovely woman
in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the youngest daughter of
the Duke of Belminster, but no description of it, and no contemplation
of colourless photographs, had prepared me for the subtle, delicate
charm and the beautiful colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as
we saw it that autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the
first thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was
paled with emotion, the eyes were bright but it was the brightness
of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in an effort after
self-command. Terror--not beauty--was what sprang first to the eye as
our fair visitor stood framed for an instant in the open door.

“Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, madam, he has been here.”

“Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here.” Holmes
bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

“Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that you
will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that I cannot make
any unconditional promise.”

She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
window. It was a queenly presence--tall, graceful, and intensely
womanly. “Mr. Holmes,” she said--and her white-gloved hands clasped and
unclasped as she spoke--“I will speak frankly to you in the hopes
that it may induce you to speak frankly in return. There is complete
confidence between my husband and me on all matters save one. That one
is politics. On this his lips are sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I
am aware that there was a most deplorable occurrence in our house last
night. I know that a paper has disappeared. But because the matter is
political my husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence.
Now it is essential--essential, I say--that I should thoroughly
understand it. You are the only other person, save only these
politicians, who knows the true facts. I beg you then, Mr. Holmes, to
tell me exactly what has happened and what it will lead to. Tell me all,
Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client’s interests keep you silent,
for I assure you that his interests, if he would only see it, would be
best served by taking me into his complete confidence. What was this
paper which was stolen?”

“Madam, what you ask me is really impossible.”

She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

“You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit to keep
you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has only learned the
true facts under the pledge of professional secrecy, to tell what he has
withheld? It is not fair to ask it. It is him whom you must ask.”

“I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without your
telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great service if
you would enlighten me on one point.”

“What is it, madam?”

“Is my husband’s political career likely to suffer through this
incident?”

“Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
unfortunate effect.”

“Ah!” She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are resolved.

“One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my husband
dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood that terrible
public consequences might arise from the loss of this document.”

“If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it.”

“Of what nature are they?”

“Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly answer.”

“Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you, Mr.
Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on your side
will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I desire, even
against his will, to share my husband’s anxieties. Once more I beg that
you will say nothing of my visit.”

She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression of that
beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn mouth. Then she
was gone.

“Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with a
smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended in the slam
of the front door. “What was the fair lady’s game? What did she really
want?”

“Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural.”

“Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson--her manner, her suppressed
excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions. Remember
that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show emotion.”

“She was certainly much moved.”

“Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us that it
was best for her husband that she should know all. What did she mean by
that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she manoeuvred to have the
light at her back. She did not wish us to read her expression.”

“Yes, she chose the one chair in the room.”

“And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember the
woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No powder on her
nose--that proved to be the correct solution. How can you build on such
a quicksand? Their most trivial action may mean volumes, or their most
extraordinary conduct may depend upon a hairpin or a curling tongs.
Good-morning, Watson.”

“You are off?”

“Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our friends
of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the solution of
our problem, though I must admit that I have not an inkling as to what
form it may take. It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of
the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good Watson, and receive any fresh
visitors. I’ll join you at lunch if I am able.”

All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which his
friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out and ran in,
smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin, sank into reveries,
devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and hardly answered the casual
questions which I put to him. It was evident to me that things were not
going well with him or his quest. He would say nothing of the case, and
it was from the papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest,
and the arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of
the deceased. The coroner’s jury brought in the obvious Wilful Murder,
but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive was suggested.
The room was full of articles of value, but none had been taken. The
dead man’s papers had not been tampered with. They were carefully
examined, and showed that he was a keen student of international
politics, an indefatigable gossip, a remarkable linguist, and an
untiring letter writer. He had been on intimate terms with the leading
politicians of several countries. But nothing sensational was discovered
among the documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He had
many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one whom he
loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive. His death was
an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.

As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of despair
as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could be sustained
against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith that night. The ALIBI
was complete. It is true that he started home at an hour which should
have brought him to Westminster before the time when the crime was
discovered, but his own explanation that he had walked part of the way
seemed probable enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had
actually arrived at twelve o’clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed
by the unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his
master. Several of the dead man’s possessions--notably a small case of
razors--had been found in the valet’s boxes, but he explained that they
had been presents from the deceased, and the housekeeper was able to
corroborate the story. Mitton had been in Lucas’s employment for three
years. It was noticeable that Lucas did not take Mitton on the Continent
with him. Sometimes he visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton
was left in charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper,
she had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a
visitor he had himself admitted him.

So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could follow it
in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own counsel, but, as
he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him into his
confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close touch with every
development. Upon the fourth day there appeared a long telegram from
Paris which seemed to solve the whole question.

A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police [said the DAILY
TELEGRAPH] which raises the veil which hung round the tragic fate of
Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence last Monday night
at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers will remember that
the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in his room, and that some
suspicion attached to his valet, but that the case broke down on an
ALIBI. Yesterday a lady, who has been known as Mme. Henri Fournaye,
occupying a small villa in the Rue Austerlitz, was reported to the
authorities by her servants as being insane. An examination showed
she had indeed developed mania of a dangerous and permanent form.
On inquiry, the police have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only
returned from a journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is
evidence to connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison of
photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and Eduardo
Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the deceased had for
some reason lived a double life in London and Paris. Mme. Fournaye,
who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely excitable nature, and has
suffered in the past from attacks of jealousy which have amounted to
frenzy. It is conjectured that it was in one of these that she committed
the terrible crime which has caused such a sensation in London. Her
movements upon the Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is
undoubted that a woman answering to her description attracted much
attention at Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness
of her appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or that
its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of her mind. At
present she is unable to give any coherent account of the past, and the
doctors hold out no hopes of the reestablishment of her reason. There is
evidence that a woman, who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for
some hours upon Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

“What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the account aloud to
him, while he finished his breakfast.

“My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and paced up and
down the room, “You are most long-suffering, but if I have told you
nothing in the last three days, it is because there is nothing to tell.
Even now this report from Paris does not help us much.”

“Surely it is final as regards the man’s death.”

“The man’s death is a mere incident--a trivial episode--in comparison
with our real task, which is to trace this document and save a European
catastrophe. Only one important thing has happened in the last three
days, and that is that nothing has happened. I get reports almost hourly
from the government, and it is certain that nowhere in Europe is there
any sign of trouble. Now, if this letter were loose--no, it CAN’T be
loose--but if it isn’t loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it
held back? That’s the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was
it, indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the night
when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him? If so, why
is it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his carry it off with
her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How could I search for it
without the French police having their suspicions aroused? It is a case,
my dear Watson, where the law is as dangerous to us as the criminals
are. Every man’s hand is against us, and yet the interests at stake
are colossal. Should I bring it to a successful conclusion, it will
certainly represent the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my
latest from the front!” He glanced hurriedly at the note which had
been handed in. “Halloa! Lestrade seems to have observed something of
interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down together to
Westminster.”

It was my first visit to the scene of the crime--a high, dingy,
narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century which
gave it birth. Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at us from the
front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big constable had opened
the door and let us in. The room into which we were shown was that in
which the crime had been committed, but no trace of it now remained save
an ugly, irregular stain upon the carpet. This carpet was a small square
drugget in the centre of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse
of beautiful, old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly
polished. Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of
which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a sumptuous
writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the pictures, the rugs,
and the hangings, all pointed to a taste which was luxurious to the
verge of effeminacy.

“Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes nodded.

“Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No doubt
it’s just as they say. She knocked at the door--surprise visit, I
guess, for he kept his life in water-tight compartments--he let her in,
couldn’t keep her in the street. She told him how she had traced him,
reproached him. One thing led to another, and then with that dagger so
handy the end soon came. It wasn’t all done in an instant, though, for
these chairs were all swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as
if he had tried to hold her off with it. We’ve got it all clear as if we
had seen it.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“And yet you have sent for me?”

“Ah, yes, that’s another matter--a mere trifle, but the sort of thing
you take an interest in--queer, you know, and what you might call
freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact--can’t have, on the
face of it.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful to keep
things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer in charge here
day and night. This morning, as the man was buried and the investigation
over--so far as this room is concerned--we thought we could tidy up
a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not fastened down, only just laid
there. We had occasion to raise it. We found----”

“Yes? You found----”

Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.

“Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we did
find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal must have
soaked through, must it not?”

“Undoubtedly it must.”

“Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on the white
woodwork to correspond.”

“No stain! But there must----”

“Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn’t.”

He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it over, he
showed that it was indeed as he said.

“But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have left a
mark.”

Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous expert.

“Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There IS a second stain, but it
does not correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As he spoke he
turned over another portion of the carpet, and there, sure enough, was
a great crimson spill upon the square white facing of the old-fashioned
floor. “What do you make of that, Mr. Holmes?”

“Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the carpet
has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it was easily
done.”

“The official police don’t need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them that the
carpet must have been turned round. That’s clear enough, for the stains
lie above each other--if you lay it over this way. But what I want to
know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?”

I could see from Holmes’s rigid face that he was vibrating with inward
excitement.

“Look here, Lestrade,” said he, “has that constable in the passage been
in charge of the place all the time?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don’t do it before us.
We’ll wait here. You take him into the back room. You’ll be more likely
to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he dared to admit
people and leave them alone in this room. Don’t ask him if he has done
it. Take it for granted. Tell him you KNOW someone has been here. Press
him. Tell him that a full confession is his only chance of forgiveness.
Do exactly what I tell you!”

“By George, if he knows I’ll have it out of him!” cried Lestrade. He
darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying voice sounded
from the back room.

“Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All the
demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner burst out
in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the floor, and in an
instant was down on his hands and knees clawing at each of the squares
of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as he dug his nails into the
edge of it. It hinged back like the lid of a box. A small black cavity
opened beneath it. Holmes plunged his eager hand into it and drew it out
with a bitter snarl of anger and disappointment. It was empty.

“Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!” The wooden lid was replaced,
and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when Lestrade’s voice
was heard in the passage. He found Holmes leaning languidly against
the mantelpiece, resigned and patient, endeavouring to conceal his
irrepressible yawns.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes, I can see that you are bored to
death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all right. Come
in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your most inexcusable
conduct.”

The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

“I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure. The young woman came to the door last
evening--mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking. It’s
lonesome, when you’re on duty here all day.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“She wanted to see where the crime was done--had read about it in the
papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken young woman,
sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep. When she saw that
mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the floor, and lay as if she
were dead. I ran to the back and got some water, but I could not bring
her to. Then I went round the corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy,
and by the time I had brought it back the young woman had recovered and
was off--ashamed of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me.”

“How about moving that drugget?”

“Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back. You see,
she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with nothing to keep it
in place. I straightened it out afterwards.”

“It’s a lesson to you that you can’t deceive me, Constable MacPherson,”
 said Lestrade, with dignity. “No doubt you thought that your breach of
duty could never be discovered, and yet a mere glance at that drugget
was enough to convince me that someone had been admitted to the room.
It’s lucky for you, my man, that nothing is missing, or you would find
yourself in Queer Street. I’m sorry to have called you down over such a
petty business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain
not corresponding with the first would interest you.”

“Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been here once,
constable?”

“Yes, sir, only once.”

“Who was she?”

“Don’t know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
typewriting and came to the wrong number--very pleasant, genteel young
woman, sir.”

“Tall? Handsome?”

“Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might say
she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very handsome. ‘Oh,
officer, do let me have a peep!’ says she. She had pretty, coaxing ways,
as you might say, and I thought there was no harm in letting her just
put her head through the door.”

“How was she dressed?”

“Quiet, sir--a long mantle down to her feet.”

“What time was it?”

“It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the lamps as I
came back with the brandy.”

“Very good,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, I think that we have more
important work elsewhere.”

As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while the
repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes turned on the
step and held up something in his hand. The constable stared intently.

“Good Lord, sir!” he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes put his
finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast pocket, and burst
out laughing as we turned down the street. “Excellent!” said he. “Come,
friend Watson, the curtain rings up for the last act. You will be
relieved to hear that there will be no war, that the Right Honourable
Trelawney Hope will suffer no setback in his brilliant career, that the
indiscreet Sovereign will receive no punishment for his indiscretion,
that the Prime Minister will have no European complication to deal
with, and that with a little tact and management upon our part
nobody will be a penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly
incident.”

My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

“You have solved it!” I cried.

“Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as ever.
But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we cannot get the
rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and bring the matter to a
head.”

When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was for
Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We were shown
into the morning-room.

“Mr. Holmes!” said the lady, and her face was pink with her indignation.
“This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your part. I desired,
as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a secret, lest my husband
should think that I was intruding into his affairs. And yet you
compromise me by coming here and so showing that there are business
relations between us.”

“Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must therefore
ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my hands.”

The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an instant
from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed--she tottered--I thought that
she would faint. Then with a grand effort she rallied from the shock,
and a supreme astonishment and indignation chased every other expression
from her features.

“You--you insult me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter.”

She darted to the bell.

“The butler shall show you out.”

“Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts to
avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all will be
set right. If you will work with me I can arrange everything. If you
work against me I must expose you.”

She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon his as
if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell, but she had
forborne to ring it.

“You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.
Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know
something. What is it that you know?”

“Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall. I will
not speak until you sit down. Thank you.”

“I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes.”

“One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo Lucas, of
your giving him this document, of your ingenious return to the room
last night, and of the manner in which you took the letter from the
hiding-place under the carpet.”

She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she could
speak.

“You are mad, Mr. Holmes--you are mad!” she cried, at last.

He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the face of a
woman cut out of a portrait.

“I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said he.
“The policeman has recognized it.”

She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

“Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be
adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends when
I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my advice and be
frank with me. It is your only chance.”

Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.

“I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd illusion.”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I can see
that it is all in vain.”

He rang the bell. The butler entered.

“Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”

“He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.”

Holmes glanced at his watch.

“Still a quarter of an hour,” said he. “Very good, I shall wait.”

The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda
was down on her knees at Holmes’s feet, her hands outstretched, her
beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

“Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of
supplication. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell him! I love him so! I would
not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would break his noble
heart.”

Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful, madam, that you have come to
your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant to lose.
Where is the letter?”

She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a long
blue envelope.

“Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen it!”

“How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick, quick, we must think of
some way! Where is the despatch-box?”

“Still in his bedroom.”

“What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!” A moment later she
had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

“How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of course
you have. Open it!”

From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box flew
open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue envelope deep
down into the heart of them, between the leaves of some other document.
The box was shut, locked, and returned to the bedroom.

“Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes. “We have still ten minutes.
I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you will spend
the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of this extraordinary
affair.”

“Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried the lady. “Oh, Mr.
Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a moment of
sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her husband as I
do, and yet if he knew how I have acted--how I have been compelled to
act--he would never forgive me. For his own honour stands so high that
he could not forget or pardon a lapse in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes!
My happiness, his happiness, our very lives are at stake!”

“Quick, madam, the time grows short!”

“It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter written
before my marriage--a foolish letter, a letter of an impulsive, loving
girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have thought it criminal. Had he
read that letter his confidence would have been forever destroyed. It
is years since I wrote it. I had thought that the whole matter was
forgotten. Then at last I heard from this man, Lucas, that it had passed
into his hands, and that he would lay it before my husband. I implored
his mercy. He said that he would return my letter if I would bring him a
certain document which he described in my husband’s despatch-box. He had
some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He assured me
that no harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in my position, Mr.
Holmes! What was I to do?”

“Take your husband into your confidence.”

“I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed certain
ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my husband’s paper,
still in a matter of politics I could not understand the consequences,
while in a matter of love and trust they were only too clear to me. I
did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an impression of his key. This man, Lucas,
furnished a duplicate. I opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and
conveyed it to Godolphin Street.”

“What happened there, madam?”

“I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him into
his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared to be alone
with the man. I remember that there was a woman outside as I entered.
Our business was soon done. He had my letter on his desk, I handed him
the document. He gave me the letter. At this instant there was a sound
at the door. There were steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned
back the drugget, thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and
covered it over.

“What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a vision of
a dark, frantic face, of a woman’s voice, which screamed in French, ‘My
waiting is not in vain. At last, at last I have found you with her!’
There was a savage struggle. I saw him with a chair in his hand, a knife
gleamed in hers. I rushed from the horrible scene, ran from the house,
and only next morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That
night I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the
future would bring.

“It was the next morning that I realized that I had only exchanged one
trouble for another. My husband’s anguish at the loss of his paper went
to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself from there and then kneeling
down at his feet and telling him what I had done. But that again would
mean a confession of the past. I came to you that morning in order to
understand the full enormity of my offence. From the instant that I
grasped it my whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back
my husband’s paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for it
was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If it had not
been for her coming, I should not have known where his hiding-place was.
How was I to get into the room? For two days I watched the place, but
the door was never left open. Last night I made a last attempt. What I
did and how I succeeded, you have already learned. I brought the paper
back with me, and thought of destroying it, since I could see no way of
returning it without confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear
his step upon the stair!”

The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. “Any news, Mr.
Holmes, any news?” he cried.

“I have some hopes.”

“Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant. “The Prime Minister is
lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of steel, and
yet I know that he has hardly slept since this terrible event. Jacobs,
will you ask the Prime Minister to come up? As to you, dear, I fear that
this is a matter of politics. We will join you in a few minutes in the
dining-room.”

The Prime Minister’s manner was subdued, but I could see by the gleam
of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he shared the
excitement of his young colleague.

“I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?”

“Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I have inquired at every
point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no danger to be
apprehended.”

“But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on such a
volcano. We must have something definite.”

“I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I think of
the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has never left this
house.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“If it had it would certainly have been public by now.”

“But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?”

“I am not convinced that anyone did take it.”

“Then how could it leave the despatch-box?”

“I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box.”

“Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance that
it left the box.”

“Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?”

“No. It was not necessary.”

“You may conceivably have overlooked it.”

“Impossible, I say.”

“But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to happen. I
presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have got mixed with
them.”

“It was on the top.”

“Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it.”

“No, no, I had everything out.”

“Surely it is easily decided, Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us have the
despatch-box brought in.”

The Secretary rang the bell.

“Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of time,
but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be done. Thank
you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the key on my watch-chain.
Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord Merrow, report from Sir
Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade, note on the Russo-German grain
taxes, letter from Madrid, note from Lord Flowers----Good heavens! what
is this? Lord Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!”

The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

“Yes, it is it--and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate you.”

“Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
inconceivable--impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a sorcerer! How
did you know it was there?”

“Because I knew it was nowhere else.”

“I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to the door. “Where is my
wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!” we heard his
voice on the stairs.

The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

“Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this than meets the eye. How
came the letter back in the box?”

Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those wonderful
eyes.

“We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he and, picking up his hat,
he turned to the door.

THE END






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The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Study In Scarlet, by Arthur Conan Doyle

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Title: A Study In Scarlet

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Posting Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook #244]
Release Date: April, 1995
Last Updated: September 30, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A STUDY IN SCARLET ***




Produced by Roger Squires





A STUDY IN SCARLET.

By A. Conan Doyle

[1]



     Original Transcriber’s Note: This etext is prepared directly
     from an 1887 edition, and care has been taken to duplicate the
     original exactly, including typographical and punctuation
     vagaries.

     Additions to the text include adding the underscore character to
     indicate italics, and textual end-notes in square braces.

     Project Gutenberg Editor’s Note: In reproofing and moving old PG
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     original 1887 edition as to typography and punctuation vagaries,
     no changes have been made in this ascii text file. However, in
     the Latin-1 file and this html file, present standards are
     followed and the several French and Spanish words have been
     given their proper accents.

	 Part II, The Country of the Saints, deals much with the Mormon Church.




A STUDY IN SCARLET.





PART I.

(_Being a reprint from the reminiscences of_ JOHN H. WATSON, M.D., _late
of the Army Medical Department._) [2]




CHAPTER I. MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.


IN the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the
University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course
prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there,
I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant
Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before
I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at
Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and
was already deep in the enemy’s country. I followed, however, with many
other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded
in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once
entered upon my new duties.

The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had
nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and
attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of
Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which
shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have
fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the
devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a
pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.

Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had
undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to
the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved
so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little
upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse
of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and
when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and
emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost
in sending me back to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the
troopship “Orontes,” and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with
my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal
government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.

I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as
air--or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will
permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to
London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of
the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at
a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless
existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely
than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that
I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate
somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in
my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making
up my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less
pretentious and less expensive domicile.

On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at
the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning
round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at
Barts. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is
a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never
been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm,
and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the
exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and
we started off together in a hansom.

“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?” he asked in
undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets.
“You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.”

I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it
by the time that we reached our destination.

“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my
misfortunes. “What are you up to now?”

“Looking for lodgings.” [3] I answered. “Trying to solve the problem
as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable
price.”

“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion; “you are the second man
to-day that has used that expression to me.”

“And who was the first?” I asked.

“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital.
He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone
to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which
were too much for his purse.”

“By Jove!” I cried, “if he really wants someone to share the rooms and
the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner
to being alone.”

Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass. “You
don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care
for him as a constant companion.”

“Why, what is there against him?”

“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him. He is a little queer
in his ideas--an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I
know he is a decent fellow enough.”

“A medical student, I suppose?” said I.

“No--I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well
up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know,
he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are
very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the way
knowledge which would astonish his professors.”

“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?” I asked.

“No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be
communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”

“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to lodge with anyone, I
should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong
enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in
Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How
could I meet this friend of yours?”

“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned my companion. “He either
avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning to
night. If you like, we shall drive round together after luncheon.”

“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other
channels.

As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn, Stamford
gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to
take as a fellow-lodger.

“You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with him,” he said; “I know
nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in
the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold me
responsible.”

“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part company,” I answered. “It
seems to me, Stamford,” I added, looking hard at my companion, “that you
have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow’s
temper so formidable, or what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”

“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,” he answered with a laugh.
“Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes--it approaches to
cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of
the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand,
but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea
of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself
with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and
exact knowledge.”

“Very right too.”

“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the
subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking
rather a bizarre shape.”

“Beating the subjects!”

“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him
at it with my own eyes.”

“And yet you say he is not a medical student?”

“No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we
are, and you must form your own impressions about him.” As he spoke, we
turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door, which
opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me,
and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and
made our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed
wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low arched passage
branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.

This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles.
Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts,
test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames.
There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant
table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round
and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. “I’ve found it! I’ve
found it,” he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a
test-tube in his hand. “I have found a re-agent which is precipitated
by hoemoglobin, [4] and by nothing else.” Had he discovered a gold mine,
greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford, introducing us.

“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength
for which I should hardly have given him credit. “You have been in
Afghanistan, I perceive.”

“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.

“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself. “The question now is about
hoemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of
mine?”

“It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I answered, “but
practically----”

“Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years.
Don’t you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains. Come
over here now!” He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and
drew me over to the table at which he had been working. “Let us have
some fresh blood,” he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and
drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. “Now, I
add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You perceive that
the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The proportion
of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no doubt, however,
that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction.” As he
spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals, and then added
some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a
dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom
of the glass jar.

“Ha! ha!” he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a
child with a new toy. “What do you think of that?”

“It seems to be a very delicate test,” I remarked.

“Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and
uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The
latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears
to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test been
invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long
ago have paid the penalty of their crimes.”

“Indeed!” I murmured.

“Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is
suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His
linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon them.
Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains,
or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many an expert,
and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock
Holmes’ test, and there will no longer be any difficulty.”

His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his
heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his
imagination.

“You are to be congratulated,” I remarked, considerably surprised at his
enthusiasm.

“There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would
certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was
Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier,
and Samson of New Orleans. I could name a score of cases in which it
would have been decisive.”

“You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,” said Stamford with a
laugh. “You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the ‘Police News
of the Past.’”

“Very interesting reading it might be made, too,” remarked Sherlock
Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger.
“I have to be careful,” he continued, turning to me with a smile, “for I
dabble with poisons a good deal.” He held out his hand as he spoke, and
I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of plaster,
and discoloured with strong acids.

“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sitting down on a high
three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with
his foot. “My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were
complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought
that I had better bring you together.”

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with
me. “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would
suit us down to the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco,
I hope?”

“I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself,” I answered.

“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally
do experiments. Would that annoy you?”

“By no means.”

“Let me see--what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at
times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am
sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What
have you to confess now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the
worst of one another before they begin to live together.”

I laughed at this cross-examination. “I keep a bull pup,” I said, “and
I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts
of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices
when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.”

“Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?” he asked,
anxiously.

“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a treat
for the gods--a badly-played one----”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh. “I think we may
consider the thing as settled--that is, if the rooms are agreeable to
you.”

“When shall we see them?”

“Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we’ll go together and settle
everything,” he answered.

“All right--noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.

We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards
my hotel.

“By the way,” I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, “how
the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?”

My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. “That’s just his little
peculiarity,” he said. “A good many people have wanted to know how he
finds things out.”

“Oh! a mystery is it?” I cried, rubbing my hands. “This is very piquant.
I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. ‘The proper study of
mankind is man,’ you know.”

“You must study him, then,” Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.
“You’ll find him a knotty problem, though. I’ll wager he learns more
about you than you about him. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably
interested in my new acquaintance.




CHAPTER II. THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION.


WE met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B,
[5] Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They
consisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large
airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad
windows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so moderate
did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain was
concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession.
That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the
following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and
portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and
laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we
gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our new
surroundings.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet
in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be
up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out
before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical
laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long
walks, which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the City.
Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but
now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would
lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving
a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have noticed such
a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him
of being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance
and cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his
aims in life, gradually deepened and increased. His very person and
appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual
observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively
lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and
piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded;
and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of
alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness
which mark the man of determination. His hands were invariably
blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of
extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe
when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.

The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how
much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured
to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned
himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how
objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention.
My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was
exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and
break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances, I
eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion, and
spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.

He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question,
confirmed Stamford’s opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to
have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a degree in
science or any other recognized portal which would give him an entrance
into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable,
and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample
and minute that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no man
would work so hard or attain such precise information unless he had some
definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom remarkable for the
exactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind with small matters
unless he has some very good reason for doing so.

His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary
literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing.
Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he
might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however,
when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory
and of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized human
being in this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth
travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an extraordinary fact
that I could hardly realize it.

“You appear to be astonished,” he said, smiling at my expression of
surprise. “Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it.”

“To forget it!”

“You see,” he explained, “I consider that a man’s brain originally is
like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture
as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he
comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets
crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that
he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful workman
is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will
have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of
these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It
is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can
distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every
addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is
of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing
out the useful ones.”

“But the Solar System!” I protested.

“What the deuce is it to me?” he interrupted impatiently; “you say
that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a
pennyworth of difference to me or to my work.”

I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but something
in his manner showed me that the question would be an unwelcome one. I
pondered over our short conversation, however, and endeavoured to draw
my deductions from it. He said that he would acquire no knowledge which
did not bear upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge which he
possessed was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated in my own
mind all the various points upon which he had shown me that he was
exceptionally well-informed. I even took a pencil and jotted them down.
I could not help smiling at the document when I had completed it. It ran
in this way--


SHERLOCK HOLMES--his limits.

  1. Knowledge of Literature.--Nil.
  2.              Philosophy.--Nil.
  3.              Astronomy.--Nil.
  4.              Politics.--Feeble.
  5.              Botany.--Variable.  Well up in belladonna,
                              opium, and poisons generally.
                              Knows nothing of practical gardening.
  6.              Geology.--Practical, but limited.
                               Tells at a glance different soils
                               from each other.  After walks has
                               shown me splashes upon his trousers,
                               and told me by their colour and
                               consistence in what part of London
                               he had received them.
  7.              Chemistry.--Profound.
  8.              Anatomy.--Accurate, but unsystematic.
  9.              Sensational Literature.--Immense.  He appears
                              to know every detail of every horror
                              perpetrated in the century.
  10. Plays the violin well.
  11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
  12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.


When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair.
“If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all
these accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them all,”
 I said to myself, “I may as well give up the attempt at once.”

I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These
were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments.
That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because
at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder, and other
favourites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any
music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of
an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle
which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and
melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they
reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether the music aided
those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim
or fancy was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled against
these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them
by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a
slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.

During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to think
that my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently,
however, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those in the most
different classes of society. There was one little sallow rat-faced,
dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came
three or four times in a single week. One morning a young girl called,
fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more. The same
afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jew
pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was closely
followed by a slip-shod elderly woman. On another occasion an old
white-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on
another a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these
nondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to
beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bed-room.
He always apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. “I have
to use this room as a place of business,” he said, “and these people
are my clients.” Again I had an opportunity of asking him a point blank
question, and again my delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to
confide in me. I imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for
not alluding to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to
the subject of his own accord.

It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I
rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not
yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so accustomed to my
late habits that my place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With
the unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave a curt
intimation that I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table
and attempted to while away the time with it, while my companion munched
silently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark at the
heading, and I naturally began to run my eye through it.

Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of Life,” and it attempted to
show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic
examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as being a
remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was
close and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to be far-fetched
and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch
of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man’s inmost thoughts.
Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one
trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as infallible
as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would his results appear
to the uninitiated that until they learned the processes by which he had
arrived at them they might well consider him as a necromancer.

“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a logician could infer the
possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of
one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is
known whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all other arts,
the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired
by long and patient study nor is life long enough to allow any mortal
to attain the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning to
those moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest
difficulties, let the enquirer begin by mastering more elementary
problems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to
distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to
which he belongs. Puerile as such an exercise may seem, it sharpens the
faculties of observation, and teaches one where to look and what to look
for. By a man’s finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his
trouser knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his
expression, by his shirt cuffs--by each of these things a man’s calling
is plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the
competent enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable.”

“What ineffable twaddle!” I cried, slapping the magazine down on the
table, “I never read such rubbish in my life.”

“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“Why, this article,” I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat
down to my breakfast. “I see that you have read it since you have marked
it. I don’t deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It
is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all these
neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not
practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third class
carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his
fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him.”

“You would lose your money,” Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. “As for
the article I wrote it myself.”

“You!”

“Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The
theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so
chimerical are really extremely practical--so practical that I depend
upon them for my bread and cheese.”

“And how?” I asked involuntarily.

“Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the
world. I’m a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is.
Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of private
ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I manage to
put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I
am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of
crime, to set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance about
misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a thousand at your finger
ends, it is odd if you can’t unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade
is a well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently over a
forgery case, and that was what brought him here.”

“And these other people?”

“They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are
all people who are in trouble about something, and want a little
enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and
then I pocket my fee.”

“But do you mean to say,” I said, “that without leaving your room you
can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although they
have seen every detail for themselves?”

“Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case
turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and
see things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special knowledge
which I apply to the problem, and which facilitates matters wonderfully.
Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which aroused your
scorn, are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation with me is
second nature. You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our
first meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan.”

“You were told, no doubt.”

“Nothing of the sort. I _knew_ you came from Afghanistan. From long
habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I
arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps.
There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, ‘Here is a
gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly
an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is
dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are
fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says
clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and
unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have
seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.’ The
whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you
came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished.”

“It is simple enough as you explain it,” I said, smiling. “You remind
me of Edgar Allen Poe’s Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did
exist outside of stories.”

Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. “No doubt you think that you are
complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin,” he observed. “Now, in my
opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking
in on his friends’ thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of
an hour’s silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some
analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as
Poe appeared to imagine.”

“Have you read Gaboriau’s works?” I asked. “Does Lecoq come up to your
idea of a detective?”

Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. “Lecoq was a miserable bungler,”
 he said, in an angry voice; “he had only one thing to recommend him, and
that was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was
how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four
hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a text-book for
detectives to teach them what to avoid.”

I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired
treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and stood
looking out into the busy street. “This fellow may be very clever,” I
said to myself, “but he is certainly very conceited.”

“There are no crimes and no criminals in these days,” he said,
querulously. “What is the use of having brains in our profession. I know
well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or has
ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural
talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what is the
result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy
with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see
through it.”

I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought it
best to change the topic.

“I wonder what that fellow is looking for?” I asked, pointing to a
stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the
other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had
a large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a
message.

“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He knows that I cannot verify
his guess.”

The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were
watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across
the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps
ascending the stair.

“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping into the room and handing
my friend the letter.

Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little
thought of this when he made that random shot. “May I ask, my lad,” I
said, in the blandest voice, “what your trade may be?”

“Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly. “Uniform away for repairs.”

“And you were?” I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my
companion.

“A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right,
sir.”

He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was
gone.




CHAPTER III. THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY [6]


I CONFESS that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the
practical nature of my companion’s theories. My respect for his powers
of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some lurking
suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a pre-arranged
episode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could have
in taking me in was past my comprehension. When I looked at him he
had finished reading the note, and his eyes had assumed the vacant,
lack-lustre expression which showed mental abstraction.

“How in the world did you deduce that?” I asked.

“Deduce what?” said he, petulantly.

“Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines.”

“I have no time for trifles,” he answered, brusquely; then with a smile,
“Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but perhaps
it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that man was a
sergeant of Marines?”

“No, indeed.”

“It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you
were asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some
difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the
street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the
fellow’s hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage,
however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He was
a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of command.
You must have observed the way in which he held his head and swung
his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of
him--all facts which led me to believe that he had been a sergeant.”

“Wonderful!” I ejaculated.

“Commonplace,” said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that he
was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. “I said just now that
there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong--look at this!” He
threw me over the note which the commissionaire had brought. [7]

“Why,” I cried, as I cast my eye over it, “this is terrible!”

“It does seem to be a little out of the common,” he remarked, calmly.
“Would you mind reading it to me aloud?”

This is the letter which I read to him----


“MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--

“There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens,
off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in
the morning, and as the house was an empty one, suspected that something
was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare
of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well dressed, and
having cards in his pocket bearing the name of ‘Enoch J. Drebber,
Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.’ There had been no robbery, nor is there any
evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in
the room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a loss as to
how he came into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler.
If you can come round to the house any time before twelve, you will find
me there. I have left everything _in statu quo_ until I hear from you.
If you are unable to come I shall give you fuller details, and would
esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me with your opinion.
Yours faithfully,

“TOBIAS GREGSON.”


“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,” my friend remarked;
“he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and
energetic, but conventional--shockingly so. They have their knives
into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional
beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put
upon the scent.”

I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. “Surely there is
not a moment to be lost,” I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?”

“I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy
devil that ever stood in shoe leather--that is, when the fit is on me,
for I can be spry enough at times.”

“Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for.”

“My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the
whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will
pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage.”

“But he begs you to help him.”

“Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but
he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person.
However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my
own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!”

He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed that
an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.

“Get your hat,” he said.

“You wish me to come?”

“Yes, if you have nothing better to do.” A minute later we were both in
a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the
house-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets
beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away
about Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and
an Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the
melancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

“You don’t seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,” I said at
last, interrupting Holmes’ musical disquisition.

“No data yet,” he answered. “It is a capital mistake to theorize before
you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.”

“You will have your data soon,” I remarked, pointing with my finger;
“this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much
mistaken.”

“So it is. Stop, driver, stop!” We were still a hundred yards or so from
it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey upon
foot.

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It was
one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two being
occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant
melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here and
there a “To Let” card had developed like a cataract upon the bleared
panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly
plants separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed
by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently of a
mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from the
rain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by a
three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and
against this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded by
a small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyes
in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the
house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be
further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under the
circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up
and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the
opposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny,
he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass
which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice
he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamation
of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey
soil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, I was
unable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it.
Still I had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his
perceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal
which was hidden from me.

At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward and
wrung my companion’s hand with effusion. “It is indeed kind of you to
come,” he said, “I have had everything left untouched.”

“Except that!” my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. “If a herd
of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. No
doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you
permitted this.”

“I have had so much to do inside the house,” the detective said
evasively. “My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him
to look after this.”

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. “With two
such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be
much for a third party to find out,” he said.

Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. “I think we have done
all that can be done,” he answered; “it’s a queer case though, and I
knew your taste for such things.”

“You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“No, sir.”

“Nor Lestrade?”

“No, sir.”

“Then let us go and look at the room.” With which inconsequent remark he
strode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed
his astonishment.

A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices.
Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these
had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the
dining-room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious affair had
occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subdued feeling
at my heart which the presence of death inspires.

It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence
of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was
blotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips had
become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath.
Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of
imitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a
red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was
hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to everything, which was
intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.

All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was
centred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon
the boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured
ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or forty-four years of
age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and
a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat
and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collar
and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed upon the floor
beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while
his lower limbs were interlocked as though his death struggle had been a
grievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror,
and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon human
features. This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low
forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly
simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,
unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has
it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy
apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban
London.

Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway, and
greeted my companion and myself.

“This case will make a stir, sir,” he remarked. “It beats anything I
have seen, and I am no chicken.”

“There is no clue?” said Gregson.

“None at all,” chimed in Lestrade.

Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it
intently. “You are sure that there is no wound?” he asked, pointing to
numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.

“Positive!” cried both detectives.

“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual--[8]
presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It reminds me of
the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in
the year ‘34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?”

“No, sir.”

“Read it up--you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It
has all been done before.”

As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere,
feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the same
far-away expression which I have already remarked upon. So swiftly was
the examination made, that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness
with which it was conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man’s lips,
and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.

“No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination.”

“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he said. “There is nothing more
to be learned.”

Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they entered
the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As they raised
him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed
it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.

“There’s been a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a woman’s wedding-ring.”

He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all gathered
round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of
plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

“This complicates matters,” said Gregson. “Heaven knows, they were
complicated enough before.”

“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed Holmes. “There’s
nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his
pockets?”

“We have it all here,” said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects
upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. “A gold watch, No. 97163, by
Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring,
with masonic device. Gold pin--bull-dog’s head, with rubies as eyes.
Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland,
corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose
money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of
Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron,’ with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the
fly-leaf. Two letters--one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph
Stangerson.”

“At what address?”

“American Exchange, Strand--to be left till called for. They are both
from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their
boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to
return to New York.”

“Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?”

“I did it at once, sir,” said Gregson. “I have had advertisements
sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American
Exchange, but he has not returned yet.”

“Have you sent to Cleveland?”

“We telegraphed this morning.”

“How did you word your inquiries?”

“We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be glad
of any information which could help us.”

“You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to
be crucial?”

“I asked about Stangerson.”

“Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appears
to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?”

“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in an offended voice.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make
some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we
were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene,
rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a discovery of the highest
importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a
careful examination of the walls.”

The little man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in
a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his
colleague.

“Come here,” he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of
which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. “Now, stand
there!”

He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.

“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.

I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this
particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a
yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was
scrawled in blood-red letters a single word--

                         RACHE.


“What do you think of that?” cried the detective, with the air of a
showman exhibiting his show. “This was overlooked because it was in the
darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there. The
murderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear where
it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide
anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See
that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was
lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of
the wall.”

“And what does it mean now that you _have_ found it?” asked Gregson in a
depreciatory voice.

“Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name
Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You mark
my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find that a
woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It’s all very well for
you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but
the old hound is the best, when all is said and done.”

“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion, who had ruffled the
little man’s temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. “You
certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out,
and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the other
participant in last night’s mystery. I have not had time to examine this
room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now.”

As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying
glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly
about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once
lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that
he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to
himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire
of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of
encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded
of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it dashes backwards and
forwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes
across the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his
researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between
marks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying his
tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place
he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey dust from the floor,
and packed it away in an envelope. Finally, he examined with his glass
the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the most
minute exactness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he
replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.

“They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,” he
remarked with a smile. “It’s a very bad definition, but it does apply to
detective work.”

Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres [9] of their amateur
companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently
failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, that
Sherlock Holmes’ smallest actions were all directed towards some
definite and practical end.

“What do you think of it, sir?” they both asked.

“It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to presume
to help you,” remarked my friend. “You are doing so well now that it
would be a pity for anyone to interfere.” There was a world of
sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. “If you will let me know how your
investigations go,” he continued, “I shall be happy to give you any help
I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the constable who found
the body. Can you give me his name and address?”

Lestrade glanced at his note-book. “John Rance,” he said. “He is off
duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”

Holmes took a note of the address.

“Come along, Doctor,” he said; “we shall go and look him up. I’ll tell
you one thing which may help you in the case,” he continued, turning to
the two detectives. “There has been murder done, and the murderer was a
man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had
small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a
Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab,
which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his
off fore leg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and the
finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only a
few indications, but they may assist you.”

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

“If this man was murdered, how was it done?” asked the former.

“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. “One other thing,
Lestrade,” he added, turning round at the door: “‘Rache,’ is the German
for ‘revenge;’ so don’t lose your time looking for Miss Rachel.”

With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals
open-mouthed behind him.




CHAPTER IV. WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL.


IT was one o’clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock
Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a
long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us
to the address given us by Lestrade.

“There is nothing like first hand evidence,” he remarked; “as a matter
of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still we may as
well learn all that is to be learned.”

“You amaze me, Holmes,” said I. “Surely you are not as sure as you
pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave.”

“There’s no room for a mistake,” he answered. “The very first thing
which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts with
its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had no rain
for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep impression must
have been there during the night. There were the marks of the horse’s
hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far more clearly cut than
that of the other three, showing that that was a new shoe. Since the cab
was there after the rain began, and was not there at any time during the
morning--I have Gregson’s word for that--it follows that it must have
been there during the night, and, therefore, that it brought those two
individuals to the house.”

“That seems simple enough,” said I; “but how about the other man’s
height?”

“Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from
the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though
there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow’s stride
both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a way of
checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his instinct leads
him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just
over six feet from the ground. It was child’s play.”

“And his age?” I asked.

“Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest
effort, he can’t be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the breadth
of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked across.
Patent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had hopped over.
There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply applying to ordinary
life a few of those precepts of observation and deduction which I
advocated in that article. Is there anything else that puzzles you?”

“The finger nails and the Trichinopoly,” I suggested.

“The writing on the wall was done with a man’s forefinger dipped in
blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly
scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the man’s
nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered ash from the floor.
It was dark in colour and flakey--such an ash as is only made by a
Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar ashes--in fact, I
have written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can
distinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand, either of cigar
or of tobacco. It is just in such details that the skilled detective
differs from the Gregson and Lestrade type.”

“And the florid face?” I asked.

“Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was
right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair.”

I passed my hand over my brow. “My head is in a whirl,” I remarked; “the
more one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came these two
men--if there were two men--into an empty house? What has become of the
cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another to take poison?
Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the murderer,
since robbery had no part in it? How came the woman’s ring there? Above
all, why should the second man write up the German word RACHE before
decamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible way of reconciling
all these facts.”

My companion smiled approvingly.

“You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well,” he
said. “There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up
my mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade’s discovery it was simply
a blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by suggesting
Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German. The A, if
you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion. Now, a real
German invariably prints in the Latin character, so that we may safely
say that this was not written by one, but by a clumsy imitator who
overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert inquiry into a wrong
channel. I’m not going to tell you much more of the case, Doctor. You
know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has explained his trick,
and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the
conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.”

“I shall never do that,” I answered; “you have brought detection as near
an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world.”

My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way
in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive
to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.

“I’ll tell you one other thing,” he said. “Patent leathers [10] and
Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway
together as friendly as possible--arm-in-arm, in all probability.
When they got inside they walked up and down the room--or rather,
Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I
could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked he
grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length of his
strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up, no doubt,
into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I’ve told you all I know myself
now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working
basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to
Halle’s concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon.”

This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way
through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the
dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a stand.
“That’s Audley Court in there,” he said, pointing to a narrow slit in
the line of dead-coloured brick. “You’ll find me here when you come
back.”

Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us
into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We
picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines of
discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which
was decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was
engraved. On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we were
shown into a little front parlour to await his coming.

He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed in
his slumbers. “I made my report at the office,” he said.

Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it
pensively. “We thought that we should like to hear it all from your own
lips,” he said.

“I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,” the constable
answered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.

“Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred.”

Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though
determined not to omit anything in his narrative.

“I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,” he said. “My time is from ten at
night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the ‘White
Hart’; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o’clock it
began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher--him who has the Holland Grove
beat--and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin’.
Presently--maybe about two or a little after--I thought I would take
a look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was
precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down,
though a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin’ down, thinkin’
between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be, when
suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same
house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty
on account of him that owns them who won’t have the drains seen to,
though the very last tenant what lived in one of them died o’ typhoid
fever. I was knocked all in a heap therefore at seeing a light in
the window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the
door----”

“You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,” my companion
interrupted. “What did you do that for?”

Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmost
amazement upon his features.

“Why, that’s true, sir,” he said; “though how you come to know it,
Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still and
so lonesome, that I thought I’d be none the worse for some one with me.
I ain’t afeared of anything on this side o’ the grave; but I thought
that maybe it was him that died o’ the typhoid inspecting the drains
what killed him. The thought gave me a kind o’ turn, and I walked back
to the gate to see if I could see Murcher’s lantern, but there wasn’t no
sign of him nor of anyone else.”

“There was no one in the street?”

“Not a livin’ soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself
together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside,
so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin’. There was a
candle flickerin’ on the mantelpiece--a red wax one--and by its light I
saw----”

“Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times,
and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and tried
the kitchen door, and then----”

John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in
his eyes. “Where was you hid to see all that?” he cried. “It seems to me
that you knows a deal more than you should.”

Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.
“Don’t get arresting me for the murder,” he said. “I am one of the
hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for
that. Go on, though. What did you do next?”

Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified expression.
“I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought Murcher
and two more to the spot.”

“Was the street empty then?”

“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.”

“What do you mean?”

The constable’s features broadened into a grin. “I’ve seen many a drunk
chap in my time,” he said, “but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as
that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up agin the
railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs about Columbine’s
New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn’t stand, far less
help.”

“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. “He was
an uncommon drunk sort o’ man,” he said. “He’d ha’ found hisself in the
station if we hadn’t been so took up.”

“His face--his dress--didn’t you notice them?” Holmes broke in
impatiently.

“I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up--me
and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower
part muffled round----”

“That will do,” cried Holmes. “What became of him?”

“We’d enough to do without lookin’ after him,” the policeman said, in an
aggrieved voice. “I’ll wager he found his way home all right.”

“How was he dressed?”

“A brown overcoat.”

“Had he a whip in his hand?”

“A whip--no.”

“He must have left it behind,” muttered my companion. “You didn’t happen
to see or hear a cab after that?”

“No.”

“There’s a half-sovereign for you,” my companion said, standing up and
taking his hat. “I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the
force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You
might have gained your sergeant’s stripes last night. The man whom you
held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and
whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell you
that it is so. Come along, Doctor.”

We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous,
but obviously uncomfortable.

“The blundering fool,” Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our
lodgings. “Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of good
luck, and not taking advantage of it.”

“I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of this
man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery. But why
should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is not the way
of criminals.”

“The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have no
other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I
shall have him, Doctor--I’ll lay you two to one that I have him. I must
thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have
missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh?
Why shouldn’t we use a little art jargon. There’s the scarlet thread of
murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is
to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it. And now
for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing
are splendid. What’s that little thing of Chopin’s she plays so
magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a
lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.




CHAPTER V. OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR.


OUR morning’s exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I was
tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes’ departure for the concert, I
lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hours’ sleep.
It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all that
had occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded into
it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distorted
baboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was the
impression which that face had produced upon me that I found it
difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed its
owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most
malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of
Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done, and that the
depravity of the victim was no condonment [11] in the eyes of the law.

The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion’s
hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he
had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected something
which had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not poison, what
had caused the man’s death, since there was neither wound nor marks of
strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that which lay so
thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor had the
victim any weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist. As
long as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would be
no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confident
manner convinced me that he had already formed a theory which explained
all the facts, though what it was I could not for an instant conjecture.

He was very late in returning--so late, that I knew that the concert
could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table before
he appeared.

“It was magnificent,” he said, as he took his seat. “Do you remember
what Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing and
appreciating it existed among the human race long before the power of
speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced
by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries
when the world was in its childhood.”

“That’s rather a broad idea,” I remarked.

“One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret
Nature,” he answered. “What’s the matter? You’re not looking quite
yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you.”

“To tell the truth, it has,” I said. “I ought to be more case-hardened
after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at
Maiwand without losing my nerve.”

“I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the
imagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have you
seen the evening paper?”

“No.”

“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention the
fact that when the man was raised up, a woman’s wedding ring fell upon
the floor. It is just as well it does not.”

“Why?”

“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I had one sent to every
paper this morning immediately after the affair.”

He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated. It
was the first announcement in the “Found” column. “In Brixton Road,
this morning,” it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway
between the ‘White Hart’ Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson,
221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening.”

“Excuse my using your name,” he said. “If I used my own some of these
dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair.”

“That is all right,” I answered. “But supposing anyone applies, I have
no ring.”

“Oh yes, you have,” said he, handing me one. “This will do very well. It
is almost a facsimile.”

“And who do you expect will answer this advertisement.”

“Why, the man in the brown coat--our florid friend with the square toes.
If he does not come himself he will send an accomplice.”

“Would he not consider it as too dangerous?”

“Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every reason
to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything than lose the
ring. According to my notion he dropped it while stooping over Drebber’s
body, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house he
discovered his loss and hurried back, but found the police already in
possession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle burning. He had
to pretend to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might have
been aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in that
man’s place. On thinking the matter over, it must have occurred to him
that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the road after leaving
the house. What would he do, then? He would eagerly look out for the
evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles found. His
eye, of course, would light upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should
he fear a trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why the finding
of the ring should be connected with the murder. He would come. He will
come. You shall see him within an hour?”

“And then?” I asked.

“Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?”

“I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.”

“You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man,
and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for
anything.”

I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with
the pistol the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his
favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.

“The plot thickens,” he said, as I entered; “I have just had an answer
to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct one.”

“And that is?” I asked eagerly.

“My fiddle would be the better for new strings,” he remarked. “Put your
pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an ordinary
way. Leave the rest to me. Don’t frighten him by looking at him too
hard.”

“It is eight o’clock now,” I said, glancing at my watch.

“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly.
That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you! This is a
queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday--‘De Jure inter
Gentes’--published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles’
head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed
volume was struck off.”

“Who is the printer?”

“Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very
faded ink, is written ‘Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.’ I wonder who William
Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I suppose. His
writing has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man, I think.”

As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose
softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the
servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she
opened it.

“Does Dr. Watson live here?” asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We
could not hear the servant’s reply, but the door closed, and some one
began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling
one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my companion as he
listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a feeble
tap at the door.

“Come in,” I cried.

At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a very
old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be
dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsey, she
stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket
with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face
had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do to
keep my countenance.

The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
advertisement. “It’s this as has brought me, good gentlemen,” she said,
dropping another curtsey; “a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It
belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time twelvemonth,
which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and what he’d say if
he come ‘ome and found her without her ring is more than I can think, he
being short enough at the best o’ times, but more especially when he
has the drink. If it please you, she went to the circus last night along
with----”

“Is that her ring?” I asked.

“The Lord be thanked!” cried the old woman; “Sally will be a glad woman
this night. That’s the ring.”

“And what may your address be?” I inquired, taking up a pencil.

“13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here.”

“The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch,” said
Sherlock Holmes sharply.

The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little
red-rimmed eyes. “The gentleman asked me for _my_ address,” she said.
“Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham.”

“And your name is----?”

“My name is Sawyer--her’s is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married her--and
a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he’s at sea, and no steward in the
company more thought of; but when on shore, what with the women and what
with liquor shops----”

“Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,” I interrupted, in obedience to a sign
from my companion; “it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad
to be able to restore it to the rightful owner.”

With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old crone
packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. Sherlock
Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and rushed into
his room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an ulster and
a cravat. “I’ll follow her,” he said, hurriedly; “she must be an
accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me.” The hall door had
hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the stair.
Looking through the window I could see her walking feebly along the
other side, while her pursuer dogged her some little distance behind.
“Either his whole theory is incorrect,” I thought to myself, “or else he
will be led now to the heart of the mystery.” There was no need for him
to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was impossible until
I heard the result of his adventure.

It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he might
be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages
of Henri Murger’s “Vie de Bohème.” Ten o’clock passed, and I heard the
footsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the
more stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the same
destination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of
his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had not
been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for the
mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he burst into a
hearty laugh.

“I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world,” he cried,
dropping into his chair; “I have chaffed them so much that they would
never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I
know that I will be even with them in the long run.”

“What is it then?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t mind telling a story against myself. That creature had
gone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being
foot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler which
was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the address, but
I need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough to
be heard at the other side of the street, ‘Drive to 13, Duncan Street,
Houndsditch,’ she cried. This begins to look genuine, I thought, and
having seen her safely inside, I perched myself behind. That’s an art
which every detective should be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, and
never drew rein until we reached the street in question. I hopped off
before we came to the door, and strolled down the street in an easy,
lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I saw
him open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When
I reached him he was groping about frantically in the empty cab, and
giving vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever I
listened to. There was no sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear it
will be some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13
we found that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger, named
Keswick, and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever
been heard of there.”

“You don’t mean to say,” I cried, in amazement, “that that tottering,
feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion,
without either you or the driver seeing her?”

“Old woman be damned!” said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. “We were the old
women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an
active one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was
inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this means
of giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not as
lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to risk
something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my advice
and turn in.”

I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I
left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the
watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his violin,
and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem which he
had set himself to unravel.




CHAPTER VI. TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.


THE papers next day were full of the “Brixton Mystery,” as they termed
it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had leaders upon it
in addition. There was some information in them which was new to me. I
still retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing
upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them:--

The _Daily Telegraph_ remarked that in the history of crime there had
seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German
name of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister
inscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by political
refugees and revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in
America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten laws,
and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the Vehmgericht,
aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian
theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the
article concluded by admonishing the Government and advocating a closer
watch over foreigners in England.

The _Standard_ commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the sort
usually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from the
unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent weakening
of all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman who had
been residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed at the
boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell.
He was accompanied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr. Joseph
Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday, the
4th inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowed intention of
catching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards seen together upon
the platform. Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber’s body
was, as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road,
many miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his fate, are
questions which are still involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the
whereabouts of Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and
Mr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it
is confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
throw light upon the matter.

The _Daily News_ observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being
a political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which animated
the Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to our shores
a number of men who might have made excellent citizens were they not
soured by the recollection of all that they had undergone. Among these
men there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of which was
punished by death. Every effort should be made to find the secretary,
Stangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of the habits of the
deceased. A great step had been gained by the discovery of the address
of the house at which he had boarded--a result which was entirely due to
the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast, and
they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.

“I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be sure
to score.”

“That depends on how it turns out.”

“Oh, bless you, it doesn’t matter in the least. If the man is caught, it
will be _on account_ of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be _in
spite_ of their exertions. It’s heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever
they do, they will have followers. ‘Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot
qui l’admire.’”

“What on earth is this?” I cried, for at this moment there came the
pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by
audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.

“It’s the Baker Street division of the detective police force,” said my
companion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a
dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped
eyes on.

“‘Tention!” cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little
scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. “In
future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you
must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?”

“No, sir, we hain’t,” said one of the youths.

“I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are
your wages.” [13] He handed each of them a shilling.

“Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next time.”

He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many rats,
and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.

“There’s more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than
out of a dozen of the force,” Holmes remarked. “The mere sight of an
official-looking person seals men’s lips. These youngsters, however, go
everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all
they want is organisation.”

“Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?” I asked.

“Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a matter
of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a vengeance!
Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude written upon every
feature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There he
is!”

There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the
fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and
burst into our sitting-room.

“My dear fellow,” he cried, wringing Holmes’ unresponsive hand,
“congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day.”

A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion’s expressive face.

“Do you mean that you are on the right track?” he asked.

“The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key.”

“And his name is?”

“Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty’s navy,” cried
Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.

Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.

“Take a seat, and try one of these cigars,” he said. “We are anxious to
know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” the detective answered. “The tremendous
exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have worn
me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain upon
the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both
brain-workers.”

“You do me too much honour,” said Holmes, gravely. “Let us hear how you
arrived at this most gratifying result.”

The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed complacently
at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of
amusement.

“The fun of it is,” he cried, “that that fool Lestrade, who thinks
himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is
after the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime
than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this
time.”

The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.

“And how did you get your clue?”

“Ah, I’ll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is
strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to contend
with was the finding of this American’s antecedents. Some people would
have waited until their advertisements were answered, or until parties
came forward and volunteered information. That is not Tobias Gregson’s
way of going to work. You remember the hat beside the dead man?”

“Yes,” said Holmes; “by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road.”

Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.

“I had no idea that you noticed that,” he said. “Have you been there?”

“No.”

“Ha!” cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; “you should never neglect a
chance, however small it may seem.”

“To a great mind, nothing is little,” remarked Holmes, sententiously.

“Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of that
size and description. He looked over his books, and came on it at once.
He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at Charpentier’s Boarding
Establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at his address.”

“Smart--very smart!” murmured Sherlock Holmes.

“I next called upon Madame Charpentier,” continued the detective.
“I found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room,
too--an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about
the eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn’t escape
my notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, when you come upon the right scent--a kind of thrill in your
nerves. ‘Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder Mr.
Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?’ I asked.

“The mother nodded. She didn’t seem able to get out a word. The daughter
burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people knew something
of the matter.

“‘At what o’clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?’ I
asked.

“‘At eight o’clock,’ she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her
agitation. ‘His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two
trains--one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first. [14]

“‘And was that the last which you saw of him?’

“A terrible change came over the woman’s face as I asked the question.
Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds before she
could get out the single word ‘Yes’--and when it did come it was in a
husky unnatural tone.

“There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a calm
clear voice.

“‘No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,’ she said. ‘Let us be
frank with this gentleman. We _did_ see Mr. Drebber again.’

“‘God forgive you!’ cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands and
sinking back in her chair. ‘You have murdered your brother.’

“‘Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,’ the girl answered
firmly.

“‘You had best tell me all about it now,’ I said. ‘Half-confidences are
worse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of it.’

“‘On your head be it, Alice!’ cried her mother; and then, turning to me,
‘I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on behalf
of my son arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand in this
terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is, however,
that in your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to be
compromised. That however is surely impossible. His high character, his
profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.’

“‘Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,’ I answered.
‘Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.’

“‘Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,’ she said, and her
daughter withdrew. ‘Now, sir,’ she continued, ‘I had no intention of
telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it I
have no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you all
without omitting any particular.’

“‘It is your wisest course,’ said I.

“‘Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his secretary,
Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I noticed a
“Copenhagen” label upon each of their trunks, showing that that had been
their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but his
employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise. He was coarse in his
habits and brutish in his ways. The very night of his arrival he became
very much the worse for drink, and, indeed, after twelve o’clock in the
day he could hardly ever be said to be sober. His manners towards the
maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all, he
speedily assumed the same attitude towards my daughter, Alice, and spoke
to her more than once in a way which, fortunately, she is too innocent
to understand. On one occasion he actually seized her in his arms and
embraced her--an outrage which caused his own secretary to reproach him
for his unmanly conduct.’

“‘But why did you stand all this,’ I asked. ‘I suppose that you can get
rid of your boarders when you wish.’

“Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. ‘Would to God that
I had given him notice on the very day that he came,’ she said. ‘But
it was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day each--fourteen
pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in
the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for the
best. This last was too much, however, and I gave him notice to leave on
account of it. That was the reason of his going.’

“‘Well?’

“‘My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave
just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper
is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed the
door behind them a load seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in
less than an hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr.
Drebber had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the worse for
drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was sitting with my
daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed his train.
He then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to her that
she should fly with him. “You are of age,” he said, “and there is no law
to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never mind the old girl
here, but come along with me now straight away. You shall live like a
princess.” Poor Alice was so frightened that she shrunk away from him,
but he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured to draw her towards the
door. I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room.
What happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the confused sounds
of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my head. When I did look up
I saw Arthur standing in the doorway laughing, with a stick in his hand.
“I don’t think that fine fellow will trouble us again,” he said. “I will
just go after him and see what he does with himself.” With those words
he took his hat and started off down the street. The next morning we
heard of Mr. Drebber’s mysterious death.’

“This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier’s lips with many gasps and
pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the words. I
made shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that there should
be no possibility of a mistake.”

“It’s quite exciting,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. “What happened
next?”

“When Mrs. Charpentier paused,” the detective continued, “I saw that the
whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way which
I always found effective with women, I asked her at what hour her son
returned.

“‘I do not know,’ she answered.

“‘Not know?’

“‘No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.’

“‘After you went to bed?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘When did you go to bed?’

“‘About eleven.’

“‘So your son was gone at least two hours?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Possibly four or five?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘What was he doing during that time?’

“‘I do not know,’ she answered, turning white to her very lips.

“Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I found
out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and
arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to come
quietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass, ‘I suppose you
are arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel
Drebber,’ he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his
alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect.”

“Very,” said Holmes.

“He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as
having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel.”

“What is your theory, then?”

“Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton Road.
When there, a fresh altercation arose between them, in the course of
which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of the stomach,
perhaps, which killed him without leaving any mark. The night was so
wet that no one was about, so Charpentier dragged the body of his victim
into the empty house. As to the candle, and the blood, and the writing
on the wall, and the ring, they may all be so many tricks to throw the
police on to the wrong scent.”

“Well done!” said Holmes in an encouraging voice. “Really, Gregson, you
are getting along. We shall make something of you yet.”

“I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly,” the detective
answered proudly. “The young man volunteered a statement, in which he
said that after following Drebber some time, the latter perceived him,
and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his way home he met an
old shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On being asked where this
old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. I
think the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What amuses me is to
think of Lestrade, who had started off upon the wrong scent. I am afraid
he won’t make much of [15] Why, by Jove, here’s the very man himself!”

It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were
talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness
which generally marked his demeanour and dress were, however, wanting.
His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were disarranged
and untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of consulting
with Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he appeared to be
embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling
nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. “This is a most
extraordinary case,” he said at last--“a most incomprehensible affair.”

“Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson, triumphantly. “I
thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find the
Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?”

“The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said Lestrade gravely, “was
murdered at Halliday’s Private Hotel about six o’clock this morning.”




CHAPTER VII. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.


THE intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and so
unexpected, that we were all three fairly dumfoundered. Gregson sprang
out of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and water. I
stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his
brows drawn down over his eyes.

“Stangerson too!” he muttered. “The plot thickens.”

“It was quite thick enough before,” grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair.
“I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war.”

“Are you--are you sure of this piece of intelligence?” stammered
Gregson.

“I have just come from his room,” said Lestrade. “I was the first to
discover what had occurred.”

“We have been hearing Gregson’s view of the matter,” Holmes observed.
“Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?”

“I have no objection,” Lestrade answered, seating himself. “I freely
confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in
the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was
completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out
what had become of the Secretary. They had been seen together at Euston
Station about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At two in the
morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The question which
confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been employed between
8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become of him afterwards.
I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description of the man, and warning
them to keep a watch upon the American boats. I then set to work calling
upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in the vicinity of Euston. You
see, I argued that if Drebber and his companion had become separated,
the natural course for the latter would be to put up somewhere in the
vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the station again next
morning.”

“They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,”
 remarked Holmes.

“So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making
enquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early, and
at eight o’clock I reached Halliday’s Private Hotel, in Little George
Street. On my enquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there,
they at once answered me in the affirmative.

“‘No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,’ they said. ‘He
has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.’

“‘Where is he now?’ I asked.

“‘He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.’

“‘I will go up and see him at once,’ I said.

“It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and
lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me
the room: it was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor
leading up to it. The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about to
go downstairs again when I saw something that made me feel sickish, in
spite of my twenty years’ experience. From under the door there curled
a little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across the passage and
formed a little pool along the skirting at the other side. I gave a cry,
which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he saw it. The door
was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to it, and knocked it
in. The window of the room was open, and beside the window, all huddled
up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had
been for some time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned
him over, the Boots recognized him at once as being the same gentleman
who had engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause
of death was a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated
the heart. And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you
suppose was above the murdered man?”

I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror,
even before Sherlock Holmes answered.

“The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,” he said.

“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all
silent for a while.

There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the
deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to
his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle
tingled as I thought of it.

“The man was seen,” continued Lestrade. “A milk boy, passing on his way
to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the mews
at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay
there, was raised against one of the windows of the second floor, which
was wide open. After passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the
ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that the boy imagined him to
be some carpenter or joiner at work in the hotel. He took no particular
notice of him, beyond thinking in his own mind that it was early for him
to be at work. He has an impression that the man was tall, had a reddish
face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in
the room some little time after the murder, for we found blood-stained
water in the basin, where he had washed his hands, and marks on the
sheets where he had deliberately wiped his knife.”

I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which
tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of
exultation or satisfaction upon his face.

“Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the
murderer?” he asked.

“Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in his pocket, but it seems
that this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd
pounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of these
extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them. There were
no papers or memoranda in the murdered man’s pocket, except a single
telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and containing
the words, ‘J. H. is in Europe.’ There was no name appended to this
message.”

“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.

“Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel, with which he had read
himself to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair
beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the
window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills.”

Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.

“The last link,” he cried, exultantly. “My case is complete.”

The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

“I have now in my hands,” my companion said, confidently, “all the
threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course, details
to be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts, from the
time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up to the
discovery of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them with my own
eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand
upon those pills?”

“I have them,” said Lestrade, producing a small white box; “I took them
and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a place of
safety at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my taking these
pills, for I am bound to say that I do not attach any importance to
them.”

“Give them here,” said Holmes. “Now, Doctor,” turning to me, “are those
ordinary pills?”

They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small,
round, and almost transparent against the light. “From their lightness
and transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in water,” I
remarked.

“Precisely so,” answered Holmes. “Now would you mind going down and
fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long,
and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain yesterday.”

I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It’s laboured
breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end.
Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded
the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the
rug.

“I will now cut one of these pills in two,” said Holmes, and drawing his
penknife he suited the action to the word. “One half we return into the
box for future purposes. The other half I will place in this wine glass,
in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the
Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves.”

“This may be very interesting,” said Lestrade, in the injured tone of
one who suspects that he is being laughed at, “I cannot see, however,
what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.”

“Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has
everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the
mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find that he laps
it up readily enough.”

As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and
placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock
Holmes’ earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in
silence, watching the animal intently, and expecting some startling
effect. None such appeared, however. The dog continued to lie stretched
upon tho [16] cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but apparently
neither the better nor the worse for its draught.

Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without
result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared
upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the
table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience. So great
was his emotion, that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two
detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this check which
he had met.

“It can’t be a coincidence,” he cried, at last springing from his chair
and pacing wildly up and down the room; “it is impossible that it should
be a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the case of
Drebber are actually found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they
are inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot
have been false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the
worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!” With a perfect shriek of delight he
rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved it, added milk,
and presented it to the terrier. The unfortunate creature’s tongue
seemed hardly to have been moistened in it before it gave a convulsive
shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as if it had been
struck by lightning.

Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. “I should have more faith,” he said; “I ought to know by
this time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train of
deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other
interpretation. Of the two pills in that box one was of the most deadly
poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to have known that
before ever I saw the box at all.”

This last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could
hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead dog,
however, to prove that his conjecture had been correct. It seemed to me
that the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing away, and I began
to have a dim, vague perception of the truth.

“All this seems strange to you,” continued Holmes, “because you failed
at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single
real clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune to seize
upon that, and everything which has occurred since then has served to
confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence
of it. Hence things which have perplexed you and made the case more
obscure, have served to enlighten me and to strengthen my conclusions.
It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. The most
commonplace crime is often the most mysterious because it presents no
new or special features from which deductions may be drawn. This murder
would have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body of
the victim been simply found lying in the roadway without any of
those _outré_ and sensational accompaniments which have rendered
it remarkable. These strange details, far from making the case more
difficult, have really had the effect of making it less so.”

Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable
impatience, could contain himself no longer. “Look here, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” he said, “we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart
man, and that you have your own methods of working. We want something
more than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a case of taking
the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was wrong. Young
Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second affair. Lestrade
went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was wrong too.
You have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to know more
than we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have a right to
ask you straight how much you do know of the business. Can you name the
man who did it?”

“I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir,” remarked Lestrade.
“We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have remarked more
than once since I have been in the room that you had all the evidence
which you require. Surely you will not withhold it any longer.”

“Any delay in arresting the assassin,” I observed, “might give him time
to perpetrate some fresh atrocity.”

Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He
continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his chest
and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in thought.

“There will be no more murders,” he said at last, stopping abruptly and
facing us. “You can put that consideration out of the question. You have
asked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of
his name is a small thing, however, compared with the power of laying
our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have good hopes
of managing it through my own arrangements; but it is a thing which
needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desperate man to deal
with, who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove, by another who
is as clever as himself. As long as this man has no idea that anyone
can have a clue there is some chance of securing him; but if he had the
slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in an instant
among the four million inhabitants of this great city. Without meaning
to hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these
men to be more than a match for the official force, and that is why I
have not asked your assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all
the blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present
I am ready to promise that the instant that I can communicate with you
without endangering my own combinations, I shall do so.”

Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this assurance,
or by the depreciating allusion to the detective police. The former had
flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the other’s beady eyes
glistened with curiosity and resentment. Neither of them had time to
speak, however, before there was a tap at the door, and the spokesman
of the street Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced his insignificant and
unsavoury person.

“Please, sir,” he said, touching his forelock, “I have the cab
downstairs.”

“Good boy,” said Holmes, blandly. “Why don’t you introduce this pattern
at Scotland Yard?” he continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs from
a drawer. “See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in an
instant.”

“The old pattern is good enough,” remarked Lestrade, “if we can only
find the man to put them on.”

“Very good, very good,” said Holmes, smiling. “The cabman may as well
help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins.”

I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about
to set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about it.
There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out and
began to strap. He was busily engaged at it when the cabman entered the
room.

“Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman,” he said, kneeling over
his task, and never turning his head.

The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put
down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click, the
jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “let me introduce you to Mr.
Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson.”

The whole thing occurred in a moment--so quickly that I had no time
to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes’
triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the cabman’s
dazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering handcuffs, which had
appeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a second or two we might
have been a group of statues. Then, with an inarticulate roar of fury,
the prisoner wrenched himself free from Holmes’s grasp, and hurled
himself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before him; but
before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon
him like so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the room, and then
commenced a terrific conflict. So powerful and so fierce was he, that
the four of us were shaken off again and again. He appeared to have the
convulsive strength of a man in an epileptic fit. His face and hands
were terribly mangled by his passage through the glass, but loss of
blood had no effect in diminishing his resistance. It was not until
Lestrade succeeded in getting his hand inside his neckcloth and
half-strangling him that we made him realize that his struggles were of
no avail; and even then we felt no security until we had pinioned his
feet as well as his hands. That done, we rose to our feet breathless and
panting.

“We have his cab,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It will serve to take him to
Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen,” he continued, with a pleasant smile,
“we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to
put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no danger that I
will refuse to answer them.”





PART II. _The Country of the Saints._




CHAPTER I. ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN.


IN the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies
an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as a
barrier against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada to
Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado
upon the south, is a region of desolation and silence. Nor is Nature
always in one mood throughout this grim district. It comprises
snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There are
swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged cañons; and there are
enormous plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summer are
grey with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the common
characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.

There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees
or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other
hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sight
of those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon their
prairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily
through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark
ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks. These
are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.

In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from
the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach
stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of
alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. On
the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks,
with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great stretch of
country there is no sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to life.
There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no movement upon the dull,
grey earth--above all, there is absolute silence. Listen as one may,
there is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness; nothing but
silence--complete and heart-subduing silence.

It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad
plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one
sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is
lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden down
by the feet of many adventurers. Here and there there are scattered
white objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dull
deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They are bones: some
large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate. The former have
belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one
may trace this ghastly caravan route by these scattered remains of those
who had fallen by the wayside.

Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,
eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His appearance
was such that he might have been the very genius or demon of the region.
An observer would have found it difficult to say whether he was nearer
to forty or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard, and the brown
parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his
long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and dashed with white; his
eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with an unnatural lustre; while
the hand which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that of a
skeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for support, and yet
his tall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggested a wiry
and vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however, and his clothes,
which hung so baggily over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it
was that gave him that senile and decrepit appearance. The man was
dying--dying from hunger and from thirst.

He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little
elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great
salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage
mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which might
indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape there
was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with wild
questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had come to
an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to die. “Why
not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence,” he muttered,
as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.

Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless rifle,
and also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had carried
slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy for
his strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the ground with some
little violence. Instantly there broke from the grey parcel a little
moaning cry, and from it there protruded a small, scared face, with very
bright brown eyes, and two little speckled, dimpled fists.

“You’ve hurt me!” said a childish voice reproachfully.

“Have I though,” the man answered penitently, “I didn’t go for to do
it.” As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty
little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart
pink frock with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother’s care. The
child was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she
had suffered less than her companion.

“How is it now?” he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the
towsy golden curls which covered the back of her head.

“Kiss it and make it well,” she said, with perfect gravity, shoving
[19] the injured part up to him. “That’s what mother used to do. Where’s
mother?”

“Mother’s gone. I guess you’ll see her before long.”

“Gone, eh!” said the little girl. “Funny, she didn’t say good-bye; she
‘most always did if she was just goin’ over to Auntie’s for tea, and now
she’s been away three days. Say, it’s awful dry, ain’t it? Ain’t there
no water, nor nothing to eat?”

“No, there ain’t nothing, dearie. You’ll just need to be patient awhile,
and then you’ll be all right. Put your head up agin me like that, and
then you’ll feel bullier. It ain’t easy to talk when your lips is like
leather, but I guess I’d best let you know how the cards lie. What’s
that you’ve got?”

“Pretty things! fine things!” cried the little girl enthusiastically,
holding up two glittering fragments of mica. “When we goes back to home
I’ll give them to brother Bob.”

“You’ll see prettier things than them soon,” said the man confidently.
“You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you though--you remember when
we left the river?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, we reckoned we’d strike another river soon, d’ye see. But there
was somethin’ wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin’, and it didn’t
turn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop for the likes of you
and--and----”

“And you couldn’t wash yourself,” interrupted his companion gravely,
staring up at his grimy visage.

“No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then Indian
Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie,
your mother.”

“Then mother’s a deader too,” cried the little girl dropping her face in
her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

“Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some
chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and
we tramped it together. It don’t seem as though we’ve improved matters.
There’s an almighty small chance for us now!”

“Do you mean that we are going to die too?” asked the child, checking
her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.

“I guess that’s about the size of it.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?” she said, laughing gleefully. “You gave
me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we’ll be with
mother again.”

“Yes, you will, dearie.”

“And you too. I’ll tell her how awful good you’ve been. I’ll bet she
meets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot
of buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was
fond of. How long will it be first?”

“I don’t know--not very long.” The man’s eyes were fixed upon the
northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared
three little specks which increased in size every moment, so rapidly did
they approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large brown
birds, which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and then
settled upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were buzzards, the
vultures of the west, whose coming is the forerunner of death.

“Cocks and hens,” cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their
ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. “Say, did
God make this country?”

“In course He did,” said her companion, rather startled by this
unexpected question.

“He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri,” the
little girl continued. “I guess somebody else made the country in these
parts. It’s not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and the
trees.”

“What would ye think of offering up prayer?” the man asked diffidently.

“It ain’t night yet,” she answered.

“It don’t matter. It ain’t quite regular, but He won’t mind that, you
bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the
waggon when we was on the Plains.”

“Why don’t you say some yourself?” the child asked, with wondering eyes.

“I disremember them,” he answered. “I hain’t said none since I was half
the height o’ that gun. I guess it’s never too late. You say them out,
and I’ll stand by and come in on the choruses.”

“Then you’ll need to kneel down, and me too,” she said, laying the shawl
out for that purpose. “You’ve got to put your hands up like this. It
makes you feel kind o’ good.”

It was a strange sight had there been anything but the buzzards to see
it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little
prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her chubby face,
and his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to the cloudless
heaven in heartfelt entreaty to that dread being with whom they were
face to face, while the two voices--the one thin and clear, the other
deep and harsh--united in the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The
prayer finished, they resumed their seat in the shadow of the boulder
until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the broad breast of her
protector. He watched over her slumber for some time, but Nature proved
to be too strong for him. For three days and three nights he had allowed
himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly the eyelids drooped over the
tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and lower upon the breast, until the
man’s grizzled beard was mixed with the gold tresses of his companion,
and both slept the same deep and dreamless slumber.

Had the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight
would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali
plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and
hardly to be distinguished from the mists of the distance, but gradually
growing higher and broader until it formed a solid, well-defined cloud.
This cloud continued to increase in size until it became evident that it
could only be raised by a great multitude of moving creatures. In more
fertile spots the observer would have come to the conclusion that one
of those great herds of bisons which graze upon the prairie land was
approaching him. This was obviously impossible in these arid wilds. As
the whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the two
castaways were reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the
figures of armed horsemen began to show up through the haze, and the
apparition revealed itself as being a great caravan upon its journey for
the West. But what a caravan! When the head of it had reached the base
of the mountains, the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right
across the enormous plain stretched the straggling array, waggons
and carts, men on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who
staggered along under burdens, and children who toddled beside the
waggons or peeped out from under the white coverings. This was evidently
no ordinary party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had
been compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new
country. There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and
rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of wheels
and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not sufficient to
rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.

At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave ironfaced
men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching
the base of the bluff they halted, and held a short council among
themselves.

“The wells are to the right, my brothers,” said one, a hard-lipped,
clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.

“To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio Grande,”
 said another.

“Fear not for water,” cried a third. “He who could draw it from the
rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people.”

“Amen! Amen!” responded the whole party.

They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and
keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag
above them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink,
showing up hard and bright against the grey rocks behind. At the sight
there was a general reining up of horses and unslinging of guns, while
fresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The word
‘Redskins’ was on every lip.

“There can’t be any number of Injuns here,” said the elderly man who
appeared to be in command. “We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no
other tribes until we cross the great mountains.”

“Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson,” asked one of the band.

“And I,” “and I,” cried a dozen voices.

“Leave your horses below and we will await you here,” the Elder
answered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their
horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope which led up to the
object which had excited their curiosity. They advanced rapidly and
noiselessly, with the confidence and dexterity of practised scouts.
The watchers from the plain below could see them flit from rock to rock
until their figures stood out against the skyline. The young man who had
first given the alarm was leading them. Suddenly his followers saw him
throw up his hands, as though overcome with astonishment, and on joining
him they were affected in the same way by the sight which met their
eyes.

On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a
single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man,
long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid
face and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep. Beside him
lay a little child, with her round white arms encircling his brown
sinewy neck, and her golden haired head resting upon the breast of his
velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the regular line of
snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile played over her infantile
features. Her plump little white legs terminating in white socks and
neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast to the long
shrivelled members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above this
strange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight of
the new comers uttered raucous screams of disappointment and flapped
sullenly away.

The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers who stared about [20]
them in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down upon
the plain which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him, and
which was now traversed by this enormous body of men and of beasts. His
face assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his
boney hand over his eyes. “This is what they call delirium, I guess,”
 he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of
his coat, and said nothing but looked all round her with the wondering
questioning gaze of childhood.

The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways that
their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl,
and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported her gaunt
companion, and assisted him towards the waggons.

“My name is John Ferrier,” the wanderer explained; “me and that little
un are all that’s left o’ twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o’
thirst and hunger away down in the south.”

“Is she your child?” asked someone.

“I guess she is now,” the other cried, defiantly; “she’s mine ‘cause I
saved her. No man will take her from me. She’s Lucy Ferrier from this
day on. Who are you, though?” he continued, glancing with curiosity at
his stalwart, sunburned rescuers; “there seems to be a powerful lot of
ye.”

“Nigh upon ten thousand,” said one of the young men; “we are the
persecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Merona.”

“I never heard tell on him,” said the wanderer. “He appears to have
chosen a fair crowd of ye.”

“Do not jest at that which is sacred,” said the other sternly. “We are
of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters
on plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith
at Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of Illinois, where we
had founded our temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent
man and from the godless, even though it be the heart of the desert.”

The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier. “I
see,” he said, “you are the Mormons.”

“We are the Mormons,” answered his companions with one voice.

“And where are you going?”

“We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of our
Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be done with
you.”

They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were surrounded
by crowds of the pilgrims--pale-faced meek-looking women, strong
laughing children, and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries
of astonishment and of commiseration which arose from them when they
perceived the youth of one of the strangers and the destitution of the
other. Their escort did not halt, however, but pushed on, followed by
a great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a waggon, which was
conspicuous for its great size and for the gaudiness and smartness of
its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the others were
furnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece. Beside the driver there
sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years of age, but
whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as a leader. He
was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd approached he laid
it aside, and listened attentively to an account of the episode. Then he
turned to the two castaways.

“If we take you with us,” he said, in solemn words, “it can only be as
believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better
far that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that you
should prove to be that little speck of decay which in time corrupts the
whole fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?”

“Guess I’ll come with you on any terms,” said Ferrier, with such
emphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader
alone retained his stern, impressive expression.

“Take him, Brother Stangerson,” he said, “give him food and drink,
and the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our holy
creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!”

“On, on to Zion!” cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down
the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a
dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking
of wheels the great waggons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan
was winding along once more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs
had been committed, led them to his waggon, where a meal was already
awaiting them.

“You shall remain here,” he said. “In a few days you will have recovered
from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and for ever you
are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with
the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God.”




CHAPTER II. THE FLOWER OF UTAH.


THIS is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured
by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From the
shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains
they had struggled on with a constancy almost unparalleled in history.
The savage man, and the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and
disease--every impediment which Nature could place in the way, had all
been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet the long journey and the
accumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among them.
There was not one who did not sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer
when they saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath
them, and learned from the lips of their leader that this was the
promised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs for
evermore.

Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well as a
resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which the future
city was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned and allotted in
proportion to the standing of each individual. The tradesman was put
to his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the town streets and
squares sprang up, as if by magic. In the country there was draining
and hedging, planting and clearing, until the next summer saw the whole
country golden with the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the strange
settlement. Above all, the great temple which they had erected in the
centre of the city grew ever taller and larger. From the first blush of
dawn until the closing of the twilight, the clatter of the hammer
and the rasp of the saw was never absent from the monument which the
immigrants erected to Him who had led them safe through many dangers.

The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared his
fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the Mormons
to the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was borne
along pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson’s waggon, a retreat which
she shared with the Mormon’s three wives and with his son, a headstrong
forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity of childhood,
from the shock caused by her mother’s death, she soon became a pet
with the women, and reconciled herself to this new life in her moving
canvas-covered home. In the meantime Ferrier having recovered from his
privations, distinguished himself as a useful guide and an indefatigable
hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem of his new companions, that
when they reached the end of their wanderings, it was unanimously agreed
that he should be provided with as large and as fertile a tract of land
as any of the settlers, with the exception of Young himself, and of
Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston, and Drebber, who were the four principal
Elders.

On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantial
log-house, which received so many additions in succeeding years that it
grew into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind,
keen in his dealings and skilful with his hands. His iron constitution
enabled him to work morning and evening at improving and tilling his
lands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that belonged to
him prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better off than his
neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was rich, and in twelve
there were not half a dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City who could
compare with him. From the great inland sea to the distant Wahsatch
Mountains there was no name better known than that of John Ferrier.

There was one way and only one in which he offended the susceptibilities
of his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion could ever induce him
to set up a female establishment after the manner of his companions. He
never gave reasons for this persistent refusal, but contented himself by
resolutely and inflexibly adhering to his determination. There were some
who accused him of lukewarmness in his adopted religion, and others who
put it down to greed of wealth and reluctance to incur expense. Others,
again, spoke of some early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who
had pined away on the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason,
Ferrier remained strictly celibate. In every other respect he conformed
to the religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of being an
orthodox and straight-walking man.

Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adopted
father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the
balsamic odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother to
the young girl. As year succeeded to year she grew taller and stronger,
her cheek more rudy, and her step more elastic. Many a wayfarer upon
the high road which ran by Ferrier’s farm felt long-forgotten thoughts
revive in their mind as they watched her lithe girlish figure tripping
through the wheatfields, or met her mounted upon her father’s mustang,
and managing it with all the ease and grace of a true child of the West.
So the bud blossomed into a flower, and the year which saw her father
the richest of the farmers left her as fair a specimen of American
girlhood as could be found in the whole Pacific slope.

It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child had
developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious
change is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least of
all does the maiden herself know it until the tone of a voice or the
touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her, and she learns,
with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a larger nature has
awoken within her. There are few who cannot recall that day and remember
the one little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life. In the
case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in itself, apart
from its future influence on her destiny and that of many besides.

It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as
the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields and
in the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty high
roads defiled long streams of heavily-laden mules, all heading to the
west, for the gold fever had broken out in California, and the Overland
Route lay through the City of the Elect. There, too, were droves of
sheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture lands, and trains
of tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary of their interminable
journey. Through all this motley assemblage, threading her way with the
skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair
face flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair floating out
behind her. She had a commission from her father in the City, and was
dashing in as she had done many a time before, with all the fearlessness
of youth, thinking only of her task and how it was to be performed. The
travel-stained adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even
the unemotional Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their
accustomed stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced
maiden.

She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road
blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-looking
herdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she endeavoured to pass this
obstacle by pushing her horse into what appeared to be a gap. Scarcely
had she got fairly into it, however, before the beasts closed in behind
her, and she found herself completely imbedded in the moving stream of
fierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with
cattle, she was not alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of
every opportunity to urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her way
through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures,
either by accident or design, came in violent contact with the flank of
the mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up upon
its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way that
would have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation was full
of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it against the horns
again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all that the girl could
do to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible death
under the hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animals. Unaccustomed to
sudden emergencies, her head began to swim, and her grip upon the bridle
to relax. Choked by the rising cloud of dust and by the steam from the
struggling creatures, she might have abandoned her efforts in despair,
but for a kindly voice at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At
the same moment a sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by
the curb, and forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the
outskirts.

“You’re not hurt, I hope, miss,” said her preserver, respectfully.

She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. “I’m awful
frightened,” she said, naively; “whoever would have thought that Poncho
would have been so scared by a lot of cows?”

“Thank God you kept your seat,” the other said earnestly. He was a tall,
savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse, and
clad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over his
shoulders. “I guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier,” he remarked,
“I saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask him if he
remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he’s the same Ferrier, my
father and he were pretty thick.”

“Hadn’t you better come and ask yourself?” she asked, demurely.

The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes
sparkled with pleasure. “I’ll do so,” he said, “we’ve been in the
mountains for two months, and are not over and above in visiting
condition. He must take us as he finds us.”

“He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I,” she answered,
“he’s awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he’d have never
got over it.”

“Neither would I,” said her companion.

“You! Well, I don’t see that it would make much matter to you, anyhow.
You ain’t even a friend of ours.”

The young hunter’s dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that Lucy
Ferrier laughed aloud.

“There, I didn’t mean that,” she said; “of course, you are a friend now.
You must come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won’t trust
me with his business any more. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye,” he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over
her little hand. She wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with her
riding-whip, and darted away down the broad road in a rolling cloud of
dust.

Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and taciturn.
He and they had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting for silver,
and were returning to Salt Lake City in the hope of raising capital
enough to work some lodes which they had discovered. He had been as keen
as any of them upon the business until this sudden incident had drawn
his thoughts into another channel. The sight of the fair young girl,
as frank and wholesome as the Sierra breezes, had stirred his volcanic,
untamed heart to its very depths. When she had vanished from his sight,
he realized that a crisis had come in his life, and that neither silver
speculations nor any other questions could ever be of such importance to
him as this new and all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung up in
his heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the
wild, fierce passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He
had been accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in
his heart that he would not fail in this if human effort and human
perseverance could render him successful.

He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until
his face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the
valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning
the news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All this
Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interested
Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, and
could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost
in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper, a
silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were to be
had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon became a
favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his virtues. On
such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek and her bright,
happy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young heart was no longer
her own. Her honest father may not have observed these symptoms,
but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man who had won her
affections.

It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and pulled
up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet him. He
threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.

“I am off, Lucy,” he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing
tenderly down into her face; “I won’t ask you to come with me now, but
will you be ready to come when I am here again?”

“And when will that be?” she asked, blushing and laughing.

“A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then, my
darling. There’s no one who can stand between us.”

“And how about father?” she asked.

“He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all
right. I have no fear on that head.”

“Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there’s
no more to be said,” she whispered, with her cheek against his broad
breast.

“Thank God!” he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. “It is
settled, then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They are
waiting for me at the cañon. Good-bye, my own darling--good-bye. In two
months you shall see me.”

He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his
horse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though
afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one glance at
what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him until
he vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the
happiest girl in all Utah.




CHAPTER III. JOHN FERRIER TALKS WITH THE PROPHET.


THREE weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had
departed from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier’s heart was sore within him
when he thought of the young man’s return, and of the impending loss of
his adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled him to
the arrangement more than any argument could have done. He had always
determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing would ever
induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such a marriage he
regarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a disgrace. Whatever
he might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that one point he was
inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject, however, for to
express an unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter in those days in
the Land of the Saints.

Yes, a dangerous matter--so dangerous that even the most saintly dared
only whisper their religious opinions with bated breath, lest something
which fell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring down a
swift retribution upon them. The victims of persecution had now turned
persecutors on their own account, and persecutors of the most
terrible description. Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the German
Vehm-gericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able to put
a more formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a cloud over
the State of Utah.

Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made
this organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and
omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out
against the Church vanished away, and none knew whither he had gone or
what had befallen him. His wife and his children awaited him at home,
but no father ever returned to tell them how he had fared at the
hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was followed
by annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be of this
terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that men
went about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of the
wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed them.

At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the
recalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished afterwards
to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a wider range. The
supply of adult women was running short, and polygamy without a female
population on which to draw was a barren doctrine indeed. Strange
rumours began to be bandied about--rumours of murdered immigrants and
rifled camps in regions where Indians had never been seen. Fresh women
appeared in the harems of the Elders--women who pined and wept, and
bore upon their faces the traces of an unextinguishable horror. Belated
wanderers upon the mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked,
stealthy, and noiseless, who flitted by them in the darkness. These
tales and rumours took substance and shape, and were corroborated and
re-corroborated, until they resolved themselves into a definite name.
To this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name of the Danite
Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened one.

Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible
results served to increase rather than to lessen the horror which it
inspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless
society. The names of the participators in the deeds of blood and
violence done under the name of religion were kept profoundly secret.
The very friend to whom you communicated your misgivings as to the
Prophet and his mission, might be one of those who would come forth at
night with fire and sword to exact a terrible reparation. Hence every
man feared his neighbour, and none spoke of the things which were
nearest his heart.

One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set out to his wheatfields,
when he heard the click of the latch, and, looking through the window,
saw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming up the pathway. His
heart leapt to his mouth, for this was none other than the great Brigham
Young himself. Full of trepidation--for he knew that such a visit boded
him little good--Ferrier ran to the door to greet the Mormon chief. The
latter, however, received his salutations coldly, and followed him with
a stern face into the sitting-room.

“Brother Ferrier,” he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer keenly
from under his light-coloured eyelashes, “the true believers have been
good friends to you. We picked you up when you were starving in the
desert, we shared our food with you, led you safe to the Chosen Valley,
gave you a goodly share of land, and allowed you to wax rich under our
protection. Is not this so?”

“It is so,” answered John Ferrier.

“In return for all this we asked but one condition: that was, that you
should embrace the true faith, and conform in every way to its usages.
This you promised to do, and this, if common report says truly, you have
neglected.”

“And how have I neglected it?” asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands in
expostulation. “Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not attended
at the Temple? Have I not----?”

“Where are your wives?” asked Young, looking round him. “Call them in,
that I may greet them.”

“It is true that I have not married,” Ferrier answered. “But women
were few, and there were many who had better claims than I. I was not a
lonely man: I had my daughter to attend to my wants.”

“It is of that daughter that I would speak to you,” said the leader
of the Mormons. “She has grown to be the flower of Utah, and has found
favour in the eyes of many who are high in the land.”

John Ferrier groaned internally.

“There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve--stories that
she is sealed to some Gentile. This must be the gossip of idle tongues.
What is the thirteenth rule in the code of the sainted Joseph Smith?
‘Let every maiden of the true faith marry one of the elect; for if
she wed a Gentile, she commits a grievous sin.’ This being so, it is
impossible that you, who profess the holy creed, should suffer your
daughter to violate it.”

John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his
riding-whip.

“Upon this one point your whole faith shall be tested--so it has been
decided in the Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young, and we would
not have her wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive her of all
choice. We Elders have many heifers, [29] but our children must also
be provided. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son, and either of
them would gladly welcome your daughter to their house. Let her choose
between them. They are young and rich, and of the true faith. What say
you to that?”

Ferrier remained silent for some little time with his brows knitted.

“You will give us time,” he said at last. “My daughter is very
young--she is scarce of an age to marry.”

“She shall have a month to choose,” said Young, rising from his seat.
“At the end of that time she shall give her answer.”

He was passing through the door, when he turned, with flushed face and
flashing eyes. “It were better for you, John Ferrier,” he thundered,
“that you and she were now lying blanched skeletons upon the Sierra
Blanco, than that you should put your weak wills against the orders of
the Holy Four!”

With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and
Ferrier heard his heavy step scrunching along the shingly path.

He was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees, considering how he
should broach the matter to his daughter when a soft hand was laid upon
his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance at her
pale, frightened face showed him that she had heard what had passed.

“I could not help it,” she said, in answer to his look. “His voice rang
through the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?”

“Don’t you scare yourself,” he answered, drawing her to him, and passing
his broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair. “We’ll fix it
up somehow or another. You don’t find your fancy kind o’ lessening for
this chap, do you?”

A sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only answer.

“No; of course not. I shouldn’t care to hear you say you did. He’s a
likely lad, and he’s a Christian, which is more than these folk here, in
spite o’ all their praying and preaching. There’s a party starting for
Nevada to-morrow, and I’ll manage to send him a message letting him know
the hole we are in. If I know anything o’ that young man, he’ll be back
here with a speed that would whip electro-telegraphs.”

Lucy laughed through her tears at her father’s description.

“When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is for you that
I am frightened, dear. One hears--one hears such dreadful stories about
those who oppose the Prophet: something terrible always happens to
them.”

“But we haven’t opposed him yet,” her father answered. “It will be time
to look out for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before us; at
the end of that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah.”

“Leave Utah!”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“But the farm?”

“We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest go. To tell
the truth, Lucy, it isn’t the first time I have thought of doing it. I
don’t care about knuckling under to any man, as these folk do to their
darned prophet. I’m a free-born American, and it’s all new to me. Guess
I’m too old to learn. If he comes browsing about this farm, he might
chance to run up against a charge of buckshot travelling in the opposite
direction.”

“But they won’t let us leave,” his daughter objected.

“Wait till Jefferson comes, and we’ll soon manage that. In the meantime,
don’t you fret yourself, my dearie, and don’t get your eyes swelled up,
else he’ll be walking into me when he sees you. There’s nothing to be
afeared about, and there’s no danger at all.”

John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident tone,
but she could not help observing that he paid unusual care to the
fastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully cleaned and
loaded the rusty old shotgun which hung upon the wall of his bedroom.




CHAPTER IV. A FLIGHT FOR LIFE.


ON the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet,
John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his
acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted him
with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man of the
imminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it was that he
should return. Having done thus he felt easier in his mind, and returned
home with a lighter heart.

As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to
each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on entering
to find two young men in possession of his sitting-room. One, with a
long pale face, was leaning back in the rocking-chair, with his feet
cocked up upon the stove. The other, a bull-necked youth with coarse
bloated features, was standing in front of the window with his hands in
his pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both of them nodded to Ferrier as
he entered, and the one in the rocking-chair commenced the conversation.

“Maybe you don’t know us,” he said. “This here is the son of Elder
Drebber, and I’m Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the desert
when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the true
fold.”

“As He will all the nations in His own good time,” said the other in a
nasal voice; “He grindeth slowly but exceeding small.”

John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.

“We have come,” continued Stangerson, “at the advice of our fathers to
solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem good to
you and to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber here has
seven, it appears to me that my claim is the stronger one.”

“Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,” cried the other; “the question is not
how many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now
given over his mills to me, and I am the richer man.”

“But my prospects are better,” said the other, warmly. “When the
Lord removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather
factory. Then I am your elder, and am higher in the Church.”

“It will be for the maiden to decide,” rejoined young Drebber, smirking
at his own reflection in the glass. “We will leave it all to her
decision.”

During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway,
hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two visitors.

“Look here,” he said at last, striding up to them, “when my daughter
summons you, you can come, but until then I don’t want to see your faces
again.”

The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this
competition between them for the maiden’s hand was the highest of
honours both to her and her father.

“There are two ways out of the room,” cried Ferrier; “there is the door,
and there is the window. Which do you care to use?”

His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening,
that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat. The
old farmer followed them to the door.

“Let me know when you have settled which it is to be,” he said,
sardonically.

“You shall smart for this!” Stangerson cried, white with rage. “You have
defied the Prophet and the Council of Four. You shall rue it to the end
of your days.”

“The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you,” cried young Drebber; “He
will arise and smite you!”

“Then I’ll start the smiting,” exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would
have rushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm and
restrained him. Before he could escape from her, the clatter of horses’
hoofs told him that they were beyond his reach.

“The young canting rascals!” he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from
his forehead; “I would sooner see you in your grave, my girl, than the
wife of either of them.”

“And so should I, father,” she answered, with spirit; “but Jefferson
will soon be here.”

“Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for we
do not know what their next move may be.”

It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice and
help should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted
daughter. In the whole history of the settlement there had never been
such a case of rank disobedience to the authority of the Elders. If
minor errors were punished so sternly, what would be the fate of this
arch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and position would be of no
avail to him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had been
spirited away before now, and their goods given over to the Church. He
was a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors which
hung over him. Any known danger he could face with a firm lip, but
this suspense was unnerving. He concealed his fears from his daughter,
however, and affected to make light of the whole matter, though she,
with the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at ease.

He expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance from
Young as to his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it came in an
unlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning he found, to his surprise,
a small square of paper pinned on to the coverlet of his bed just over
his chest. On it was printed, in bold straggling letters:--

“Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment, and then----”

The dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have been. How
this warning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his
servants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and windows had all been
secured. He crumpled the paper up and said nothing to his daughter, but
the incident struck a chill into his heart. The twenty-nine days were
evidently the balance of the month which Young had promised. What
strength or courage could avail against an enemy armed with such
mysterious powers? The hand which fastened that pin might have struck
him to the heart, and he could never have known who had slain him.

Still more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down to their
breakfast when Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the
centre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick apparently,
the number 28. To his daughter it was unintelligible, and he did not
enlighten her. That night he sat up with his gun and kept watch and
ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in the morning a great 27 had
been painted upon the outside of his door.

Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found that his
unseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked up in some
conspicuous position how many days were still left to him out of the
month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared upon the walls,
sometimes upon the floors, occasionally they were on small placards
stuck upon the garden gate or the railings. With all his vigilance John
Ferrier could not discover whence these daily warnings proceeded. A
horror which was almost superstitious came upon him at the sight of
them. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had the troubled look
of some hunted creature. He had but one hope in life now, and that was
for the arrival of the young hunter from Nevada.

Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no news
of the absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down, and still there
came no sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the road, or a
driver shouted at his team, the old farmer hurried to the gate thinking
that help had arrived at last. At last, when he saw five give way to
four and that again to three, he lost heart, and abandoned all hope of
escape. Single-handed, and with his limited knowledge of the mountains
which surrounded the settlement, he knew that he was powerless. The
more-frequented roads were strictly watched and guarded, and none could
pass along them without an order from the Council. Turn which way he
would, there appeared to be no avoiding the blow which hung over him.
Yet the old man never wavered in his resolution to part with life itself
before he consented to what he regarded as his daughter’s dishonour.

He was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his troubles, and
searching vainly for some way out of them. That morning had shown the
figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the next day would be the last
of the allotted time. What was to happen then? All manner of vague and
terrible fancies filled his imagination. And his daughter--what was to
become of her after he was gone? Was there no escape from the invisible
network which was drawn all round them. He sank his head upon the table
and sobbed at the thought of his own impotence.

What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching sound--low,
but very distinct in the quiet of the night. It came from the door of
the house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened intently. There
was a pause for a few moments, and then the low insidious sound was
repeated. Someone was evidently tapping very gently upon one of the
panels of the door. Was it some midnight assassin who had come to carry
out the murderous orders of the secret tribunal? Or was it some agent
who was marking up that the last day of grace had arrived. John Ferrier
felt that instant death would be better than the suspense which shook
his nerves and chilled his heart. Springing forward he drew the bolt and
threw the door open.

Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars were
twinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before the
farmer’s eyes bounded by the fence and gate, but neither there nor on
the road was any human being to be seen. With a sigh of relief, Ferrier
looked to right and to left, until happening to glance straight down at
his own feet he saw to his astonishment a man lying flat upon his face
upon the ground, with arms and legs all asprawl.

So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the wall with
his hand to his throat to stifle his inclination to call out. His first
thought was that the prostrate figure was that of some wounded or dying
man, but as he watched it he saw it writhe along the ground and into the
hall with the rapidity and noiselessness of a serpent. Once within the
house the man sprang to his feet, closed the door, and revealed to the
astonished farmer the fierce face and resolute expression of Jefferson
Hope.

“Good God!” gasped John Ferrier. “How you scared me! Whatever made you
come in like that.”

“Give me food,” the other said, hoarsely. “I have had no time for bite
or sup for eight-and-forty hours.” He flung himself upon the [21] cold
meat and bread which were still lying upon the table from his host’s
supper, and devoured it voraciously. “Does Lucy bear up well?” he asked,
when he had satisfied his hunger.

“Yes. She does not know the danger,” her father answered.

“That is well. The house is watched on every side. That is why I crawled
my way up to it. They may be darned sharp, but they’re not quite sharp
enough to catch a Washoe hunter.”

John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had
a devoted ally. He seized the young man’s leathery hand and wrung it
cordially. “You’re a man to be proud of,” he said. “There are not many
who would come to share our danger and our troubles.”

“You’ve hit it there, pard,” the young hunter answered. “I have a
respect for you, but if you were alone in this business I’d think twice
before I put my head into such a hornet’s nest. It’s Lucy that brings me
here, and before harm comes on her I guess there will be one less o’ the
Hope family in Utah.”

“What are we to do?”

“To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act to-night you are lost.
I have a mule and two horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How much money
have you?”

“Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes.”

“That will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must push for Carson
City through the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is as well that
the servants do not sleep in the house.”

While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the approaching
journey, Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that he could find into
a small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar with water, for he knew by
experience that the mountain wells were few and far between. He had
hardly completed his arrangements before the farmer returned with his
daughter all dressed and ready for a start. The greeting between the
lovers was warm, but brief, for minutes were precious, and there was
much to be done.

“We must make our start at once,” said Jefferson Hope, speaking in a low
but resolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the peril,
but has steeled his heart to meet it. “The front and back entrances are
watched, but with caution we may get away through the side window and
across the fields. Once on the road we are only two miles from the
Ravine where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we should be half-way
through the mountains.”

“What if we are stopped,” asked Ferrier.

Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his
tunic. “If they are too many for us we shall take two or three of them
with us,” he said with a sinister smile.

The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the
darkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his own,
and which he was now about to abandon for ever. He had long nerved
himself to the sacrifice, however, and the thought of the honour and
happiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at his ruined fortunes.
All looked so peaceful and happy, the rustling trees and the broad
silent stretch of grain-land, that it was difficult to realize that
the spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the white face and set
expression of the young hunter showed that in his approach to the house
he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that head.

Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the scanty
provisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing a few
of her more valued possessions. Opening the window very slowly and
carefully, they waited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured the
night, and then one by one passed through into the little garden. With
bated breath and crouching figures they stumbled across it, and gained
the shelter of the hedge, which they skirted until they came to the gap
which opened into the cornfields. They had just reached this point when
the young man seized his two companions and dragged them down into the
shadow, where they lay silent and trembling.

It was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope the
ears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before the
melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard within a few yards
of them, which was immediately answered by another hoot at a small
distance. At the same moment a vague shadowy figure emerged from the
gap for which they had been making, and uttered the plaintive signal cry
again, on which a second man appeared out of the obscurity.

“To-morrow at midnight,” said the first who appeared to be in authority.
“When the Whip-poor-Will calls three times.”

“It is well,” returned the other. “Shall I tell Brother Drebber?”

“Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to seven!”

“Seven to five!” repeated the other, and the two figures flitted away
in different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been some
form of sign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps had died
away in the distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and helping his
companions through the gap, led the way across the fields at the top
of his speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when her strength
appeared to fail her.

“Hurry on! hurry on!” he gasped from time to time. “We are through the
line of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!”

Once on the high road they made rapid progress. Only once did they
meet anyone, and then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid
recognition. Before reaching the town the hunter branched away into a
rugged and narrow footpath which led to the mountains. Two dark jagged
peaks loomed above them through the darkness, and the defile which led
between them was the Eagle Cañon in which the horses were awaiting them.
With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way among the great
boulders and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse, until he came to
the retired corner, screened with rocks, where the faithful animals had
been picketed. The girl was placed upon the mule, and old Ferrier upon
one of the horses, with his money-bag, while Jefferson Hope led the
other along the precipitous and dangerous path.

It was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to face
Nature in her wildest moods. On the one side a great crag towered up a
thousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing, with long basaltic
columns upon its rugged surface like the ribs of some petrified monster.
On the other hand a wild chaos of boulders and debris made all advance
impossible. Between the two ran the irregular track, so narrow in places
that they had to travel in Indian file, and so rough that only practised
riders could have traversed it at all. Yet in spite of all dangers and
difficulties, the hearts of the fugitives were light within them,
for every step increased the distance between them and the terrible
despotism from which they were flying.

They soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the
jurisdiction of the Saints. They had reached the very wildest and most
desolate portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled cry, and
pointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the track, showing out dark
and plain against the sky, there stood a solitary sentinel. He saw them
as soon as they perceived him, and his military challenge of “Who goes
there?” rang through the silent ravine.

“Travellers for Nevada,” said Jefferson Hope, with his hand upon the
rifle which hung by his saddle.

They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering down at
them as if dissatisfied at their reply.

“By whose permission?” he asked.

“The Holy Four,” answered Ferrier. His Mormon experiences had taught him
that that was the highest authority to which he could refer.

“Nine from seven,” cried the sentinel.

“Seven from five,” returned Jefferson Hope promptly, remembering the
countersign which he had heard in the garden.

“Pass, and the Lord go with you,” said the voice from above. Beyond his
post the path broadened out, and the horses were able to break into a
trot. Looking back, they could see the solitary watcher leaning upon
his gun, and knew that they had passed the outlying post of the chosen
people, and that freedom lay before them.




CHAPTER V. THE AVENGING ANGELS.


ALL night their course lay through intricate defiles and over irregular
and rock-strewn paths. More than once they lost their way, but Hope’s
intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain the track
once more. When morning broke, a scene of marvellous though savage
beauty lay before them. In every direction the great snow-capped peaks
hemmed them in, peeping over each other’s shoulders to the far horizon.
So steep were the rocky banks on either side of them, that the larch
and the pine seemed to be suspended over their heads, and to need only a
gust of wind to come hurtling down upon them. Nor was the fear entirely
an illusion, for the barren valley was thickly strewn with trees and
boulders which had fallen in a similar manner. Even as they passed,
a great rock came thundering down with a hoarse rattle which woke
the echoes in the silent gorges, and startled the weary horses into a
gallop.

As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the great
mountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival, until
they were all ruddy and glowing. The magnificent spectacle cheered the
hearts of the three fugitives and gave them fresh energy. At a wild
torrent which swept out of a ravine they called a halt and watered their
horses, while they partook of a hasty breakfast. Lucy and her father
would fain have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope was inexorable. “They
will be upon our track by this time,” he said. “Everything depends upon
our speed. Once safe in Carson we may rest for the remainder of our
lives.”

During the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles, and
by evening they calculated that they were more than thirty miles from
their enemies. At night-time they chose the base of a beetling crag,
where the rocks offered some protection from the chill wind, and there
huddled together for warmth, they enjoyed a few hours’ sleep. Before
daybreak, however, they were up and on their way once more. They had
seen no signs of any pursuers, and Jefferson Hope began to think that
they were fairly out of the reach of the terrible organization whose
enmity they had incurred. He little knew how far that iron grasp could
reach, or how soon it was to close upon them and crush them.

About the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty store
of provisions began to run out. This gave the hunter little uneasiness,
however, for there was game to be had among the mountains, and he had
frequently before had to depend upon his rifle for the needs of life.
Choosing a sheltered nook, he piled together a few dried branches and
made a blazing fire, at which his companions might warm themselves, for
they were now nearly five thousand feet above the sea level, and the air
was bitter and keen. Having tethered the horses, and bade Lucy adieu,
he threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out in search of whatever
chance might throw in his way. Looking back he saw the old man and the
young girl crouching over the blazing fire, while the three animals
stood motionless in the back-ground. Then the intervening rocks hid them
from his view.

He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another without
success, though from the marks upon the bark of the trees, and other
indications, he judged that there were numerous bears in the vicinity.
At last, after two or three hours’ fruitless search, he was thinking of
turning back in despair, when casting his eyes upwards he saw a sight
which sent a thrill of pleasure through his heart. On the edge of a
jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet above him, there stood a
creature somewhat resembling a sheep in appearance, but armed with a
pair of gigantic horns. The big-horn--for so it is called--was acting,
probably, as a guardian over a flock which were invisible to the hunter;
but fortunately it was heading in the opposite direction, and had not
perceived him. Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon a rock, and
took a long and steady aim before drawing the trigger. The animal sprang
into the air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of the precipice, and
then came crashing down into the valley beneath.

The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented himself
with cutting away one haunch and part of the flank. With this trophy
over his shoulder, he hastened to retrace his steps, for the evening was
already drawing in. He had hardly started, however, before he realized
the difficulty which faced him. In his eagerness he had wandered far
past the ravines which were known to him, and it was no easy matter
to pick out the path which he had taken. The valley in which he found
himself divided and sub-divided into many gorges, which were so like
each other that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.
He followed one for a mile or more until he came to a mountain torrent
which he was sure that he had never seen before. Convinced that he had
taken the wrong turn, he tried another, but with the same result. Night
was coming on rapidly, and it was almost dark before he at last found
himself in a defile which was familiar to him. Even then it was no easy
matter to keep to the right track, for the moon had not yet risen, and
the high cliffs on either side made the obscurity more profound. Weighed
down with his burden, and weary from his exertions, he stumbled along,
keeping up his heart by the reflection that every step brought him
nearer to Lucy, and that he carried with him enough to ensure them food
for the remainder of their journey.

He had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had left
them. Even in the darkness he could recognize the outline of the cliffs
which bounded it. They must, he reflected, be awaiting him anxiously,
for he had been absent nearly five hours. In the gladness of his heart
he put his hands to his mouth and made the glen re-echo to a loud halloo
as a signal that he was coming. He paused and listened for an answer.
None came save his own cry, which clattered up the dreary silent
ravines, and was borne back to his ears in countless repetitions. Again
he shouted, even louder than before, and again no whisper came back from
the friends whom he had left such a short time ago. A vague, nameless
dread came over him, and he hurried onwards frantically, dropping the
precious food in his agitation.

When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where the
fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes there,
but it had evidently not been tended since his departure. The same
dead silence still reigned all round. With his fears all changed to
convictions, he hurried on. There was no living creature near the
remains of the fire: animals, man, maiden, all were gone. It was only
too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during
his absence--a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left no
traces behind it.

Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head spin
round, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from falling. He
was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily recovered from
his temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece of wood from the
smouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and proceeded with its help
to examine the little camp. The ground was all stamped down by the feet
of horses, showing that a large party of mounted men had overtaken
the fugitives, and the direction of their tracks proved that they had
afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City. Had they carried back both of
his companions with them? Jefferson Hope had almost persuaded himself
that they must have done so, when his eye fell upon an object which made
every nerve of his body tingle within him. A little way on one side of
the camp was a low-lying heap of reddish soil, which had assuredly
not been there before. There was no mistaking it for anything but a
newly-dug grave. As the young hunter approached it, he perceived that a
stick had been planted on it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft
fork of it. The inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:

                        JOHN FERRIER,
                 FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY, [22]
                    Died August 4th, 1860.

The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was gone,
then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked wildly round
to see if there was a second grave, but there was no sign of one. Lucy
had been carried back by their terrible pursuers to fulfil her original
destiny, by becoming one of the harem of the Elder’s son. As the young
fellow realized the certainty of her fate, and his own powerlessness to
prevent it, he wished that he, too, was lying with the old farmer in his
last silent resting-place.

Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which springs
from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could at least
devote his life to revenge. With indomitable patience and perseverance,
Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of sustained vindictiveness, which
he may have learned from the Indians amongst whom he had lived. As he
stood by the desolate fire, he felt that the only one thing which could
assuage his grief would be thorough and complete retribution, brought
by his own hand upon his enemies. His strong will and untiring energy
should, he determined, be devoted to that one end. With a grim, white
face, he retraced his steps to where he had dropped the food, and having
stirred up the smouldering fire, he cooked enough to last him for a
few days. This he made up into a bundle, and, tired as he was, he
set himself to walk back through the mountains upon the track of the
avenging angels.

For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles which he
had already traversed on horseback. At night he flung himself down among
the rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep; but before daybreak he was
always well on his way. On the sixth day, he reached the Eagle Cañon,
from which they had commenced their ill-fated flight. Thence he could
look down upon the home of the saints. Worn and exhausted, he leaned
upon his rifle and shook his gaunt hand fiercely at the silent
widespread city beneath him. As he looked at it, he observed that
there were flags in some of the principal streets, and other signs of
festivity. He was still speculating as to what this might mean when he
heard the clatter of horse’s hoofs, and saw a mounted man riding towards
him. As he approached, he recognized him as a Mormon named Cowper, to
whom he had rendered services at different times. He therefore accosted
him when he got up to him, with the object of finding out what Lucy
Ferrier’s fate had been.

“I am Jefferson Hope,” he said. “You remember me.”

The Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment--indeed, it was
difficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with ghastly
white face and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of former
days. Having, however, at last, satisfied himself as to his identity,
the man’s surprise changed to consternation.

“You are mad to come here,” he cried. “It is as much as my own life is
worth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you from
the Holy Four for assisting the Ferriers away.”

“I don’t fear them, or their warrant,” Hope said, earnestly. “You must
know something of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you by everything you
hold dear to answer a few questions. We have always been friends. For
God’s sake, don’t refuse to answer me.”

“What is it?” the Mormon asked uneasily. “Be quick. The very rocks have
ears and the trees eyes.”

“What has become of Lucy Ferrier?”

“She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up, you
have no life left in you.”

“Don’t mind me,” said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips, and
had sunk down on the stone against which he had been leaning. “Married,
you say?”

“Married yesterday--that’s what those flags are for on the Endowment
House. There was some words between young Drebber and young Stangerson
as to which was to have her. They’d both been in the party that followed
them, and Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed to give him the
best claim; but when they argued it out in council, Drebber’s party was
the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to him. No one won’t have
her very long though, for I saw death in her face yesterday. She is more
like a ghost than a woman. Are you off, then?”

“Yes, I am off,” said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat. His
face might have been chiselled out of marble, so hard and set was its
expression, while its eyes glowed with a baleful light.

“Where are you going?”

“Never mind,” he answered; and, slinging his weapon over his shoulder,
strode off down the gorge and so away into the heart of the mountains to
the haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst them all there was none so fierce
and so dangerous as himself.

The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether it was
the terrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful marriage
into which she had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her head again,
but pined away and died within a month. Her sottish husband, who had
married her principally for the sake of John Ferrier’s property, did not
affect any great grief at his bereavement; but his other wives mourned
over her, and sat up with her the night before the burial, as is the
Mormon custom. They were grouped round the bier in the early hours of
the morning, when, to their inexpressible fear and astonishment,
the door was flung open, and a savage-looking, weather-beaten man in
tattered garments strode into the room. Without a glance or a word to
the cowering women, he walked up to the white silent figure which had
once contained the pure soul of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over her, he
pressed his lips reverently to her cold forehead, and then, snatching
up her hand, he took the wedding-ring from her finger. “She shall not be
buried in that,” he cried with a fierce snarl, and before an alarm could
be raised sprang down the stairs and was gone. So strange and so brief
was the episode, that the watchers might have found it hard to believe
it themselves or persuade other people of it, had it not been for the
undeniable fact that the circlet of gold which marked her as having been
a bride had disappeared.

For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains, leading
a strange wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for
vengeance which possessed him. Tales were told in the City of the weird
figure which was seen prowling about the suburbs, and which haunted
the lonely mountain gorges. Once a bullet whistled through Stangerson’s
window and flattened itself upon the wall within a foot of him. On
another occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliff a great boulder
crashed down on him, and he only escaped a terrible death by throwing
himself upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long in
discovering the reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led
repeated expeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or
killing their enemy, but always without success. Then they adopted the
precaution of never going out alone or after nightfall, and of having
their houses guarded. After a time they were able to relax these
measures, for nothing was either heard or seen of their opponent, and
they hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.

Far from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it. The hunter’s mind
was of a hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of revenge
had taken such complete possession of it that there was no room for
any other emotion. He was, however, above all things practical. He soon
realized that even his iron constitution could not stand the incessant
strain which he was putting upon it. Exposure and want of wholesome food
were wearing him out. If he died like a dog among the mountains, what
was to become of his revenge then? And yet such a death was sure to
overtake him if he persisted. He felt that that was to play his enemy’s
game, so he reluctantly returned to the old Nevada mines, there to
recruit his health and to amass money enough to allow him to pursue his
object without privation.

His intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a
combination of unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the mines
for nearly five. At the end of that time, however, his memory of
his wrongs and his craving for revenge were quite as keen as on that
memorable night when he had stood by John Ferrier’s grave. Disguised,
and under an assumed name, he returned to Salt Lake City, careless
what became of his own life, as long as he obtained what he knew to
be justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him. There had been a
schism among the Chosen People a few months before, some of the younger
members of the Church having rebelled against the authority of the
Elders, and the result had been the secession of a certain number of the
malcontents, who had left Utah and become Gentiles. Among these had been
Drebber and Stangerson; and no one knew whither they had gone. Rumour
reported that Drebber had managed to convert a large part of his
property into money, and that he had departed a wealthy man, while his
companion, Stangerson, was comparatively poor. There was no clue at all,
however, as to their whereabouts.

Many a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought of
revenge in the face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope never
faltered for a moment. With the small competence he possessed, eked out
by such employment as he could pick up, he travelled from town to town
through the United States in quest of his enemies. Year passed into
year, his black hair turned grizzled, but still he wandered on, a human
bloodhound, with his mind wholly set upon the one object upon which he
had devoted his life. At last his perseverance was rewarded. It was
but a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance told him that
Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit of. He
returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance all
arranged. It chanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his window,
had recognized the vagrant in the street, and had read murder in
his eyes. He hurried before a justice of the peace, accompanied by
Stangerson, who had become his private secretary, and represented to him
that they were in danger of their lives from the jealousy and hatred of
an old rival. That evening Jefferson Hope was taken into custody, and
not being able to find sureties, was detained for some weeks. When at
last he was liberated, it was only to find that Drebber’s house was
deserted, and that he and his secretary had departed for Europe.

Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated hatred
urged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and
for some time he had to return to work, saving every dollar for his
approaching journey. At last, having collected enough to keep life in
him, he departed for Europe, and tracked his enemies from city to
city, working his way in any menial capacity, but never overtaking the
fugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they had departed for Paris;
and when he followed them there he learned that they had just set off
for Copenhagen. At the Danish capital he was again a few days late, for
they had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded in running
them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do better than quote
the old hunter’s own account, as duly recorded in Dr. Watson’s Journal,
to which we are already under such obligations.




CHAPTER VI. A CONTINUATION OF THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN WATSON, M.D.


OUR prisoner’s furious resistance did not apparently indicate any
ferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself
powerless, he smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his hopes that
he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. “I guess you’re going to take
me to the police-station,” he remarked to Sherlock Holmes. “My cab’s at
the door. If you’ll loose my legs I’ll walk down to it. I’m not so light
to lift as I used to be.”

Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances as if they thought this
proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner at
his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound round his ancles.
[23] He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure himself that
they were free once more. I remember that I thought to myself, as I eyed
him, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man; and his dark
sunburned face bore an expression of determination and energy which was
as formidable as his personal strength.

“If there’s a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you
are the man for it,” he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at my
fellow-lodger. “The way you kept on my trail was a caution.”

“You had better come with me,” said Holmes to the two detectives.

“I can drive you,” said Lestrade.

“Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor, you have
taken an interest in the case and may as well stick to us.”

I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made no
attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been his,
and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the horse, and
brought us in a very short time to our destination. We were ushered into
a small chamber where a police Inspector noted down our prisoner’s name
and the names of the men with whose murder he had been charged. The
official was a white-faced unemotional man, who went through his
duties in a dull mechanical way. “The prisoner will be put before the
magistrates in the course of the week,” he said; “in the mean time, Mr.
Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you wish to say? I must warn you
that your words will be taken down, and may be used against you.”

“I’ve got a good deal to say,” our prisoner said slowly. “I want to tell
you gentlemen all about it.”

“Hadn’t you better reserve that for your trial?” asked the Inspector.

“I may never be tried,” he answered. “You needn’t look startled. It
isn’t suicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?” He turned his fierce
dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.

“Yes; I am,” I answered.

“Then put your hand here,” he said, with a smile, motioning with his
manacled wrists towards his chest.

I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing and
commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest seemed to
thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when some powerful
engine was at work. In the silence of the room I could hear a dull
humming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same source.

“Why,” I cried, “you have an aortic aneurism!”

“That’s what they call it,” he said, placidly. “I went to a Doctor last
week about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before many days
passed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from over-exposure
and under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I’ve done my work now,
and I don’t care how soon I go, but I should like to leave some account
of the business behind me. I don’t want to be remembered as a common
cut-throat.”

The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to the
advisability of allowing him to tell his story.

“Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?” the former
asked, [24]

“Most certainly there is,” I answered.

“In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to
take his statement,” said the Inspector. “You are at liberty, sir, to
give your account, which I again warn you will be taken down.”

“I’ll sit down, with your leave,” the prisoner said, suiting the action
to the word. “This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and the
tussle we had half an hour ago has not mended matters. I’m on the brink
of the grave, and I am not likely to lie to you. Every word I say is the
absolute truth, and how you use it is a matter of no consequence to me.”

With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began
the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical
manner, as though the events which he narrated were commonplace enough.
I can vouch for the accuracy of the subjoined account, for I have had
access to Lestrade’s note-book, in which the prisoner’s words were taken
down exactly as they were uttered.

“It don’t much matter to you why I hated these men,” he said; “it’s
enough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings--a father
and a daughter--and that they had, therefore, forfeited their own
lives. After the lapse of time that has passed since their crime, it was
impossible for me to secure a conviction against them in any court. I
knew of their guilt though, and I determined that I should be judge,
jury, and executioner all rolled into one. You’d have done the same, if
you have any manhood in you, if you had been in my place.

“That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago. She
was forced into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart over
it. I took the marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed that his
dying eyes should rest upon that very ring, and that his last thoughts
should be of the crime for which he was punished. I have carried
it about with me, and have followed him and his accomplice over two
continents until I caught them. They thought to tire me out, but they
could not do it. If I die to-morrow, as is likely enough, I die knowing
that my work in this world is done, and well done. They have perished,
and by my hand. There is nothing left for me to hope for, or to desire.

“They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me to
follow them. When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I found
that I must turn my hand to something for my living. Driving and riding
are as natural to me as walking, so I applied at a cabowner’s office,
and soon got employment. I was to bring a certain sum a week to the
owner, and whatever was over that I might keep for myself. There was
seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along somehow. The hardest job
was to learn my way about, for I reckon that of all the mazes that ever
were contrived, this city is the most confusing. I had a map beside me
though, and when once I had spotted the principal hotels and stations, I
got on pretty well.

“It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were living;
but I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across them. They
were at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other side of the
river. When once I found them out I knew that I had them at my mercy. I
had grown my beard, and there was no chance of their recognizing me.
I would dog them and follow them until I saw my opportunity. I was
determined that they should not escape me again.

“They were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about
London, I was always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my
cab, and sometimes on foot, but the former was the best, for then they
could not get away from me. It was only early in the morning or late
at night that I could earn anything, so that I began to get behind hand
with my employer. I did not mind that, however, as long as I could lay
my hand upon the men I wanted.

“They were very cunning, though. They must have thought that there was
some chance of their being followed, for they would never go out alone,
and never after nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind them every
day, and never once saw them separate. Drebber himself was drunk half
the time, but Stangerson was not to be caught napping. I watched them
late and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but I was not
discouraged, for something told me that the hour had almost come. My
only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a little too soon
and leave my work undone.

“At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as the
street was called in which they boarded, when I saw a cab drive up to
their door. Presently some luggage was brought out, and after a time
Drebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove off. I whipped up my horse
and kept within sight of them, feeling very ill at ease, for I feared
that they were going to shift their quarters. At Euston Station they
got out, and I left a boy to hold my horse, and followed them on to the
platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train, and the guard answer
that one had just gone and there would not be another for some hours.
Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but Drebber was rather pleased
than otherwise. I got so close to them in the bustle that I could hear
every word that passed between them. Drebber said that he had a little
business of his own to do, and that if the other would wait for him he
would soon rejoin him. His companion remonstrated with him, and reminded
him that they had resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the
matter was a delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch
what Stangerson said to that, but the other burst out swearing, and
reminded him that he was nothing more than his paid servant, and that he
must not presume to dictate to him. On that the Secretary gave it up
as a bad job, and simply bargained with him that if he missed the last
train he should rejoin him at Halliday’s Private Hotel; to which Drebber
answered that he would be back on the platform before eleven, and made
his way out of the station.

“The moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my
enemies within my power. Together they could protect each other,
but singly they were at my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue
precipitation. My plans were already formed. There is no satisfaction in
vengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that strikes
him, and why retribution has come upon him. I had my plans arranged by
which I should have the opportunity of making the man who had wronged me
understand that his old sin had found him out. It chanced that some days
before a gentleman who had been engaged in looking over some houses in
the Brixton Road had dropped the key of one of them in my carriage. It
was claimed that same evening, and returned; but in the interval I had
taken a moulding of it, and had a duplicate constructed. By means of
this I had access to at least one spot in this great city where I could
rely upon being free from interruption. How to get Drebber to that house
was the difficult problem which I had now to solve.

“He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops, staying
for nearly half-an-hour in the last of them. When he came out he
staggered in his walk, and was evidently pretty well on. There was a
hansom just in front of me, and he hailed it. I followed it so close
that the nose of my horse was within a yard of his driver the whole way.
We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of streets, until,
to my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the Terrace in which he
had boarded. I could not imagine what his intention was in returning
there; but I went on and pulled up my cab a hundred yards or so from
the house. He entered it, and his hansom drove away. Give me a glass of
water, if you please. My mouth gets dry with the talking.”

I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.

“That’s better,” he said. “Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour, or
more, when suddenly there came a noise like people struggling inside the
house. Next moment the door was flung open and two men appeared, one of
whom was Drebber, and the other was a young chap whom I had never seen
before. This fellow had Drebber by the collar, and when they came to
the head of the steps he gave him a shove and a kick which sent him half
across the road. ‘You hound,’ he cried, shaking his stick at him; ‘I’ll
teach you to insult an honest girl!’ He was so hot that I think he would
have thrashed Drebber with his cudgel, only that the cur staggered away
down the road as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran as far as the
corner, and then, seeing my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. ‘Drive me
to Halliday’s Private Hotel,’ said he.

“When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy that
I feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I drove
along slowly, weighing in my own mind what it was best to do. I might
take him right out into the country, and there in some deserted lane
have my last interview with him. I had almost decided upon this, when he
solved the problem for me. The craze for drink had seized him again, and
he ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in, leaving word
that I should wait for him. There he remained until closing time, and
when he came out he was so far gone that I knew the game was in my own
hands.

“Don’t imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would only
have been rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring myself
to do it. I had long determined that he should have a show for his life
if he chose to take advantage of it. Among the many billets which I
have filled in America during my wandering life, I was once janitor and
sweeper out of the laboratory at York College. One day the professor was
lecturing on poisions, [25] and he showed his students some alkaloid,
as he called it, which he had extracted from some South American arrow
poison, and which was so powerful that the least grain meant instant
death. I spotted the bottle in which this preparation was kept, and when
they were all gone, I helped myself to a little of it. I was a fairly
good dispenser, so I worked this alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and
each pill I put in a box with a similar pill made without the poison.
I determined at the time that when I had my chance, my gentlemen should
each have a draw out of one of these boxes, while I ate the pill that
remained. It would be quite as deadly, and a good deal less noisy than
firing across a handkerchief. From that day I had always my pill boxes
about with me, and the time had now come when I was to use them.

“It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard
and raining in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad within--so
glad that I could have shouted out from pure exultation. If any of you
gentlemen have ever pined for a thing, and longed for it during twenty
long years, and then suddenly found it within your reach, you would
understand my feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at it to steady my
nerves, but my hands were trembling, and my temples throbbing with
excitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier and sweet Lucy
looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me, just as plain as I
see you all in this room. All the way they were ahead of me, one on each
side of the horse until I pulled up at the house in the Brixton Road.

“There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the
dripping of the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber
all huddled together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm, ‘It’s
time to get out,’ I said.

“‘All right, cabby,’ said he.

“I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned,
for he got out without another word, and followed me down the garden.
I had to walk beside him to keep him steady, for he was still a little
top-heavy. When we came to the door, I opened it, and led him into the
front room. I give you my word that all the way, the father and the
daughter were walking in front of us.

“‘It’s infernally dark,’ said he, stamping about.

“‘We’ll soon have a light,’ I said, striking a match and putting it to
a wax candle which I had brought with me. ‘Now, Enoch Drebber,’ I
continued, turning to him, and holding the light to my own face, ‘who am
I?’

“He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment, and then I
saw a horror spring up in them, and convulse his whole features, which
showed me that he knew me. He staggered back with a livid face, and I
saw the perspiration break out upon his brow, while his teeth chattered
in his head. At the sight, I leaned my back against the door and laughed
loud and long. I had always known that vengeance would be sweet, but I
had never hoped for the contentment of soul which now possessed me.

“‘You dog!’ I said; ‘I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to St.
Petersburg, and you have always escaped me. Now, at last your wanderings
have come to an end, for either you or I shall never see to-morrow’s sun
rise.’ He shrunk still further away as I spoke, and I could see on his
face that he thought I was mad. So I was for the time. The pulses in my
temples beat like sledge-hammers, and I believe I would have had a fit
of some sort if the blood had not gushed from my nose and relieved me.

“‘What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?’ I cried, locking the door, and
shaking the key in his face. ‘Punishment has been slow in coming, but it
has overtaken you at last.’ I saw his coward lips tremble as I spoke. He
would have begged for his life, but he knew well that it was useless.

“‘Would you murder me?’ he stammered.

“‘There is no murder,’ I answered. ‘Who talks of murdering a mad dog?
What mercy had you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from her
slaughtered father, and bore her away to your accursed and shameless
harem.’

“‘It was not I who killed her father,’ he cried.

“‘But it was you who broke her innocent heart,’ I shrieked, thrusting
the box before him. ‘Let the high God judge between us. Choose and
eat. There is death in one and life in the other. I shall take what you
leave. Let us see if there is justice upon the earth, or if we are ruled
by chance.’

“He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but I drew my
knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I swallowed
the other, and we stood facing one another in silence for a minute or
more, waiting to see which was to live and which was to die. Shall I
ever forget the look which came over his face when the first warning
pangs told him that the poison was in his system? I laughed as I saw
it, and held Lucy’s marriage ring in front of his eyes. It was but for
a moment, for the action of the alkaloid is rapid. A spasm of pain
contorted his features; he threw his hands out in front of him,
staggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily upon the floor. I
turned him over with my foot, and placed my hand upon his heart. There
was no movement. He was dead!

“The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice of
it. I don’t know what it was that put it into my head to write upon the
wall with it. Perhaps it was some mischievous idea of setting the police
upon a wrong track, for I felt light-hearted and cheerful. I remembered
a German being found in New York with RACHE written up above him, and it
was argued at the time in the newspapers that the secret societies must
have done it. I guessed that what puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle
the Londoners, so I dipped my finger in my own blood and printed it on
a convenient place on the wall. Then I walked down to my cab and found
that there was nobody about, and that the night was still very wild. I
had driven some distance when I put my hand into the pocket in which
I usually kept Lucy’s ring, and found that it was not there. I was
thunderstruck at this, for it was the only memento that I had of her.
Thinking that I might have dropped it when I stooped over Drebber’s
body, I drove back, and leaving my cab in a side street, I went boldly
up to the house--for I was ready to dare anything rather than lose
the ring. When I arrived there, I walked right into the arms of a
police-officer who was coming out, and only managed to disarm his
suspicions by pretending to be hopelessly drunk.

“That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to do then was
to do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier’s debt. I knew
that he was staying at Halliday’s Private Hotel, and I hung about all
day, but he never came out. [26] fancy that he suspected something when
Drebber failed to put in an appearance. He was cunning, was Stangerson,
and always on his guard. If he thought he could keep me off by staying
indoors he was very much mistaken. I soon found out which was the window
of his bedroom, and early next morning I took advantage of some ladders
which were lying in the lane behind the hotel, and so made my way into
his room in the grey of the dawn. I woke him up and told him that the
hour had come when he was to answer for the life he had taken so long
before. I described Drebber’s death to him, and I gave him the same
choice of the poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of
safety which that offered him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my
throat. In self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would have been
the same in any case, for Providence would never have allowed his guilty
hand to pick out anything but the poison.

“I have little more to say, and it’s as well, for I am about done up.
I went on cabbing it for a day or so, intending to keep at it until I
could save enough to take me back to America. I was standing in the
yard when a ragged youngster asked if there was a cabby there called
Jefferson Hope, and said that his cab was wanted by a gentleman at 221B,
Baker Street. I went round, suspecting no harm, and the next thing I
knew, this young man here had the bracelets on my wrists, and as neatly
snackled [27] as ever I saw in my life. That’s the whole of my story,
gentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold that I am
just as much an officer of justice as you are.”

So thrilling had the man’s narrative been, and his manner was so
impressive that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional
detectives, _blasé_ as they were in every detail of crime, appeared to
be keenly interested in the man’s story. When he finished we sat for
some minutes in a stillness which was only broken by the scratching
of Lestrade’s pencil as he gave the finishing touches to his shorthand
account.

“There is only one point on which I should like a little more
information,” Sherlock Holmes said at last. “Who was your accomplice who
came for the ring which I advertised?”

The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. “I can tell my own secrets,”
 he said, “but I don’t get other people into trouble. I saw your
advertisement, and I thought it might be a plant, or it might be the
ring which I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see. I think you’ll
own he did it smartly.”

“Not a doubt of that,” said Holmes heartily.

“Now, gentlemen,” the Inspector remarked gravely, “the forms of the law
must be complied with. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought before
the magistrates, and your attendance will be required. Until then I will
be responsible for him.” He rang the bell as he spoke, and Jefferson
Hope was led off by a couple of warders, while my friend and I made our
way out of the Station and took a cab back to Baker Street.




CHAPTER VII. THE CONCLUSION.


WE had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon the
Thursday; but when the Thursday came there was no occasion for our
testimony. A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand, and Jefferson
Hope had been summoned before a tribunal where strict justice would
be meted out to him. On the very night after his capture the aneurism
burst, and he was found in the morning stretched upon the floor of the
cell, with a placid smile upon his face, as though he had been able
in his dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on work well
done.

“Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death,” Holmes remarked, as
we chatted it over next evening. “Where will their grand advertisement
be now?”

“I don’t see that they had very much to do with his capture,” I
answered.

“What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence,” returned my
companion, bitterly. “The question is, what can you make people believe
that you have done. Never mind,” he continued, more brightly, after a
pause. “I would not have missed the investigation for anything. There
has been no better case within my recollection. Simple as it was, there
were several most instructive points about it.”

“Simple!” I ejaculated.

“Well, really, it can hardly be described as otherwise,” said Sherlock
Holmes, smiling at my surprise. “The proof of its intrinsic simplicity
is, that without any help save a few very ordinary deductions I was able
to lay my hand upon the criminal within three days.”

“That is true,” said I.

“I have already explained to you that what is out of the common is
usually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this
sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a very
useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not practise
it much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful to reason
forwards, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are fifty who
can reason synthetically for one who can reason analytically.”

“I confess,” said I, “that I do not quite follow you.”

“I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make it clearer.
Most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you
what the result would be. They can put those events together in their
minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass. There are
few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would be able to
evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led
up to that result. This power is what I mean when I talk of reasoning
backwards, or analytically.”

“I understand,” said I.

“Now this was a case in which you were given the result and had to
find everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you the
different steps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I approached
the house, as you know, on foot, and with my mind entirely free from all
impressions. I naturally began by examining the roadway, and there, as I
have already explained to you, I saw clearly the marks of a cab, which,
I ascertained by inquiry, must have been there during the night. I
satisfied myself that it was a cab and not a private carriage by the
narrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary London growler is considerably
less wide than a gentleman’s brougham.

“This was the first point gained. I then walked slowly down the garden
path, which happened to be composed of a clay soil, peculiarly suitable
for taking impressions. No doubt it appeared to you to be a mere
trampled line of slush, but to my trained eyes every mark upon its
surface had a meaning. There is no branch of detective science which
is so important and so much neglected as the art of tracing footsteps.
Happily, I have always laid great stress upon it, and much practice
has made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks of the
constables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had first passed
through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had been before the
others, because in places their marks had been entirely obliterated by
the others coming upon the top of them. In this way my second link was
formed, which told me that the nocturnal visitors were two in number,
one remarkable for his height (as I calculated from the length of his
stride), and the other fashionably dressed, to judge from the small and
elegant impression left by his boots.

“On entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My well-booted
man lay before me. The tall one, then, had done the murder, if murder
there was. There was no wound upon the dead man’s person, but the
agitated expression upon his face assured me that he had foreseen his
fate before it came upon him. Men who die from heart disease, or any
sudden natural cause, never by any chance exhibit agitation upon their
features. Having sniffed the dead man’s lips I detected a slightly sour
smell, and I came to the conclusion that he had had poison forced upon
him. Again, I argued that it had been forced upon him from the hatred
and fear expressed upon his face. By the method of exclusion, I had
arrived at this result, for no other hypothesis would meet the facts.
Do not imagine that it was a very unheard of idea. The forcible
administration of poison is by no means a new thing in criminal annals.
The cases of Dolsky in Odessa, and of Leturier in Montpellier, will
occur at once to any toxicologist.

“And now came the great question as to the reason why. Robbery had not
been the object of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it politics,
then, or was it a woman? That was the question which confronted me.
I was inclined from the first to the latter supposition. Political
assassins are only too glad to do their work and to fly. This murder
had, on the contrary, been done most deliberately, and the perpetrator
had left his tracks all over the room, showing that he had been there
all the time. It must have been a private wrong, and not a political
one, which called for such a methodical revenge. When the inscription
was discovered upon the wall I was more inclined than ever to my
opinion. The thing was too evidently a blind. When the ring was found,
however, it settled the question. Clearly the murderer had used it to
remind his victim of some dead or absent woman. It was at this point
that I asked Gregson whether he had enquired in his telegram to
Cleveland as to any particular point in Mr. Drebber’s former career. He
answered, you remember, in the negative.

“I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, which
confirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer’s height, and furnished me
with the additional details as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the length
of his nails. I had already come to the conclusion, since there were no
signs of a struggle, that the blood which covered the floor had burst
from the murderer’s nose in his excitement. I could perceive that the
track of blood coincided with the track of his feet. It is seldom that
any man, unless he is very full-blooded, breaks out in this way through
emotion, so I hazarded the opinion that the criminal was probably a
robust and ruddy-faced man. Events proved that I had judged correctly.

“Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had neglected. I
telegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland, limiting my enquiry
to the circumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch Drebber. The
answer was conclusive. It told me that Drebber had already applied for
the protection of the law against an old rival in love, named Jefferson
Hope, and that this same Hope was at present in Europe. I knew now that
I held the clue to the mystery in my hand, and all that remained was to
secure the murderer.

“I had already determined in my own mind that the man who had walked
into the house with Drebber, was none other than the man who had driven
the cab. The marks in the road showed me that the horse had wandered
on in a way which would have been impossible had there been anyone in
charge of it. Where, then, could the driver be, unless he were inside
the house? Again, it is absurd to suppose that any sane man would carry
out a deliberate crime under the very eyes, as it were, of a third
person, who was sure to betray him. Lastly, supposing one man wished
to dog another through London, what better means could he adopt than
to turn cabdriver. All these considerations led me to the irresistible
conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be found among the jarveys of the
Metropolis.

“If he had been one there was no reason to believe that he had ceased to
be. On the contrary, from his point of view, any sudden change would be
likely to draw attention to himself. He would, probably, for a time at
least, continue to perform his duties. There was no reason to suppose
that he was going under an assumed name. Why should he change his name
in a country where no one knew his original one? I therefore organized
my Street Arab detective corps, and sent them systematically to every
cab proprietor in London until they ferreted out the man that I wanted.
How well they succeeded, and how quickly I took advantage of it, are
still fresh in your recollection. The murder of Stangerson was an
incident which was entirely unexpected, but which could hardly in
any case have been prevented. Through it, as you know, I came into
possession of the pills, the existence of which I had already surmised.
You see the whole thing is a chain of logical sequences without a break
or flaw.”

“It is wonderful!” I cried. “Your merits should be publicly recognized.
You should publish an account of the case. If you won’t, I will for
you.”

“You may do what you like, Doctor,” he answered. “See here!” he
continued, handing a paper over to me, “look at this!”

It was the _Echo_ for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed was
devoted to the case in question.

“The public,” it said, “have lost a sensational treat through the sudden
death of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr. Enoch
Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case will
probably be never known now, though we are informed upon good authority
that the crime was the result of an old standing and romantic feud, in
which love and Mormonism bore a part. It seems that both the victims
belonged, in their younger days, to the Latter Day Saints, and Hope, the
deceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake City. If the case has had
no other effect, it, at least, brings out in the most striking manner
the efficiency of our detective police force, and will serve as a lesson
to all foreigners that they will do wisely to settle their feuds at
home, and not to carry them on to British soil. It is an open secret
that the credit of this smart capture belongs entirely to the well-known
Scotland Yard officials, Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was
apprehended, it appears, in the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
who has himself, as an amateur, shown some talent in the detective
line, and who, with such instructors, may hope in time to attain to some
degree of their skill. It is expected that a testimonial of some sort
will be presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition of their
services.”

“Didn’t I tell you so when we started?” cried Sherlock Holmes with a
laugh. “That’s the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a
testimonial!”

“Never mind,” I answered, “I have all the facts in my journal, and the
public shall know them. In the meantime you must make yourself contented
by the consciousness of success, like the Roman miser--

            “‘Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo
       Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplor in arca.’”





ORIGINAL TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


[Footnote 1: Frontispiece, with the caption: “He examined with his glass
the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the most
minute exactness.” (_Page_ 23.)]

[Footnote 2: “JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.”: the initial letters in the name are
capitalized, the other letters in small caps. All chapter titles are in
small caps. The initial words of chapters are in small caps with first
letter capitalized.]

[Footnote 3: “lodgings.”: the period should be a comma, as in later
editions.]

[Footnote 4: “hoemoglobin”: should be haemoglobin. The o&e are
concatenated.]

[Footnote 5: “221B”: the B is in small caps]

[Footnote 6: “THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY”: the table-of-contents
lists this chapter as “...GARDENS MYSTERY”--plural, and probably more
correct.]

[Footnote 7: “brought."”: the text has an extra double-quote mark]

[Footnote 8: “individual--“: illustration this page, with the
caption: “As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
everywhere.”]

[Footnote 9: “manoeuvres”: the o&e are concatenated.]

[Footnote 10: “Patent leathers”: the hyphen is missing.]

[Footnote 11: “condonment”: should be condonement.]

[Footnote 13: “wages.”: ending quote is missing.]

[Footnote 14: “the first.”: ending quote is missing.]

[Footnote 15: “make much of...”: Other editions complete this sentence
with an “it.” But there is a gap in the text at this point, and, given
the context, it may have actually been an interjection, a dash. The gap
is just the right size for the characters “it.” and the start of a new
sentence, or for a “----“]

[Footnote 16: “tho cushion”: “tho” should be “the”]

[Footnote 19: “shoving”: later editions have “showing”. The original is
clearly superior.]

[Footnote 20: “stared about...”: illustration, with the caption: “One of
them seized the little girl, and hoisted her upon his shoulder.”]

[Footnote 21: “upon the”: illustration, with the caption: “As he watched
it he saw it writhe along the ground.”]

[Footnote 22: “FORMERLY...”: F,S,L,C in caps, other letters in this line
in small caps.]

[Footnote 23: “ancles”: ankles.]

[Footnote 24: “asked,”: should be “asked.”]

[Footnote 25: “poisions”: should be “poisons”]

[Footnote 26: “...fancy”: should be “I fancy”. There is a gap in the
text.]

[Footnote 27: “snackled”: “shackled” in later texts.]

[Footnote 29: Heber C. Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his
hundred wives under this endearing epithet.]





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Title: The Hound of the Baskervilles

Author: A. Conan Doyle

Posting Date: December 8, 2008 [EBook #2852]
Release Date: October, 2001
Last Updated: September 30, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES ***




Produced by Shreevatsa R





THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES

By A. Conan Doyle




Chapter 1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes



Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save
upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated
at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the
stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a
fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as
a “Penang lawyer.” Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly
an inch across. “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the
C.C.H.,” was engraved upon it, with the date “1884.” It was just such a
stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry--dignified,
solid, and reassuring.

“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of
my occupation.

“How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back
of your head.”

“I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of
me,” said he. “But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor’s
stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no
notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance.
Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it.”

“I think,” said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
companion, “that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man,
well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their
appreciation.”

“Good!” said Holmes. “Excellent!”

“I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country
practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot.”

“Why so?”

“Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so
knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it.
The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a
great amount of walking with it.”

“Perfectly sound!” said Holmes.

“And then again, there is the ‘friends of the C.C.H.’ I should guess
that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has
possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small
presentation in return.”

“Really, Watson, you excel yourself,” said Holmes, pushing back his
chair and lighting a cigarette. “I am bound to say that in all the
accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small
achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may
be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of
light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of
stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your
debt.”

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave
me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my
admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to
his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his
system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took
the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked
eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette,
and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a
convex lens.

“Interesting, though elementary,” said he as he returned to his
favourite corner of the settee. “There are certainly one or two
indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several
deductions.”

“Has anything escaped me?” I asked with some self-importance. “I trust
that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?”

“I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were
erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that
in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth.
Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is certainly a
country practitioner. And he walks a good deal.”

“Then I was right.”

“To that extent.”

“But that was all.”

“No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means all. I would suggest, for
example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a
hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials ‘C.C.’ are placed
before that hospital the words ‘Charing Cross’ very naturally suggest
themselves.”

“You may be right.”

“The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a
working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our
construction of this unknown visitor.”

“Well, then, supposing that ‘C.C.H.’ does stand for ‘Charing Cross
Hospital,’ what further inferences may we draw?”

“Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!”

“I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised
in town before going to the country.”

“I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it
in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a
presentation would be made? When would his friends unite to give him
a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr. Mortimer
withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start a practice
for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We believe there has
been a change from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then,
stretching our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the
occasion of the change?”

“It certainly seems probable.”

“Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of the
hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice could
hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the country.
What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he
could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician--little more
than a senior student. And he left five years ago--the date is on the
stick. So your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into
thin air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under thirty,
amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite
dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and
smaller than a mastiff.”

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and
blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

“As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you,” said I, “but
at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars about the
man’s age and professional career.” From my small medical shelf I took
down the Medical Directory and turned up the name. There were several
Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his record
aloud.

        “Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
        House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.
        Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology,
        with essay entitled ‘Is Disease a Reversion?’  Corresponding
        member of the Swedish Pathological Society.  Author of
        ‘Some Freaks of Atavism’ (Lancet 1882).  ‘Do We Progress?’
        (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883).  Medical Officer
        for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow.”

“No mention of that local hunt, Watson,” said Holmes with a mischievous
smile, “but a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think
that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I
said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded.
It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who
receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London
career for the country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his
stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room.”

“And the dog?”

“Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a
heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of
his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog’s jaw, as shown in the space
between these marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not
broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been--yes, by Jove, it is a
curly-haired spaniel.”

He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess
of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I
glanced up in surprise.

“My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?”

“For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very
door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don’t move, I beg you,
Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may be
of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when
you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you
know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man
of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!”

The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected
a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a
long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, gray eyes,
set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of
gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly
fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though
young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward
thrust of his head and a general air of peering benevolence. As he
entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes’s hand, and he ran
towards it with an exclamation of joy. “I am so very glad,” said he.
“I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I
would not lose that stick for the world.”

“A presentation, I see,” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir.”

“From Charing Cross Hospital?”

“From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage.”

“Dear, dear, that’s bad!” said Holmes, shaking his head.

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. “Why was
it bad?”

“Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage,
you say?”

“Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of
a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own.”

“Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all,” said Holmes. “And now,
Dr. James Mortimer--”

“Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S.”

“And a man of precise mind, evidently.”

“A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores
of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes
whom I am addressing and not--”

“No, this is my friend Dr. Watson.”

“Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection
with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I
had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked
supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my
finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until
the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological
museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet
your skull.”

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. “You are an
enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in
mine,” said he. “I observe from your forefinger that you make your own
cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one.”

The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other
with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and
restless as the antennae of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest
which he took in our curious companion. “I presume, sir,” said he at
last, “that it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that
you have done me the honour to call here last night and again today?”

“No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing
that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am
myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a
most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you
are the second highest expert in Europe--”

“Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?” asked
Holmes with some asperity.

“To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon
must always appeal strongly.”

“Then had you not better consult him?”

“I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man
of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I
have not inadvertently--”

“Just a little,” said Holmes. “I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do
wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the
exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance.”




Chapter 2. The Curse of the Baskervilles



“I have in my pocket a manuscript,” said Dr. James Mortimer.

“I observed it as you entered the room,” said Holmes.

“It is an old manuscript.”

“Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery.”

“How can you say that, sir?”

“You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time
that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give
the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read
my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730.”

“The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket.
“This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville,
whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much
excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as
well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd,
practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this
document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end
as did eventually overtake him.”

Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon
his knee. “You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s
and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix
the date.”

I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At
the head was written: “Baskerville Hall,” and below in large, scrawling
figures: “1742.”

“It appears to be a statement of some sort.”

“Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
Baskerville family.”

“But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon
which you wish to consult me?”

“Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided
within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately
connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you.”

Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and
closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the
manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the following
curious, old-world narrative:

        “Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there
        have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct
        line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from
        my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down
        with all belief that it occurred even as is here set
        forth.  And I would have you believe, my sons, that the
        same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously
        forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer
        and repentance it may be removed.  Learn then from this
        story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to
        be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions
        whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not
        again be loosed to our undoing.

        “Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the
        history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most
        earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of
        Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be
        gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless
        man.  This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned,
        seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts,
        but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour
        which made his name a by-word through the West.  It
        chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark
        a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter
        of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate.
        But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute,
        would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name.  So
        it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five
        or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon
        the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and
        brothers being from home, as he well knew.  When they had
        brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper
        chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long
        carouse, as was their nightly custom.  Now, the poor lass
        upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing
        and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from
        below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville,
        when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who
        said them.  At last in the stress of her fear she did that
        which might have daunted the bravest or most active man,
        for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and
        still covers) the south wall she came down from under the
        eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three
        leagues betwixt the Hall and her father’s farm.

        “It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his
        guests to carry food and drink--with other worse things,
        perchance--to his captive, and so found the cage empty
        and the bird escaped.  Then, as it would seem, he became
        as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs
        into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table,
        flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried
        aloud before all the company that he would that very
        night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if
        he might but overtake the wench.  And while the revellers
        stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or,
        it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that
        they should put the hounds upon her.  Whereat Hugo ran
        from the house, crying to his grooms that they should
        saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the
        hounds a kerchief of the maid’s, he swung them to the
        line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

        “Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable
        to understand all that had been done in such haste.  But
        anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed
        which was like to be done upon the moorlands.  Everything
        was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols,
        some for their horses, and some for another flask of
        wine.  But at length some sense came back to their crazed
        minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took
        horse and started in pursuit.  The moon shone clear above
        them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course
        which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach
        her own home.

        “They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the
        night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to
        him to know if he had seen the hunt.  And the man, as
        the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could
        scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen
        the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track.  ‘But
        I have seen more than that,’ said he, ‘for Hugo Baskerville
        passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind
        him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at
        my heels.’  So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd
        and rode onward.  But soon their skins turned cold, for
        there came a galloping across the moor, and the black
        mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing
        bridle and empty saddle.  Then the revellers rode close
        together, for a great fear was on them, but they still
        followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone,
        would have been right glad to have turned his horse’s
        head.  Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last
        upon the hounds.  These, though known for their valour
        and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the
        head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the
        moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles
        and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

        “The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you
        may guess, than when they started.  The most of them
        would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest,
        or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal.
        Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of
        those great stones, still to be seen there, which were
        set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old.
        The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there
        in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen,
        dead of fear and of fatigue.  But it was not the sight
        of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo
        Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon
        the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it
        was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat,
        there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped
        like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal
        eye has rested upon.  And even as they looked the thing
        tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it
        turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the
        three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still
        screaming, across the moor.  One, it is said, died that
        very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were
        but broken men for the rest of their days.

        “Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound
        which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever
        since.  If I have set it down it is because that which
        is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but
        hinted at and guessed.  Nor can it be denied that many
        of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which
        have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious.  Yet may we
        shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence,
        which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that
        third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy
        Writ.  To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend
        you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from
        crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of
        evil are exalted.

        “[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,
        with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their
        sister Elizabeth.]”

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed
his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the
fire.

“Well?” said he.

“Do you not find it interesting?”

“To a collector of fairy tales.”

Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

“Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This
is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short
account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville
which occurred a few days before that date.”

My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our
visitor readjusted his glasses and began:

        “The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose
        name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate
        for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over
        the county.  Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville
        Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of
        character and extreme generosity had won the affection
        and respect of all who had been brought into contact with
        him.  In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing
        to find a case where the scion of an old county family
        which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own
        fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the
        fallen grandeur of his line.  Sir Charles, as is well known,
        made large sums of money in South African speculation.
        More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns
        against them, he realized his gains and returned to England
        with them.  It is only two years since he took up his
        residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how
        large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement
        which have been interrupted by his death.  Being himself
        childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the
        whole countryside should, within his own lifetime, profit
        by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons
        for bewailing his untimely end.  His generous donations
        to local and county charities have been frequently
        chronicled in these columns.

        “The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles
        cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the
        inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of
        those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
        There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to
        imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.
        Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to
        have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind.
        In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his
        personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville
        Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the
        husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper.
        Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends,
        tends to show that Sir Charles’s health has for some time
        been impaired, and points especially to some affection
        of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour,
        breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.
        Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of
        the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.

        “The facts of the case are simple.  Sir Charles Baskerville
        was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking
        down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall.  The evidence
        of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom.
        On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his intention
        of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore
        to prepare his luggage.  That night he went out as usual
        for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in
        the habit of smoking a cigar.  He never returned.  At
        twelve o’clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open,
        became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search
        of his master.  The day had been wet, and Sir Charles’s
        footmarks were easily traced down the alley.  Halfway down
        this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor.
        There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some
        little time here.  He then proceeded down the alley, and
        it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered.
        One fact which has not been explained is the statement
        of Barrymore that his master’s footprints altered their
        character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and
        that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking
        upon his toes.  One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on
        the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears
        by his own confession to have been the worse for drink.
        He declares that he heard cries but is unable to state
        from what direction they came.  No signs of violence were
        to be discovered upon Sir Charles’s person, and though
        the doctor’s evidence pointed to an almost incredible
        facial distortion--so great that Dr. Mortimer refused at
        first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient
        who lay before him--it was explained that that is a symptom
        which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from
        cardiac exhaustion.  This explanation was borne out by
        the post-mortem examination, which showed long-standing
        organic disease, and the coroner’s jury returned a
        verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.  It is
        well that this is so, for it is obviously of the utmost
        importance that Sir Charles’s heir should settle at the
        Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly
        interrupted.  Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not
        finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been
        whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been
        difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall.  It is
        understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,
        if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville’s
        younger brother.  The young man when last heard of was
        in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a
        view to informing him of his good fortune.”

Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket. “Those
are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir
Charles Baskerville.”

“I must thank you,” said Sherlock Holmes, “for calling my attention to a
case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed
some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied
by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige
the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. This
article, you say, contains all the public facts?”

“It does.”

“Then let me have the private ones.” He leaned back, put his finger-tips
together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression.

“In doing so,” said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some
strong emotion, “I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone.
My motive for withholding it from the coroner’s inquiry is that a man of
science shrinks from placing himself in the public position of seeming
to indorse a popular superstition. I had the further motive that
Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly remain untenanted
if anything were done to increase its already rather grim reputation.
For both these reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather
less than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with
you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.

“The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other
are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of
Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter
Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of
education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the
chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests
in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information
from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together
discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.

“Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that
Sir Charles’s nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had
taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart--so much
so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce
him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it may appear to
you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung
his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of
his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence
constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me
whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange
creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter question he put
to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with
excitement.

“I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three
weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had
descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw
his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare past me with an
expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just
time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black
calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he
that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been
and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared
to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the
evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he
had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to
you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes
some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was
convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his
excitement had no justification.

“It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His
heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived,
however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently having a
serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months among the
distractions of town would send him back a new man. Mr. Stapleton, a
mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was of the
same opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe.

“On the night of Sir Charles’s death Barrymore the butler, who made
the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was
sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of
the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which were mentioned
at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the
spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the
change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there
were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and
finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until
my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug
into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong emotion to
such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was
certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was
made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces
upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did--some
little distance off, but fresh and clear.”

“Footprints?”

“Footprints.”

“A man’s or a woman’s?”

Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank
almost to a whisper as he answered.

“Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”




Chapter 3. The Problem



I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill
in the doctor’s voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by
that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his
eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly
interested.

“You saw this?”

“As clearly as I see you.”

“And you said nothing?”

“What was the use?”

“How was it that no one else saw it?”

“The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them
a thought. I don’t suppose I should have done so had I not known this
legend.”

“There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?”

“No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog.”

“You say it was large?”

“Enormous.”

“But it had not approached the body?”

“No.”

“What sort of night was it?’

“Damp and raw.”

“But not actually raining?”

“No.”

“What is the alley like?”

“There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and
impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across.”

“Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?”

“Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side.”

“I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?”

“Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor.”

“Is there any other opening?”

“None.”

“So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it from the
house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?”

“There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end.”

“Had Sir Charles reached this?”

“No; he lay about fifty yards from it.”

“Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer--and this is important--the marks which you
saw were on the path and not on the grass?”

“No marks could show on the grass.”

“Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?”

“Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the
moor-gate.”

“You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate
closed?”

“Closed and padlocked.”

“How high was it?”

“About four feet high.”

“Then anyone could have got over it?”

“Yes.”

“And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?”

“None in particular.”

“Good heaven! Did no one examine?”

“Yes, I examined, myself.”

“And found nothing?”

“It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for
five or ten minutes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar.”

“Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the
marks?”

“He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could
discern no others.”

Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient
gesture.

“If I had only been there!” he cried. “It is evidently a case of
extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportunities to
the scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I might have read so
much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs
of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you
should not have called me in! You have indeed much to answer for.”

“I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts to
the world, and I have already given my reasons for not wishing to do so.
Besides, besides--”

“Why do you hesitate?”

“There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of
detectives is helpless.”

“You mean that the thing is supernatural?”

“I did not positively say so.”

“No, but you evidently think it.”

“Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several
incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature.”

“For example?”

“I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen
a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon,
and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all
agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I
have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman,
one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of
this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the
legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district,
and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night.”

“And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?”

“I do not know what to believe.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I have hitherto confined my
investigations to this world,” said he. “In a modest way I have combated
evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too
ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark is material.”

“The original hound was material enough to tug a man’s throat out, and
yet he was diabolical as well.”

“I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But now,
Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have you come
to consult me at all? You tell me in the same breath that it is useless
to investigate Sir Charles’s death, and that you desire me to do it.”

“I did not say that I desired you to do it.”

“Then, how can I assist you?”

“By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who
arrives at Waterloo Station”--Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch--“in
exactly one hour and a quarter.”

“He being the heir?”

“Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman
and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which
have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every way. I speak now not
as a medical man but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charles’s will.”

“There is no other claimant, I presume?”

“None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger
Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was
the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad
Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of
the old masterful Baskerville strain and was the very image, they tell
me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold
him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever.
Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes
I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at
Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to
do with him?”

“Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?”

“It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville
who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles
could have spoken with me before his death he would have warned me
against bringing this, the last of the old race, and the heir to great
wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the
prosperity of the whole poor, bleak countryside depends upon his
presence. All the good work which has been done by Sir Charles will
crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I
should be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in the matter, and
that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice.”

Holmes considered for a little time.

“Put into plain words, the matter is this,” said he. “In your opinion
there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a
Baskerville--that is your opinion?”

“At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence
that this may be so.”

“Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could
work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil
with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable
a thing.”

“You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably
do if you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your
advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man will be as safe
in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you
recommend?”

“I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is
scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry
Baskerville.”

“And then?”

“And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my
mind about the matter.”

“How long will it take you to make up your mind?”

“Twenty-four hours. At ten o’clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be
much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be
of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry
Baskerville with you.”

“I will do so, Mr. Holmes.” He scribbled the appointment on his
shirt-cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded
fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.

“Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles
Baskerville’s death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?”

“Three people did.”

“Did any see it after?”

“I have not heard of any.”

“Thank you. Good-morning.”

Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction
which meant that he had a congenial task before him.

“Going out, Watson?”

“Unless I can help you.”

“No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for
aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of view.
When you pass Bradley’s, would you ask him to send up a pound of the
strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you could make
it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should be very glad
to compare impressions as to this most interesting problem which has
been submitted to us this morning.”

I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend
in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he weighed
every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories, balanced
one against the other, and made up his mind as to which points were
essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the day at my club and
did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine o’clock
when I found myself in the sitting-room once more.

My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out,
for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon
the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at
rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me
by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision
of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black
clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him.

“Caught cold, Watson?” said he.

“No, it’s this poisonous atmosphere.”

“I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it.”

“Thick! It is intolerable.”

“Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“Am I right?”

“Certainly, but how?”

He laughed at my bewildered expression. “There is a delightful freshness
about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small
powers which I possess at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a
showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the
gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore
all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he
have been? Is it not obvious?”

“Well, it is rather obvious.”

“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever
observes. Where do you think that I have been?”

“A fixture also.”

“On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire.”

“In spirit?”

“Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret
to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an
incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford’s
for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has
hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way
about.”

“A large-scale map, I presume?”

“Very large.”

He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. “Here you have the
particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the
middle.”

“With a wood round it?”

“Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that name, must
stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right
of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen,
where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of
five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered dwellings.
Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is
a house indicated here which may be the residence of the
naturalist--Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are two
moorland farmhouses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the
great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered
points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage
upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play
it again.”

“It must be a wild place.”

“Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a
hand in the affairs of men--”

“Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation.”

“The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are
two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime
has been committed at all; the second is, what is the crime and how was
it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer’s surmise should be correct,
and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature,
there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all
other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we’ll shut
that window again, if you don’t mind. It is a singular thing, but I find
that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have
not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is
the logical outcome of my convictions. Have you turned the case over in
your mind?”

“Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day.”

“What do you make of it?”

“It is very bewildering.”

“It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of
distinction about it. That change in the footprints, for example. What
do you make of that?”

“Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of
the alley.”

“He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should a
man walk on tiptoe down the alley?”

“What then?”

“He was running, Watson--running desperately, running for his life,
running until he burst his heart--and fell dead upon his face.”

“Running from what?”

“There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was crazed
with fear before ever he began to run.”

“How can you say that?”

“I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor.
If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his
wits would have run from the house instead of towards it. If the
gipsy’s evidence may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help in the
direction where help was least likely to be. Then, again, whom was he
waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him in the yew alley
rather than in his own house?”

“You think that he was waiting for someone?”

“The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an evening
stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it natural
that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more
practical sense than I should have given him credit for, deduced from
the cigar ash?”

“But he went out every evening.”

“I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening. On
the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night he
waited there. It was the night before he made his departure for London.
The thing takes shape, Watson. It becomes coherent. Might I ask you to
hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further thought upon this
business until we have had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir
Henry Baskerville in the morning.”




Chapter 4. Sir Henry Baskerville



Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his
dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our clients were punctual to
their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer
was shown up, followed by the young baronet. The latter was a small,
alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very sturdily built,
with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face. He wore a
ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one who
has spent most of his time in the open air, and yet there was something
in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated
the gentleman.

“This is Sir Henry Baskerville,” said Dr. Mortimer.

“Why, yes,” said he, “and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to you this morning
I should have come on my own account. I understand that you think out
little puzzles, and I’ve had one this morning which wants more thinking
out than I am able to give it.”

“Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you have
yourself had some remarkable experience since you arrived in London?”

“Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as not.
It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which reached me this
morning.”

He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It was of
common quality, grayish in colour. The address, “Sir Henry Baskerville,
Northumberland Hotel,” was printed in rough characters; the post-mark
“Charing Cross,” and the date of posting the preceding evening.

“Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?” asked
Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor.

“No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer.”

“But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?”

“No, I had been staying with a friend,” said the doctor.

“There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this hotel.”

“Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements.” Out
of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper folded into four.
This he opened and spread flat upon the table. Across the middle of it
a single sentence had been formed by the expedient of pasting printed
words upon it. It ran:

        As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor.

The word “moor” only was printed in ink.

“Now,” said Sir Henry Baskerville, “perhaps you will tell me, Mr.
Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is that takes
so much interest in my affairs?”

“What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You must allow that there is
nothing supernatural about this, at any rate?”

“No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was convinced
that the business is supernatural.”

“What business?” asked Sir Henry sharply. “It seems to me that all you
gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs.”

“You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir Henry. I
promise you that,” said Sherlock Holmes. “We will confine ourselves
for the present with your permission to this very interesting document,
which must have been put together and posted yesterday evening. Have you
yesterday’s Times, Watson?”

“It is here in the corner.”

“Might I trouble you for it--the inside page, please, with the leading
articles?” He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes up and down the
columns. “Capital article this on free trade. Permit me to give you an
extract from it.

     ‘You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special
     trade or your own industry will be encouraged by a
     protective tariff, but it stands to reason that such
     legislation must in the long run keep away wealth from the
     country, diminish the value of our imports, and lower the
     general conditions of life in this island.’

“What do you think of that, Watson?” cried Holmes in high glee, rubbing
his hands together with satisfaction. “Don’t you think that is an
admirable sentiment?”

Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional interest, and
Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me.

“I don’t know much about the tariff and things of that kind,” said he,
“but it seems to me we’ve got a bit off the trail so far as that note is
concerned.”

“On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail, Sir
Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do, but I fear
that even he has not quite grasped the significance of this sentence.”

“No, I confess that I see no connection.”

“And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection that
the one is extracted out of the other. ‘You,’ ‘your,’ ‘your,’ ‘life,’
‘reason,’ ‘value,’ ‘keep away,’ ‘from the.’ Don’t you see now whence
these words have been taken?”

“By thunder, you’re right! Well, if that isn’t smart!” cried Sir Henry.

“If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that ‘keep
away’ and ‘from the’ are cut out in one piece.”

“Well, now--so it is!”

“Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have imagined,”
 said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement. “I could understand
anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper; but that you should
name which, and add that it came from the leading article, is really one
of the most remarkable things which I have ever known. How did you do
it?”

“I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from that
of an Esquimau?”

“Most certainly.”

“But how?”

“Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious. The
supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve, the--”

“But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally obvious.
There is as much difference to my eyes between the leaded bourgeois type
of a Times article and the slovenly print of an evening half-penny paper
as there could be between your negro and your Esquimau. The detection of
types is one of the most elementary branches of knowledge to the special
expert in crime, though I confess that once when I was very young I
confused the Leeds Mercury with the Western Morning News. But a Times
leader is entirely distinctive, and these words could have been taken
from nothing else. As it was done yesterday the strong probability was
that we should find the words in yesterday’s issue.”

“So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes,” said Sir Henry
Baskerville, “someone cut out this message with a scissors--”

“Nail-scissors,” said Holmes. “You can see that it was a very
short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips over ‘keep
away.’”

“That is so. Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of
short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste--”

“Gum,” said Holmes.

“With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word ‘moor’ should
have been written?”

“Because he could not find it in print. The other words were all simple
and might be found in any issue, but ‘moor’ would be less common.”

“Why, of course, that would explain it. Have you read anything else in
this message, Mr. Holmes?”

“There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains have been
taken to remove all clues. The address, you observe is printed in rough
characters. But the Times is a paper which is seldom found in any hands
but those of the highly educated. We may take it, therefore, that
the letter was composed by an educated man who wished to pose as an
uneducated one, and his effort to conceal his own writing suggests that
that writing might be known, or come to be known, by you. Again, you
will observe that the words are not gummed on in an accurate line, but
that some are much higher than others. ‘Life,’ for example is quite out
of its proper place. That may point to carelessness or it may point to
agitation and hurry upon the part of the cutter. On the whole I incline
to the latter view, since the matter was evidently important, and it
is unlikely that the composer of such a letter would be careless. If he
were in a hurry it opens up the interesting question why he should be
in a hurry, since any letter posted up to early morning would reach
Sir Henry before he would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an
interruption--and from whom?”

“We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork,” said Dr.
Mortimer.

“Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and choose
the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination, but we
have always some material basis on which to start our speculation. Now,
you would call it a guess, no doubt, but I am almost certain that this
address has been written in a hotel.”

“How in the world can you say that?”

“If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the ink
have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single
word and has run dry three times in a short address, showing that there
was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is
seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the combination of the two
must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where
it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation
in saying that could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels
around Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated Times
leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent this
singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What’s this?”

He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were
pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes.

“Well?”

“Nothing,” said he, throwing it down. “It is a blank half-sheet of
paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as much
as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything
else of interest happened to you since you have been in London?”

“Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not.”

“You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?”

“I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel,” said our
visitor. “Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?”

“We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before we
go into this matter?”

“Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting.”

“I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth
reporting.”

Sir Henry smiled. “I don’t know much of British life yet, for I have
spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to
lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over
here.”

“You have lost one of your boots?”

“My dear sir,” cried Dr. Mortimer, “it is only mislaid. You will find
it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes
with trifles of this kind?”

“Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes, “however foolish the incident may seem. You have
lost one of your boots, you say?”

“Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last night,
and there was only one in the morning. I could get no sense out of the
chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only bought the pair
last night in the Strand, and I have never had them on.”

“If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be cleaned?”

“They were tan boots and had never been varnished. That was why I put
them out.”

“Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday you went out
at once and bought a pair of boots?”

“I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer here went round with me.
You see, if I am to be squire down there I must dress the part, and
it may be that I have got a little careless in my ways out West. Among
other things I bought these brown boots--gave six dollars for them--and
had one stolen before ever I had them on my feet.”

“It seems a singularly useless thing to steal,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“I confess that I share Dr. Mortimer’s belief that it will not be long
before the missing boot is found.”

“And, now, gentlemen,” said the baronet with decision, “it seems to me
that I have spoken quite enough about the little that I know. It is time
that you kept your promise and gave me a full account of what we are all
driving at.”

“Your request is a very reasonable one,” Holmes answered. “Dr. Mortimer,
I think you could not do better than to tell your story as you told it
to us.”

Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from his pocket
and presented the whole case as he had done upon the morning before.
Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest attention and with an
occasional exclamation of surprise.

“Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance,” said
he when the long narrative was finished. “Of course, I’ve heard of the
hound ever since I was in the nursery. It’s the pet story of the family,
though I never thought of taking it seriously before. But as to my
uncle’s death--well, it all seems boiling up in my head, and I can’t
get it clear yet. You don’t seem quite to have made up your mind whether
it’s a case for a policeman or a clergyman.”

“Precisely.”

“And now there’s this affair of the letter to me at the hotel. I suppose
that fits into its place.”

“It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about what goes on
upon the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer.

“And also,” said Holmes, “that someone is not ill-disposed towards you,
since they warn you of danger.”

“Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes, to scare me away.”

“Well, of course, that is possible also. I am very much indebted to you,
Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which presents several
interesting alternatives. But the practical point which we now have to
decide, Sir Henry, is whether it is or is not advisable for you to go to
Baskerville Hall.”

“Why should I not go?”

“There seems to be danger.”

“Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean danger from
human beings?”

“Well, that is what we have to find out.”

“Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is no devil in hell, Mr.
Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me from going to
the home of my own people, and you may take that to be my final answer.”
 His dark brows knitted and his face flushed to a dusky red as he spoke.
It was evident that the fiery temper of the Baskervilles was not extinct
in this their last representative. “Meanwhile,” said he, “I have hardly
had time to think over all that you have told me. It’s a big thing for a
man to have to understand and to decide at one sitting. I should like
to have a quiet hour by myself to make up my mind. Now, look here, Mr.
Holmes, it’s half-past eleven now and I am going back right away to my
hotel. Suppose you and your friend, Dr. Watson, come round and lunch
with us at two. I’ll be able to tell you more clearly then how this
thing strikes me.”

“Is that convenient to you, Watson?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab called?”

“I’d prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather.”

“I’ll join you in a walk, with pleasure,” said his companion.

“Then we meet again at two o’clock. Au revoir, and good-morning!”

We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the bang of the
front door. In an instant Holmes had changed from the languid dreamer to
the man of action.

“Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!” He rushed
into his room in his dressing-gown and was back again in a few seconds
in a frock-coat. We hurried together down the stairs and into the
street. Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were still visible about two
hundred yards ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street.

“Shall I run on and stop them?”

“Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with your
company if you will tolerate mine. Our friends are wise, for it is
certainly a very fine morning for a walk.”

He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance which divided
us by about half. Then, still keeping a hundred yards behind, we
followed into Oxford Street and so down Regent Street. Once our friends
stopped and stared into a shop window, upon which Holmes did the
same. An instant afterwards he gave a little cry of satisfaction, and,
following the direction of his eager eyes, I saw that a hansom cab with
a man inside which had halted on the other side of the street was now
proceeding slowly onward again.


“There’s our man, Watson! Come along! We’ll have a good look at him, if
we can do no more.”

At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of
piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window of the cab.
Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was screamed to
the driver, and the cab flew madly off down Regent Street. Holmes looked
eagerly round for another, but no empty one was in sight. Then he dashed
in wild pursuit amid the stream of the traffic, but the start was too
great, and already the cab was out of sight.

“There now!” said Holmes bitterly as he emerged panting and white with
vexation from the tide of vehicles. “Was ever such bad luck and such
bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an honest man you will
record this also and set it against my successes!”

“Who was the man?”

“I have not an idea.”

“A spy?”

“Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville has been
very closely shadowed by someone since he has been in town. How else
could it be known so quickly that it was the Northumberland Hotel which
he had chosen? If they had followed him the first day I argued that they
would follow him also the second. You may have observed that I twice
strolled over to the window while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw none. We
are dealing with a clever man, Watson. This matter cuts very deep, and
though I have not finally made up my mind whether it is a benevolent or
a malevolent agency which is in touch with us, I am conscious always of
power and design. When our friends left I at once followed them in the
hopes of marking down their invisible attendant. So wily was he that he
had not trusted himself upon foot, but he had availed himself of a cab
so that he could loiter behind or dash past them and so escape their
notice. His method had the additional advantage that if they were to
take a cab he was all ready to follow them. It has, however, one obvious
disadvantage.”

“It puts him in the power of the cabman.”

“Exactly.”

“What a pity we did not get the number!”

“My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not seriously
imagine that I neglected to get the number? No. 2704 is our man. But
that is no use to us for the moment.”

“I fail to see how you could have done more.”

“On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and walked in the
other direction. I should then at my leisure have hired a second cab
and followed the first at a respectful distance, or, better still, have
driven to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there. When our unknown
had followed Baskerville home we should have had the opportunity of
playing his own game upon himself and seeing where he made for. As
it is, by an indiscreet eagerness, which was taken advantage of with
extraordinary quickness and energy by our opponent, we have betrayed
ourselves and lost our man.”

We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this
conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long vanished in
front of us.

“There is no object in our following them,” said Holmes. “The shadow has
departed and will not return. We must see what further cards we have
in our hands and play them with decision. Could you swear to that man’s
face within the cab?”

“I could swear only to the beard.”

“And so could I--from which I gather that in all probability it was
a false one. A clever man upon so delicate an errand has no use for a
beard save to conceal his features. Come in here, Watson!”

He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where he was
warmly greeted by the manager.

“Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in which I had
the good fortune to help you?”

“No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my good name, and perhaps my
life.”

“My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some recollection, Wilson, that
you had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, who showed some ability
during the investigation.”

“Yes, sir, he is still with us.”

“Could you ring him up?--thank you! And I should be glad to have change
of this five-pound note.”

A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the summons
of the manager. He stood now gazing with great reverence at the famous
detective.

“Let me have the Hotel Directory,” said Holmes. “Thank you! Now,
Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all in the
immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do you see?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will visit each of these in turn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one shilling.
Here are twenty-three shillings.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will tell him that you want to see the waste-paper of yesterday.
You will say that an important telegram has miscarried and that you are
looking for it. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the Times
with some holes cut in it with scissors. Here is a copy of the Times. It
is this page. You could easily recognize it, could you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In each case the outside porter will send for the hall porter, to whom
also you will give a shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings. You will
then learn in possibly twenty cases out of the twenty-three that the
waste of the day before has been burned or removed. In the three other
cases you will be shown a heap of paper and you will look for this page
of the Times among it. The odds are enormously against your finding
it. There are ten shillings over in case of emergencies. Let me have a
report by wire at Baker Street before evening. And now, Watson, it only
remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the cabman, No. 2704,
and then we will drop into one of the Bond Street picture galleries and
fill in the time until we are due at the hotel.”




Chapter 5. Three Broken Threads



Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of detaching
his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in which we had
been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was entirely absorbed in
the pictures of the modern Belgian masters. He would talk of nothing
but art, of which he had the crudest ideas, from our leaving the gallery
until we found ourselves at the Northumberland Hotel.

“Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you,” said the clerk. “He
asked me to show you up at once when you came.”

“Have you any objection to my looking at your register?” said Holmes.

“Not in the least.”

The book showed that two names had been added after that of Baskerville.
One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle; the other Mrs.
Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.

“Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know,” said Holmes
to the porter. “A lawyer, is he not, gray-headed, and walks with a
limp?”

“No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active gentleman,
not older than yourself.”

“Surely you are mistaken about his trade?”

“No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very well
known to us.”

“Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the name.
Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend one finds
another.”

“She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of Gloucester.
She always comes to us when she is in town.”

“Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have
established a most important fact by these questions, Watson,” he
continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. “We know now that
the people who are so interested in our friend have not settled down
in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as we have seen, very
anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious that he should not see
them. Now, this is a most suggestive fact.”

“What does it suggest?”

“It suggests--halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the matter?”

As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir Henry
Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and he held an old
and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was he that he was hardly
articulate, and when he did speak it was in a much broader and more
Western dialect than any which we had heard from him in the morning.

“Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel,” he cried.
“They’ll find they’ve started in to monkey with the wrong man unless
they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can’t find my missing boot
there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the best, Mr. Holmes, but
they’ve got a bit over the mark this time.”

“Still looking for your boot?”

“Yes, sir, and mean to find it.”

“But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?”

“So it was, sir. And now it’s an old black one.”

“What! you don’t mean to say--?”

“That’s just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the
world--the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers, which I am
wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones, and today they have
sneaked one of the black. Well, have you got it? Speak out, man, and
don’t stand staring!”

An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.

“No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear no word
of it.”

“Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I’ll see the
manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel.”

“It shall be found, sir--I promise you that if you will have a little
patience it will be found.”

“Mind it is, for it’s the last thing of mine that I’ll lose in this den
of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you’ll excuse my troubling you about
such a trifle--”

“I think it’s well worth troubling about.”

“Why, you look very serious over it.”

“How do you explain it?”

“I just don’t attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest, queerest
thing that ever happened to me.”

“The queerest perhaps--” said Holmes thoughtfully.

“What do you make of it yourself?”

“Well, I don’t profess to understand it yet. This case of yours is very
complex, Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your uncle’s death
I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of capital importance
which I have handled there is one which cuts so deep. But we hold
several threads in our hands, and the odds are that one or other of them
guides us to the truth. We may waste time in following the wrong one,
but sooner or later we must come upon the right.”

We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the business
which had brought us together. It was in the private sitting-room to
which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked Baskerville what were his
intentions.

“To go to Baskerville Hall.”

“And when?”

“At the end of the week.”

“On the whole,” said Holmes, “I think that your decision is a wise one.
I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in London, and amid the
millions of this great city it is difficult to discover who these people
are or what their object can be. If their intentions are evil they might
do you a mischief, and we should be powerless to prevent it. You did not
know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my house?”

Dr. Mortimer started violently. “Followed! By whom?”

“That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among your
neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black, full
beard?”

“No--or, let me see--why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles’s butler, is a man
with a full, black beard.”

“Ha! Where is Barrymore?”

“He is in charge of the Hall.”

“We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any possibility
he might be in London.”

“How can you do that?”

“Give me a telegraph form. ‘Is all ready for Sir Henry?’ That will
do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest
telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a second wire to the
postmaster, Grimpen: ‘Telegram to Mr. Barrymore to be delivered into
his own hand. If absent, please return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville,
Northumberland Hotel.’ That should let us know before evening whether
Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not.”

“That’s so,” said Baskerville. “By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this
Barrymore, anyhow?”

“He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have looked after
the Hall for four generations now. So far as I know, he and his wife are
as respectable a couple as any in the county.”

“At the same time,” said Baskerville, “it’s clear enough that so long as
there are none of the family at the Hall these people have a mighty fine
home and nothing to do.”

“That is true.”

“Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles’s will?” asked Holmes.

“He and his wife had five hundred pounds each.”

“Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?”

“Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions of his
will.”

“That is very interesting.”

“I hope,” said Dr. Mortimer, “that you do not look with suspicious eyes
upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also had a
thousand pounds left to me.”

“Indeed! And anyone else?”

“There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large number
of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry.”

“And how much was the residue?”

“Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I had no idea that so gigantic
a sum was involved,” said he.

“Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know how
very rich he was until we came to examine his securities. The total
value of the estate was close on to a million.”

“Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a desperate
game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything
happened to our young friend here--you will forgive the unpleasant
hypothesis!--who would inherit the estate?”

“Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles’s younger brother died unmarried,
the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James
Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland.”

“Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met Mr.
James Desmond?”

“Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of venerable
appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he refused to accept any
settlement from Sir Charles, though he pressed it upon him.”

“And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles’s
thousands.”

“He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He would
also be the heir to the money unless it were willed otherwise by the
present owner, who can, of course, do what he likes with it.”

“And have you made your will, Sir Henry?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I’ve had no time, for it was only yesterday
that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I feel that the money
should go with the title and estate. That was my poor uncle’s idea. How
is the owner going to restore the glories of the Baskervilles if he has
not money enough to keep up the property? House, land, and dollars must
go together.”

“Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the
advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay. There is
only one provision which I must make. You certainly must not go alone.”

“Dr. Mortimer returns with me.”

“But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is miles
away from yours. With all the goodwill in the world he may be unable to
help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you someone, a trusty man,
who will be always by your side.”

“Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

“If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in person;
but you can understand that, with my extensive consulting practice
and with the constant appeals which reach me from many quarters, it is
impossible for me to be absent from London for an indefinite time. At
the present instant one of the most revered names in England is being
besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I can stop a disastrous scandal.
You will see how impossible it is for me to go to Dartmoor.”

“Whom would you recommend, then?”

Holmes laid his hand upon my arm. “If my friend would undertake it there
is no man who is better worth having at your side when you are in a
tight place. No one can say so more confidently than I.”

The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had time to
answer, Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it heartily.

“Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson,” said he. “You see how
it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter as I do. If
you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me through I’ll never
forget it.”

The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I was
complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with which the
baronet hailed me as a companion.

“I will come, with pleasure,” said I. “I do not know how I could employ
my time better.”

“And you will report very carefully to me,” said Holmes. “When a crisis
comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I suppose that by
Saturday all might be ready?”

“Would that suit Dr. Watson?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet at the
ten-thirty train from Paddington.”

We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry, of triumph, and
diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown boot from
under a cabinet.

“My missing boot!” he cried.

“May all our difficulties vanish as easily!” said Sherlock Holmes.

“But it is a very singular thing,” Dr. Mortimer remarked. “I searched
this room carefully before lunch.”

“And so did I,” said Baskerville. “Every inch of it.”

“There was certainly no boot in it then.”

“In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were
lunching.”

The German was sent for but professed to know nothing of the matter,
nor could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been added to that
constant and apparently purposeless series of small mysteries which had
succeeded each other so rapidly. Setting aside the whole grim story of
Sir Charles’s death, we had a line of inexplicable incidents all within
the limits of two days, which included the receipt of the printed
letter, the black-bearded spy in the hansom, the loss of the new brown
boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new
brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker
Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that his mind,
like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some scheme into which
all these strange and apparently disconnected episodes could be fitted.
All afternoon and late into the evening he sat lost in tobacco and
thought.

Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran:

Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE.

The second:

Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry, to report unable to
trace cut sheet of Times. CARTWRIGHT.

“There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more stimulating
than a case where everything goes against you. We must cast round for
another scent.”

“We have still the cabman who drove the spy.”

“Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the Official
Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an answer to my
question.”

The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satisfactory
than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow
entered who was evidently the man himself.

“I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had
been inquiring for No. 2704,” said he. “I’ve driven my cab this seven
years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the Yard
to ask you to your face what you had against me.”

“I have nothing in the world against you, my good man,” said Holmes.
“On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me a
clear answer to my questions.”

“Well, I’ve had a good day and no mistake,” said the cabman with a grin.
“What was it you wanted to ask, sir?”

“First of all your name and address, in case I want you again.”

“John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of Shipley’s
Yard, near Waterloo Station.”

Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.

“Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched this
house at ten o’clock this morning and afterwards followed the two
gentlemen down Regent Street.”

The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. “Why, there’s no good
my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I do already,”
 said he. “The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a
detective and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone.”

“My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may find
yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from me.
You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?”

“Yes, he did.”

“When did he say this?”

“When he left me.”

“Did he say anything more?”

“He mentioned his name.”

Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. “Oh, he mentioned his name,
did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he mentioned?”

“His name,” said the cabman, “was Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the
cabman’s reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he burst
into a hearty laugh.

“A touch, Watson--an undeniable touch!” said he. “I feel a foil as quick
and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily that time. So
his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?”

“Yes, sir, that was the gentleman’s name.”

“Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that occurred.”

“He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that he was
a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do exactly what he
wanted all day and ask no questions. I was glad enough to agree. First
we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there until two
gentlemen came out and took a cab from the rank. We followed their cab
until it pulled up somewhere near here.”

“This very door,” said Holmes.

“Well, I couldn’t be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew all about
it. We pulled up halfway down the street and waited an hour and a half.
Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and we followed down Baker
Street and along--”

“I know,” said Holmes.

“Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street. Then my gentleman threw
up the trap, and he cried that I should drive right away to Waterloo
Station as hard as I could go. I whipped up the mare and we were there
under the ten minutes. Then he paid up his two guineas, like a good one,
and away he went into the station. Only just as he was leaving he turned
round and he said: ‘It might interest you to know that you have been
driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.’ That’s how I come to know the name.”

“I see. And you saw no more of him?”

“Not after he went into the station.”

“And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

The cabman scratched his head. “Well, he wasn’t altogether such an easy
gentleman to describe. I’d put him at forty years of age, and he was
of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than you, sir. He was
dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard, cut square at the end,
and a pale face. I don’t know as I could say more than that.”

“Colour of his eyes?”

“No, I can’t say that.”

“Nothing more that you can remember?”

“No, sir; nothing.”

“Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There’s another one waiting
for you if you can bring any more information. Good-night!”

“Good-night, sir, and thank you!”

John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug of
his shoulders and a rueful smile.

“Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began,” said he. “The
cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had
consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street, conjectured that I had
got the number of the cab and would lay my hands on the driver, and so
sent back this audacious message. I tell you, Watson, this time we have
got a foeman who is worthy of our steel. I’ve been checkmated in London.
I can only wish you better luck in Devonshire. But I’m not easy in my
mind about it.”

“About what?”

“About sending you. It’s an ugly business, Watson, an ugly dangerous
business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear
fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very glad
to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more.”




Chapter 6. Baskerville Hall



Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the appointed
day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes
drove with me to the station and gave me his last parting injunctions
and advice.

“I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions,
Watson,” said he; “I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest
possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing.”

“What sort of facts?” I asked.

“Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon the
case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his
neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the death of Sir Charles.
I have made some inquiries myself in the last few days, but the results
have, I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to be certain, and
that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is the next heir, is an elderly
gentleman of a very amiable disposition, so that this persecution does
not arise from him. I really think that we may eliminate him entirely
from our calculations. There remain the people who will actually
surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor.”

“Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this Barrymore
couple?”

“By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are innocent
it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we should be
giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No, no, we will
preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there is a groom at the
Hall, if I remember right. There are two moorland farmers. There is our
friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely honest, and there is
his wife, of whom we know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton,
and there is his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions.
There is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor,
and there are one or two other neighbours. These are the folk who must
be your very special study.”

“I will do my best.”

“You have arms, I suppose?”

“Yes, I thought it as well to take them.”

“Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and never
relax your precautions.”

Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were waiting
for us upon the platform.

“No, we have no news of any kind,” said Dr. Mortimer in answer to my
friend’s questions. “I can swear to one thing, and that is that we
have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have never gone
out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could have escaped our
notice.”

“You have always kept together, I presume?”

“Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure amusement
when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the College of
Surgeons.”

“And I went to look at the folk in the park,” said Baskerville.

“But we had no trouble of any kind.”

“It was imprudent, all the same,” said Holmes, shaking his head and
looking very grave. “I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about alone.
Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you get your other
boot?”

“No, sir, it is gone forever.”

“Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye,” he added as the
train began to glide down the platform. “Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one of
the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us,
and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil
are exalted.”

I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind and saw the
tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and gazing after us.

The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in making the
more intimate acquaintance of my two companions and in playing with
Dr. Mortimer’s spaniel. In a very few hours the brown earth had
become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite, and red cows grazed in
well-hedged fields where the lush grasses and more luxuriant vegetation
spoke of a richer, if a damper, climate. Young Baskerville stared
eagerly out of the window and cried aloud with delight as he recognized
the familiar features of the Devon scenery.

“I’ve been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr. Watson,”
 said he; “but I have never seen a place to compare with it.”

“I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county,” I
remarked.

“It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county,” said
Dr. Mortimer. “A glance at our friend here reveals the rounded head of
the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic enthusiasm and power
of attachment. Poor Sir Charles’s head was of a very rare type, half
Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics. But you were very young
when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?”

“I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father’s death and had never
seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South Coast.
Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I tell you it is all as
new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I’m as keen as possible to see the
moor.”

“Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first
sight of the moor,” said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage
window.

Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there
rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged
summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in
a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I
read upon his eager face how much it meant to him, this first sight of
that strange spot where the men of his blood had held sway so long
and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his
American accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as
I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how
true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery,
and masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick
brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If on that
forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should lie before us,
this was at least a comrade for whom one might venture to take a risk
with the certainty that he would bravely share it.

The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all descended.
Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs
was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for station-master
and porters clustered round us to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet,
simple country spot, but I was surprised to observe that by the gate
there stood two soldierly men in dark uniforms who leaned upon their
short rifles and glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a
hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in
a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling
pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses
peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful
and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark against the evening sky,
the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister
hills.

The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward through
deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy
with dripping moss and fleshy hart’s-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and
mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily
rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy
stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the gray
boulders. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with
scrub oak and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation of
delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless questions. To
his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon
the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year.
Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we
passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of
rotting vegetation--sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw
before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.

“Halloa!” cried Dr. Mortimer, “what is this?”

A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay in
front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian statue
upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his rifle
poised ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along which we
travelled.

“What is this, Perkins?” asked Dr. Mortimer.

Our driver half turned in his seat. “There’s a convict escaped from
Princetown, sir. He’s been out three days now, and the warders watch
every road and every station, but they’ve had no sight of him yet. The
farmers about here don’t like it, sir, and that’s a fact.”

“Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give
information.”

“Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared
to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn’t like any
ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing.”

“Who is he, then?”

“It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer.”

I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an
interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the
wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin. The
commutation of his death sentence had been due to some doubts as to his
complete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette had topped
a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled
with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind swept down from
it and set us shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was
lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his
heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out.
It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness of the barren
waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky. Even Baskerville fell
silent and pulled his overcoat more closely around him.

We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked back on
it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams to threads of
gold and glowing on the red earth new turned by the plough and the broad
tangle of the woodlands. The road in front of us grew bleaker and wilder
over huge russet and olive slopes, sprinkled with giant boulders. Now
and then we passed a moorland cottage, walled and roofed with stone,
with no creeper to break its harsh outline. Suddenly we looked down into
a cuplike depression, patched with stunted oaks and firs which had been
twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm. Two high, narrow towers
rose over the trees. The driver pointed with his whip.

“Baskerville Hall,” said he.

Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and shining
eyes. A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates, a maze of
fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten pillars on either
side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by the boars’ heads of the
Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of black granite and bared ribs of
rafters, but facing it was a new building, half constructed, the first
fruit of Sir Charles’s South African gold.

Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels were
again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches in a
sombre tunnel over our heads. Baskerville shuddered as he looked up
the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered like a ghost at the
farther end.

“Was it here?” he asked in a low voice.

“No, no, the yew alley is on the other side.”

The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.

“It’s no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in such a
place as this,” said he. “It’s enough to scare any man. I’ll have a row
of electric lamps up here inside of six months, and you won’t know it
again, with a thousand candle-power Swan and Edison right here in front
of the hall door.”

The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay before
us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a heavy block
of building from which a porch projected. The whole front was draped in
ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat
of arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the
twin towers, ancient, crenelated, and pierced with many loopholes. To
right and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite.
A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high
chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a
single black column of smoke.

“Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!”

A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the door of
the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted against the yellow
light of the hall. She came out and helped the man to hand down our
bags.

“You don’t mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?” said Dr. Mortimer.
“My wife is expecting me.”

“Surely you will stay and have some dinner?”

“No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I would
stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide
than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to send for me if I
can be of service.”

The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned
into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine
apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily
raftered with huge baulks of age-blackened oak. In the great
old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled
and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we were numb
from our long drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin window
of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the stags’ heads, the coats
of arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued light of the
central lamp.

“It’s just as I imagined it,” said Sir Henry. “Is it not the very
picture of an old family home? To think that this should be the same
hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived. It strikes me
solemn to think of it.”

I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about
him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed
down the walls and hung like a black canopy above him. Barrymore had
returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of
us now with the subdued manner of a well-trained servant. He was a
remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard and
pale, distinguished features.

“Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?”

“Is it ready?”

“In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your rooms. My
wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you until you have
made your fresh arrangements, but you will understand that under the new
conditions this house will require a considerable staff.”

“What new conditions?”

“I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life, and we
were able to look after his wants. You would, naturally, wish to have
more company, and so you will need changes in your household.”

“Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?”

“Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir.”

“But your family have been with us for several generations, have they
not? I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old family
connection.”

I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler’s white face.

“I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth, sir,
we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and his death gave us
a shock and made these surroundings very painful to us. I fear that we
shall never again be easy in our minds at Baskerville Hall.”

“But what do you intend to do?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing ourselves
in some business. Sir Charles’s generosity has given us the means to do
so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to your rooms.”

A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall,
approached by a double stair. From this central point two long corridors
extended the whole length of the building, from which all the bedrooms
opened. My own was in the same wing as Baskerville’s and almost next
door to it. These rooms appeared to be much more modern than the
central part of the house, and the bright paper and numerous candles
did something to remove the sombre impression which our arrival had left
upon my mind.

But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of shadow
and gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating the dais where
the family sat from the lower portion reserved for their dependents.
At one end a minstrel’s gallery overlooked it. Black beams shot across
above our heads, with a smoke-darkened ceiling beyond them. With rows of
flaring torches to light it up, and the colour and rude hilarity of
an old-time banquet, it might have softened; but now, when two
black-clothed gentlemen sat in the little circle of light thrown by a
shaded lamp, one’s voice became hushed and one’s spirit subdued. A
dim line of ancestors, in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan
knight to the buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and daunted us by
their silent company. We talked little, and I for one was glad when the
meal was over and we were able to retire into the modern billiard-room
and smoke a cigarette.

“My word, it isn’t a very cheerful place,” said Sir Henry. “I suppose
one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the picture at present.
I don’t wonder that my uncle got a little jumpy if he lived all alone
in such a house as this. However, if it suits you, we will retire early
tonight, and perhaps things may seem more cheerful in the morning.”

I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from my
window. It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of the hall
door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a rising wind. A
half moon broke through the rifts of racing clouds. In its cold light I
saw beyond the trees a broken fringe of rocks, and the long, low curve
of the melancholy moor. I closed the curtain, feeling that my last
impression was in keeping with the rest.

And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet wakeful,
tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the sleep which would
not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out the quarters of the
hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay upon the old house. And then
suddenly, in the very dead of the night, there came a sound to my
ears, clear, resonant, and unmistakable. It was the sob of a woman, the
muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow.
I sat up in bed and listened intently. The noise could not have been
far away and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with
every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save the chiming
clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall.




Chapter 7. The Stapletons of Merripit House



The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface from
our minds the grim and gray impression which had been left upon both of
us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry and I sat
at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through the high mullioned windows,
throwing watery patches of colour from the coats of arms which covered
them. The dark panelling glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it
was hard to realize that this was indeed the chamber which had struck
such a gloom into our souls upon the evening before.

“I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!” said
the baronet. “We were tired with our journey and chilled by our drive,
so we took a gray view of the place. Now we are fresh and well, so it is
all cheerful once more.”

“And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination,” I answered.
“Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman I think, sobbing
in the night?”

“That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I heard
something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was no more of
it, so I concluded that it was all a dream.”

“I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob of a
woman.”

“We must ask about this right away.” He rang the bell and asked
Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed to me
that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler still as he
listened to his master’s question.

“There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry,” he answered. “One is
the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my wife,
and I can answer for it that the sound could not have come from her.”

And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I met
Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her face. She
was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a stern set expression
of mouth. But her telltale eyes were red and glanced at me from between
swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept in the night, and if she did so
her husband must know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery
in declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did she
weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded
man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he
who had been the first to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had
only his word for all the circumstances which led up to the old man’s
death. Was it possible that it was Barrymore, after all, whom we had
seen in the cab in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the
same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an
impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I settle the
point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen
postmaster and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in
Barrymore’s own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least
have something to report to Sherlock Holmes.

Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the
time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four
miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small gray
hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and
the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmaster,
who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the
telegram.

“Certainly, sir,” said he, “I had the telegram delivered to Mr.
Barrymore exactly as directed.”

“Who delivered it?”

“My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at the
Hall last week, did you not?”

“Yes, father, I delivered it.”

“Into his own hands?” I asked.

“Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it
into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore’s hands, and she
promised to deliver it at once.”

“Did you see Mr. Barrymore?”

“No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft.”

“If you didn’t see him, how do you know he was in the loft?”

“Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is,” said the
postmaster testily. “Didn’t he get the telegram? If there is any mistake
it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain.”

It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was clear
that in spite of Holmes’s ruse we had no proof that Barrymore had not
been in London all the time. Suppose that it were so--suppose that the
same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive, and the first
to dog the new heir when he returned to England. What then? Was he the
agent of others or had he some sinister design of his own? What interest
could he have in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the
strange warning clipped out of the leading article of the Times. Was
that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was bent upon
counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive was that which
had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family could be scared away
a comfortable and permanent home would be secured for the Barrymores.
But surely such an explanation as that would be quite inadequate to
account for the deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an
invisible net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that
no more complex case had come to him in all the long series of his
sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray,
lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations
and able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from
my shoulders.

Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet
behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting to
see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was pursuing
me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man, flaxen-haired
and leanjawed, between thirty and forty years of age, dressed in a gray
suit and wearing a straw hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung
over his shoulder and he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his
hands.

“You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson,” said he as he
came panting up to where I stood. “Here on the moor we are homely folk
and do not wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have heard
my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of Merripit
House.”

“Your net and box would have told me as much,” said I, “for I knew that
Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?”

“I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from
the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way I
thought that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust that Sir
Henry is none the worse for his journey?”

“He is very well, thank you.”

“We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles the
new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking much of a wealthy
man to come down and bury himself in a place of this kind, but I need
not tell you that it means a very great deal to the countryside. Sir
Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears in the matter?”

“I do not think that it is likely.”

“Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the
family?”

“I have heard it.”

“It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here! Any
number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature
upon the moor.” He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read in his eyes
that he took the matter more seriously. “The story took a great hold
upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it led to
his tragic end.”

“But how?”

“His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might have
had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he really
did see something of the kind upon that last night in the yew alley. I
feared that some disaster might occur, for I was very fond of the old
man, and I knew that his heart was weak.”

“How did you know that?”

“My friend Mortimer told me.”

“You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he died of
fright in consequence?”

“Have you any better explanation?”

“I have not come to any conclusion.”

“Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

The words took away my breath for an instant but a glance at the placid
face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no surprise was
intended.

“It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr. Watson,”
 said he. “The records of your detective have reached us here, and you
could not celebrate him without being known yourself. When Mortimer told
me your name he could not deny your identity. If you are here, then it
follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting himself in the matter,
and I am naturally curious to know what view he may take.”

“I am afraid that I cannot answer that question.”

“May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?”

“He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage his
attention.”

“What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark to us.
But as to your own researches, if there is any possible way in which I
can be of service to you I trust that you will command me. If I had
any indication of the nature of your suspicions or how you propose to
investigate the case, I might perhaps even now give you some aid or
advice.”

“I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend, Sir
Henry, and that I need no help of any kind.”

“Excellent!” said Stapleton. “You are perfectly right to be wary and
discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable
intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention the matter again.”

We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the
road and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill lay
upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite quarry.
The face which was turned towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and
brambles growing in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a
gray plume of smoke.

“A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House,”
 said he. “Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure of
introducing you to my sister.”

My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry’s side. But then I
remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his study table was
littered. It was certain that I could not help with those. And Holmes
had expressly said that I should study the neighbours upon the moor. I
accepted Stapleton’s invitation, and we turned together down the path.

“It is a wonderful place, the moor,” said he, looking round over the
undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged granite
foaming up into fantastic surges. “You never tire of the moor. You
cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and
so barren, and so mysterious.”

“You know it well, then?”

“I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a
newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes led
me to explore every part of the country round, and I should think that
there are few men who know it better than I do.”

“Is it hard to know?”

“Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north here
with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe anything
remarkable about that?”

“It would be a rare place for a gallop.”

“You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several their
lives before now. You notice those bright green spots scattered thickly
over it?”

“Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest.”

Stapleton laughed. “That is the great Grimpen Mire,” said he. “A false
step yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the
moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite
a long time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last.
Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these autumn
rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart
of it and return alive. By George, there is another of those miserable
ponies!”

Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges. Then a
long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry echoed
over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my companion’s nerves
seemed to be stronger than mine.

“It’s gone!” said he. “The mire has him. Two in two days, and many more,
perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the dry weather and
never know the difference until the mire has them in its clutches. It’s
a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire.”

“And you say you can penetrate it?”

“Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can take. I
have found them out.”

“But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?”

“Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off on all
sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them in the course
of years. That is where the rare plants and the butterflies are, if you
have the wit to reach them.”

“I shall try my luck some day.”

He looked at me with a surprised face. “For God’s sake put such an idea
out of your mind,” said he. “Your blood would be upon my head. I assure
you that there would not be the least chance of your coming back alive.
It is only by remembering certain complex landmarks that I am able to do
it.”

“Halloa!” I cried. “What is that?”

A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled the
whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From a
dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a
melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with a
curious expression in his face.

“Queer place, the moor!” said he.

“But what is it?”

“The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its
prey. I’ve heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud.”

I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge swelling
plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing stirred over
the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked loudly from a tor
behind us.

“You are an educated man. You don’t believe such nonsense as that?” said
I. “What do you think is the cause of so strange a sound?”

“Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It’s the mud settling, or the water
rising, or something.”

“No, no, that was a living voice.”

“Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?”

“No, I never did.”

“It’s a very rare bird--practically extinct--in England now, but all
things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to
learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last of the bitterns.”

“It’s the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life.”

“Yes, it’s rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hillside
yonder. What do you make of those?”

The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of stone, a
score of them at least.

“What are they? Sheep-pens?”

“No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man lived
thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived there since,
we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left them. These are
his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even see his hearth and his
couch if you have the curiosity to go inside.

“But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?”

“Neolithic man--no date.”

“What did he do?”

“He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for tin
when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the
great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will find
some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me an
instant! It is surely Cyclopides.”

A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant
Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit of
it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the great mire, and my
acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft
behind it, his green net waving in the air. His gray clothes and jerky,
zigzag, irregular progress made him not unlike some huge moth himself.
I was standing watching his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his
extraordinary activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the
treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of steps and, turning round,
found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the direction in
which the plume of smoke indicated the position of Merripit House, but
the dip of the moor had hid her until she was quite close.

I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had
been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I
remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a beauty. The
woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a most uncommon type.
There could not have been a greater contrast between brother and sister,
for Stapleton was neutral tinted, with light hair and gray eyes, while
she was darker than any brunette whom I have seen in England--slim,
elegant, and tall. She had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it
might have seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the
beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant dress
she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely moorland path. Her
eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then she quickened her pace
towards me. I had raised my hat and was about to make some explanatory
remark when her own words turned all my thoughts into a new channel.

“Go back!” she said. “Go straight back to London, instantly.”

I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at me, and
she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.

“Why should I go back?” I asked.

“I cannot explain.” She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a curious lisp
in her utterance. “But for God’s sake do what I ask you. Go back and
never set foot upon the moor again.”

“But I have only just come.”

“Man, man!” she cried. “Can you not tell when a warning is for your own
good? Go back to London! Start tonight! Get away from this place at all
costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word of what I have said. Would
you mind getting that orchid for me among the mare’s-tails yonder? We
are very rich in orchids on the moor, though, of course, you are rather
late to see the beauties of the place.”

Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing hard and
flushed with his exertions.

“Halloa, Beryl!” said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of his
greeting was not altogether a cordial one.

“Well, Jack, you are very hot.”

“Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom found in
the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed him!” He spoke
unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced incessantly from the
girl to me.

“You have introduced yourselves, I can see.”

“Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to see the
true beauties of the moor.”

“Why, who do you think this is?”

“I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville.”

“No, no,” said I. “Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is
Dr. Watson.”

A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. “We have been
talking at cross purposes,” said she.

“Why, you had not very much time for talk,” her brother remarked with
the same questioning eyes.

“I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a
visitor,” said she. “It cannot much matter to him whether it is early
or late for the orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see
Merripit House?”

A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the farm
of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into repair and
turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the trees,
as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and nipped, and the effect of
the whole place was mean and melancholy. We were admitted by a strange,
wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed in keeping with
the house. Inside, however, there were large rooms furnished with an
elegance in which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I
looked from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor
rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel at what
could have brought this highly educated man and this beautiful woman to
live in such a place.

“Queer spot to choose, is it not?” said he as if in answer to my
thought. “And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we not,
Beryl?”

“Quite happy,” said she, but there was no ring of conviction in her
words.

“I had a school,” said Stapleton. “It was in the north country. The work
to a man of my temperament was mechanical and uninteresting, but the
privilege of living with youth, of helping to mould those young minds,
and of impressing them with one’s own character and ideals was very dear
to me. However, the fates were against us. A serious epidemic broke out
in the school and three of the boys died. It never recovered from the
blow, and much of my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet,
if it were not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys,
I could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes
for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here, and my
sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this, Dr. Watson, has been
brought upon your head by your expression as you surveyed the moor out
of our window.”

“It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dull--less for
you, perhaps, than for your sister.”

“No, no, I am never dull,” said she quickly.

“We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting neighbours.
Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line. Poor Sir Charles was
also an admirable companion. We knew him well and miss him more than
I can tell. Do you think that I should intrude if I were to call this
afternoon and make the acquaintance of Sir Henry?”

“I am sure that he would be delighted.”

“Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may in
our humble way do something to make things more easy for him until he
becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you come upstairs, Dr.
Watson, and inspect my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is the most
complete one in the south-west of England. By the time that you have
looked through them lunch will be almost ready.”

But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the moor,
the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been
associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all these things
tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of these more or less
vague impressions there had come the definite and distinct warning of
Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense earnestness that I could
not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay behind it. I resisted
all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once upon my return
journey, taking the grass-grown path by which we had come.

It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for those
who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was astounded to see
Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the track. Her face
was beautifully flushed with her exertions and she held her hand to her
side.

“I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson,” said she.
“I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother
may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the stupid
mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the
words I said, which have no application whatever to you.”

“But I can’t forget them, Miss Stapleton,” said I. “I am Sir Henry’s
friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why it
was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to London.”

“A woman’s whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will understand
that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do.”

“No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look in
your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for ever
since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows all round me.
Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with little green patches
everywhere into which one may sink and with no guide to point the track.
Tell me then what it was that you meant, and I will promise to convey
your warning to Sir Henry.”

An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face, but
her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.

“You make too much of it, Dr. Watson,” said she. “My brother and I
were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very
intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. He
was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the family, and when
this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must be some grounds
for the fears which he had expressed. I was distressed therefore when
another member of the family came down to live here, and I felt that he
should be warned of the danger which he will run. That was all which I
intended to convey.

“But what is the danger?”

“You know the story of the hound?”

“I do not believe in such nonsense.”

“But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him away from
a place which has always been fatal to his family. The world is wide.
Why should he wish to live at the place of danger?”

“Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir Henry’s nature. I fear
that unless you can give me some more definite information than this it
would be impossible to get him to move.”

“I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything definite.”

“I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant no
more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not wish your
brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to which he, or
anyone else, could object.”

“My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he thinks it
is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very angry
if he knew that I have said anything which might induce Sir Henry to
go away. But I have done my duty now and I will say no more. I must go
back, or he will miss me and suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!”
 She turned and had disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered
boulders, while I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued my way to
Baskerville Hall.




Chapter 8. First Report of Dr. Watson



From this point onward I will follow the course of events by
transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before me
on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly
as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the moment more
accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these tragic events, can
possibly do.


Baskerville Hall, October 13th. MY DEAR HOLMES: My previous letters
and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to date as to all that has
occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of the world. The longer one
stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into one’s soul,
its vastness, and also its grim charm. When you are once out upon its
bosom you have left all traces of modern England behind you, but, on the
other hand, you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of
the prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the houses
of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge monoliths which
are supposed to have marked their temples. As you look at their gray
stone huts against the scarred hillsides you leave your own age behind
you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the
low door fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you
would feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The
strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must
always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could
imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced
to accept that which none other would occupy.

All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and
will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind.
I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun
moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore,
return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville.

If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because
up to today there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very
surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due course.
But, first of all, I must keep you in touch with some of the other
factors in the situation.

One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped
convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that he
has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the lonely
householders of this district. A fortnight has passed since his flight,
during which he has not been seen and nothing has been heard of him. It
is surely inconceivable that he could have held out upon the moor during
all that time. Of course, so far as his concealment goes there is
no difficulty at all. Any one of these stone huts would give him a
hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat unless he were to catch and
slaughter one of the moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has gone,
and the outlying farmers sleep the better in consequence.

We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could take
good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy moments
when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help.
There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister, and the brother, the
latter not a very strong man. They would be helpless in the hands of a
desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal if he could once effect
an entrance. Both Sir Henry and I were concerned at their situation, and
it was suggested that Perkins the groom should go over to sleep there,
but Stapleton would not hear of it.

The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a
considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be wondered
at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an active man like
him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful woman. There is
something tropical and exotic about her which forms a singular contrast
to her cool and unemotional brother. Yet he also gives the idea of
hidden fires. He has certainly a very marked influence over her, for
I have seen her continually glance at him as she talked as if seeking
approbation for what she said. I trust that he is kind to her. There is
a dry glitter in his eyes and a firm set of his thin lips, which goes
with a positive and possibly a harsh nature. You would find him an
interesting study.

He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the very
next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the legend of the
wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It was an excursion of
some miles across the moor to a place which is so dismal that it might
have suggested the story. We found a short valley between rugged tors
which led to an open, grassy space flecked over with the white cotton
grass. In the middle of it rose two great stones, worn and sharpened at
the upper end until they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some
monstrous beast. In every way it corresponded with the scene of the old
tragedy. Sir Henry was much interested and asked Stapleton more
than once whether he did really believe in the possibility of the
interference of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He spoke
lightly, but it was evident that he was very much in earnest. Stapleton
was guarded in his replies, but it was easy to see that he said less
than he might, and that he would not express his whole opinion out of
consideration for the feelings of the baronet. He told us of similar
cases, where families had suffered from some evil influence, and he left
us with the impression that he shared the popular view upon the matter.

On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was there
that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From the first
moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted by her, and
I am much mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He referred to her
again and again on our walk home, and since then hardly a day has passed
that we have not seen something of the brother and sister. They dine
here tonight, and there is some talk of our going to them next week. One
would imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and
yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest disapprobation
in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some attention to his sister.
He is much attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a lonely life
without her, but it would seem the height of selfishness if he were to
stand in the way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain
that he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have
several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from
being tete-a-tete. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow
Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a love
affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My popularity would
soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders to the letter.

The other day--Thursday, to be more exact--Dr. Mortimer lunched with us.
He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got a prehistoric
skull which fills him with great joy. Never was there such a
single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in afterwards, and
the good doctor took us all to the yew alley at Sir Henry’s request to
show us exactly how everything occurred upon that fatal night. It is
a long, dismal walk, the yew alley, between two high walls of clipped
hedge, with a narrow band of grass upon either side. At the far end is
an old tumble-down summer-house. Halfway down is the moor-gate, where
the old gentleman left his cigar-ash. It is a white wooden gate with
a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I remembered your theory of the
affair and tried to picture all that had occurred. As the old man stood
there he saw something coming across the moor, something which terrified
him so that he lost his wits and ran and ran until he died of sheer
horror and exhaustion. There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which
he fled. And from what? A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound,
black, silent, and monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter?
Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was
all dim and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind
it.

One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr.
Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of us.
He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. His passion
is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in litigation.
He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting and is equally ready to take
up either side of a question, so that it is no wonder that he has found
it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will shut up a right of way and defy
the parish to make him open it. At others he will with his own hands
tear down some other man’s gate and declare that a path has existed
there from time immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him for
trespass. He is learned in old manorial and communal rights, and he
applies his knowledge sometimes in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy
and sometimes against them, so that he is periodically either carried in
triumph down the village street or else burned in effigy, according to
his latest exploit. He is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his
hands at present, which will probably swallow up the remainder of his
fortune and so draw his sting and leave him harmless for the future.
Apart from the law he seems a kindly, good-natured person, and I
only mention him because you were particular that I should send some
description of the people who surround us. He is curiously employed
at present, for, being an amateur astronomer, he has an excellent
telescope, with which he lies upon the roof of his own house and sweeps
the moor all day in the hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped
convict. If he would confine his energies to this all would be well, but
there are rumours that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening
a grave without the consent of the next of kin because he dug up the
Neolithic skull in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our lives
from being monotonous and gives a little comic relief where it is badly
needed.

And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict, the
Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end on
that which is most important and tell you more about the Barrymores, and
especially about the surprising development of last night.

First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London in
order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already
explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that the test was
worthless and that we have no proof one way or the other. I told Sir
Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in his downright fashion,
had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had received the telegram
himself. Barrymore said that he had.

“Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?” asked Sir Henry.

Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.

“No,” said he, “I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife brought
it up to me.”

“Did you answer it yourself?”

“No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it.”

In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.

“I could not quite understand the object of your questions this morning,
Sir Henry,” said he. “I trust that they do not mean that I have done
anything to forfeit your confidence?”

Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by giving
him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit having
now all arrived.

Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person, very
limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical. You
could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told you how,
on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and since then
I have more than once observed traces of tears upon her face. Some deep
sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty
memory which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect Barrymore of being a
domestic tyrant. I have always felt that there was something singular
and questionable in this man’s character, but the adventure of last
night brings all my suspicions to a head.

And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am
not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this house
my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two in the
morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I rose,
opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was trailing down
the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly down the passage
with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and trousers, with no
covering to his feet. I could merely see the outline, but his height
told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and circumspectly,
and there was something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole
appearance.

I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs
round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I waited
until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When I came
round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther corridor, and
I could see from the glimmer of light through an open door that he
had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and
unoccupied so that his expedition became more mysterious than ever. The
light shone steadily as if he were standing motionless. I crept down
the passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of the
door.

Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against the
glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face seemed to be
rigid with expectation as he stared out into the blackness of the moor.
For some minutes he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan
and with an impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my
way back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing
once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had fallen
into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could
not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I cannot guess, but
there is some secret business going on in this house of gloom which
sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of. I do not trouble you with
my theories, for you asked me to furnish you only with facts. I have
had a long talk with Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of
campaign founded upon my observations of last night. I will not speak
about it just now, but it should make my next report interesting
reading.




Chapter 9. The Light upon the Moor [Second Report of Dr. Watson]



Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th. MY DEAR HOLMES: If I was compelled to
leave you without much news during the early days of my mission you must
acknowledge that I am making up for lost time, and that events are now
crowding thick and fast upon us. In my last report I ended upon my top
note with Barrymore at the window, and now I have quite a budget already
which will, unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you. Things
have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated. In some ways they
have within the last forty-eight hours become much clearer and in some
ways they have become more complicated. But I will tell you all and you
shall judge for yourself.

Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went down the
corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had been on the night
before. The western window through which he had stared so intently has,
I noticed, one peculiarity above all other windows in the house--it
commands the nearest outlook on to the moor. There is an opening between
two trees which enables one from this point of view to look right down
upon it, while from all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse
which can be obtained. It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since
only this window would serve the purpose, must have been looking out for
something or somebody upon the moor. The night was very dark, so that I
can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to see anyone. It had struck
me that it was possible that some love intrigue was on foot. That would
have accounted for his stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness
of his wife. The man is a striking-looking fellow, very well equipped
to steal the heart of a country girl, so that this theory seemed to
have something to support it. That opening of the door which I had heard
after I had returned to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep
some clandestine appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the morning,
and I tell you the direction of my suspicions, however much the result
may have shown that they were unfounded.

But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore’s movements might be,
I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until I could
explain them was more than I could bear. I had an interview with the
baronet in his study after breakfast, and I told him all that I had
seen. He was less surprised than I had expected.

“I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to speak
to him about it,” said he. “Two or three times I have heard his steps in
the passage, coming and going, just about the hour you name.”

“Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular window,” I
suggested.

“Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him and see what
it is that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes would do if he
were here.”

“I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest,” said I. “He
would follow Barrymore and see what he did.”

“Then we shall do it together.”

“But surely he would hear us.”

“The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance of
that. We’ll sit up in my room tonight and wait until he passes.” Sir
Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was evident that he hailed
the adventure as a relief to his somewhat quiet life upon the moor.

The baronet has been in communication with the architect who prepared
the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from London, so that we
may expect great changes to begin here soon. There have been decorators
and furnishers up from Plymouth, and it is evident that our friend
has large ideas and means to spare no pains or expense to restore the
grandeur of his family. When the house is renovated and refurnished, all
that he will need will be a wife to make it complete. Between ourselves
there are pretty clear signs that this will not be wanting if the lady
is willing, for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a woman
than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton. And yet the
course of true love does not run quite as smoothly as one would under
the circumstances expect. Today, for example, its surface was broken
by a very unexpected ripple, which has caused our friend considerable
perplexity and annoyance.

After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir Henry
put on his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did the
same.

“What, are you coming, Watson?” he asked, looking at me in a curious
way.

“That depends on whether you are going on the moor,” said I.

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude, but
you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave you, and
especially that you should not go alone upon the moor.”

Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile.

“My dear fellow,” said he, “Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not foresee
some things which have happened since I have been on the moor. You
understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in the world who
would wish to be a spoil-sport. I must go out alone.”

It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say or
what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his cane and
was gone.

But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached me
bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight.
I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to you and to
confess that some misfortune had occurred through my disregard for your
instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very thought. It
might not even now be too late to overtake him, so I set off at once in
the direction of Merripit House.

I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing anything
of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor path branches
off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the wrong direction after
all, I mounted a hill from which I could command a view--the same hill
which is cut into the dark quarry. Thence I saw him at once. He was on
the moor path about a quarter of a mile off, and a lady was by his side
who could only be Miss Stapleton. It was clear that there was already
an understanding between them and that they had met by appointment. They
were walking slowly along in deep conversation, and I saw her making
quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest in what
she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or twice shook his
head in strong dissent. I stood among the rocks watching them, very much
puzzled as to what I should do next. To follow them and break into their
intimate conversation seemed to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was
never for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act the spy upon a
friend was a hateful task. Still, I could see no better course than to
observe him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to
him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any sudden danger had
threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and yet I am sure that
you will agree with me that the position was very difficult, and that
there was nothing more which I could do.

Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and were
standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was suddenly
aware that I was not the only witness of their interview. A wisp of
green floating in the air caught my eye, and another glance showed me
that it was carried on a stick by a man who was moving among the broken
ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was very much closer
to the pair than I was, and he appeared to be moving in their direction.
At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his side. His
arm was round her, but it seemed to me that she was straining away from
him with her face averted. He stooped his head to hers, and she raised
one hand as if in protest. Next moment I saw them spring apart and turn
hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was
running wildly towards them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He
gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers.
What the scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that
Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became
more angry as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in
haughty silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in
a peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir
Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist’s angry
gestures showed that the lady was included in his displeasure. The
baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked slowly
back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very picture of
dejection.

What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to
have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend’s knowledge. I ran
down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was
flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his
wit’s ends what to do.

“Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?” said he. “You don’t mean
to say that you came after me in spite of all?”

I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to remain
behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all that
had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my frankness
disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather rueful laugh.

“You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe
place for a man to be private,” said he, “but, by thunder, the whole
countryside seems to have been out to see me do my wooing--and a mighty
poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?”

“I was on that hill.”

“Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front.
Did you see him come out on us?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this brother of hers?”

“I can’t say that he ever did.”

“I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until today, but you
can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a straitjacket.
What’s the matter with me, anyhow? You’ve lived near me for some weeks,
Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything that would prevent me
from making a good husband to a woman that I loved?”

“I should say not.”

“He can’t object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he
has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in
my life that I know of. And yet he would not so much as let me touch the
tips of her fingers.”

“Did he say so?”

“That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I’ve only known her these
few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made for me,
and she, too--she was happy when she was with me, and that I’ll swear.
There’s a light in a woman’s eyes that speaks louder than words. But he
has never let us get together and it was only today for the first time
that I saw a chance of having a few words with her alone. She was glad
to meet me, but when she did it was not love that she would talk about,
and she wouldn’t have let me talk about it either if she could have
stopped it. She kept coming back to it that this was a place of danger,
and that she would never be happy until I had left it. I told her that
since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if she
really wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her to arrange
to go with me. With that I offered in as many words to marry her, but
before she could answer, down came this brother of hers, running at us
with a face on him like a madman. He was just white with rage, and those
light eyes of his were blazing with fury. What was I doing with the
lady? How dared I offer her attentions which were distasteful to her?
Did I think that because I was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he
had not been her brother I should have known better how to answer him.
As it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were such as
I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might honour me by
becoming my wife. That seemed to make the matter no better, so then I
lost my temper too, and I answered him rather more hotly than I should
perhaps, considering that she was standing by. So it ended by his going
off with her, as you saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any
in this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I’ll owe you
more than ever I can hope to pay.”

I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely puzzled
myself. Our friend’s title, his fortune, his age, his character, and his
appearance are all in his favour, and I know nothing against him unless
it be this dark fate which runs in his family. That his advances should
be rejected so brusquely without any reference to the lady’s own wishes
and that the lady should accept the situation without protest is very
amazing. However, our conjectures were set at rest by a visit from
Stapleton himself that very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies
for his rudeness of the morning, and after a long private interview with
Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their conversation was that the
breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit House next
Friday as a sign of it.

“I don’t say now that he isn’t a crazy man,” said Sir Henry; “I can’t
forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I must
allow that no man could make a more handsome apology than he has done.”

“Did he give any explanation of his conduct?”

“His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural enough,
and I am glad that he should understand her value. They have always been
together, and according to his account he has been a very lonely man
with only her as a companion, so that the thought of losing her was
really terrible to him. He had not understood, he said, that I was
becoming attached to her, but when he saw with his own eyes that it was
really so, and that she might be taken away from him, it gave him such a
shock that for a time he was not responsible for what he said or did.
He was very sorry for all that had passed, and he recognized how foolish
and how selfish it was that he should imagine that he could hold a
beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole life. If she
had to leave him he had rather it was to a neighbour like myself than to
anyone else. But in any case it was a blow to him and it would take him
some time before he could prepare himself to meet it. He would withdraw
all opposition upon his part if I would promise for three months to let
the matter rest and to be content with cultivating the lady’s friendship
during that time without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the
matter rests.”

So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to
have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering.
We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister’s
suitor--even when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And
now I pass on to another thread which I have extricated out of the
tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the tear-stained
face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey of the butler to the
western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me
that I have not disappointed you as an agent--that you do not regret
the confidence which you showed in me when you sent me down. All these
things have by one night’s work been thoroughly cleared.

I have said “by one night’s work,” but, in truth, it was by two nights’
work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with Sir Henry
in his rooms until nearly three o’clock in the morning, but no sound of
any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the stairs. It was
a most melancholy vigil and ended by each of us falling asleep in our
chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged, and we determined to try
again. The next night we lowered the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes
without making the least sound. It was incredible how slowly the hours
crawled by, and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of
patient interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into
which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and we had
almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an instant we
both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary senses keenly on
the alert once more. We had heard the creak of a step in the passage.

Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the
distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in
pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery and the corridor was
all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had come into the other
wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall, black-bearded
figure, his shoulders rounded as he tiptoed down the passage. Then he
passed through the same door as before, and the light of the candle
framed it in the darkness and shot one single yellow beam across the
gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every
plank before we dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had taken the
precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old boards
snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Sometimes it seemed impossible
that he should fail to hear our approach. However, the man is
fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that which
he was doing. When at last we reached the door and peeped through we
found him crouching at the window, candle in hand, his white, intent
face pressed against the pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights
before.

We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom
the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the room,
and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a sharp hiss
of his breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us. His dark eyes,
glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full of horror and
astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me.

“What are you doing here, Barrymore?”

“Nothing, sir.” His agitation was so great that he could hardly speak,
and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his candle. “It
was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they are fastened.”

“On the second floor?”

“Yes, sir, all the windows.”

“Look here, Barrymore,” said Sir Henry sternly, “we have made up our
minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to tell
it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you doing at
that window?”

The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands
together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery.

“I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window.”

“And why were you holding a candle to the window?”

“Don’t ask me, Sir Henry--don’t ask me! I give you my word, sir, that it
is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no one but
myself I would not try to keep it from you.”

A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the trembling
hand of the butler.

“He must have been holding it as a signal,” said I. “Let us see if
there is any answer.” I held it as he had done, and stared out into the
darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of the
trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the moon was behind the
clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny pinpoint of
yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and glowed steadily
in the centre of the black square framed by the window.

“There it is!” I cried.

“No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!” the butler broke in; “I
assure you, sir--”

“Move your light across the window, Watson!” cried the baronet. “See,
the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a signal?
Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder, and what is this
conspiracy that is going on?”

The man’s face became openly defiant. “It is my business, and not yours.
I will not tell.”

“Then you leave my employment right away.”

“Very good, sir. If I must I must.”

“And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of
yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years under
this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot against me.”

“No, no, sir; no, not against you!” It was a woman’s voice, and Mrs.
Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was standing
at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might have been comic
were it not for the intensity of feeling upon her face.

“We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our things,”
 said the butler.

“Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir
Henry--all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I
asked him.”

“Speak out, then! What does it mean?”

“My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish at
our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready for him,
and his light out yonder is to show the spot to which to bring it.”

“Then your brother is--”

“The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal.”

“That’s the truth, sir,” said Barrymore. “I said that it was not my
secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have heard it,
and you will see that if there was a plot it was not against you.”

This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at night
and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman in
amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly respectable person was of
the same blood as one of the most notorious criminals in the country?

“Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We humoured
him too much when he was a lad and gave him his own way in everything
until he came to think that the world was made for his pleasure, and
that he could do what he liked in it. Then as he grew older he met
wicked companions, and the devil entered into him until he broke my
mother’s heart and dragged our name in the dirt. From crime to crime
he sank lower and lower until it is only the mercy of God which has
snatched him from the scaffold; but to me, sir, he was always the little
curly-headed boy that I had nursed and played with as an elder sister
would. That was why he broke prison, sir. He knew that I was here and
that we could not refuse to help him. When he dragged himself here one
night, weary and starving, with the warders hard at his heels, what
could we do? We took him in and fed him and cared for him. Then you
returned, sir, and my brother thought he would be safer on the moor than
anywhere else until the hue and cry was over, so he lay in hiding there.
But every second night we made sure if he was still there by putting a
light in the window, and if there was an answer my husband took out some
bread and meat to him. Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long
as he was there we could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I
am an honest Christian woman and you will see that if there is blame in
the matter it does not lie with my husband but with me, for whose sake
he has done all that he has.”

The woman’s words came with an intense earnestness which carried
conviction with them.

“Is this true, Barrymore?”

“Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it.”

“Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what
I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk further about
this matter in the morning.”

When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry had
flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far away
in the black distance there still glowed that one tiny point of yellow
light.

“I wonder he dares,” said Sir Henry.

“It may be so placed as to be only visible from here.”

“Very likely. How far do you think it is?”

“Out by the Cleft Tor, I think.”

“Not more than a mile or two off.”

“Hardly that.”

“Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to it.
And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By thunder, Watson,
I am going out to take that man!”

The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the
Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had been
forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an unmitigated
scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse. We were only doing
our duty in taking this chance of putting him back where he could do no
harm. With his brutal and violent nature, others would have to pay the
price if we held our hands. Any night, for example, our neighbours the
Stapletons might be attacked by him, and it may have been the thought of
this which made Sir Henry so keen upon the adventure.

“I will come,” said I.

“Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we start the
better, as the fellow may put out his light and be off.”

In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our expedition.
We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull moaning of the
autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves. The night air was
heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and again the moon peeped
out for an instant, but clouds were driving over the face of the sky,
and just as we came out on the moor a thin rain began to fall. The light
still burned steadily in front.

“Are you armed?” I asked.

“I have a hunting-crop.”

“We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate
fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy before
he can resist.”

“I say, Watson,” said the baronet, “what would Holmes say to this? How
about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?”

As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom
of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders
of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence
of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad
moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air
throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my
sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness.

“My God, what’s that, Watson?”

“I don’t know. It’s a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once
before.”

It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood
straining our ears, but nothing came.

“Watson,” said the baronet, “it was the cry of a hound.”

My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice which
told of the sudden horror which had seized him.

“What do they call this sound?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The folk on the countryside.”

“Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call it?”

“Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?”

I hesitated but could not escape the question.

“They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

He groaned and was silent for a few moments.

“A hound it was,” he said at last, “but it seemed to come from miles
away, over yonder, I think.”

“It was hard to say whence it came.”

“It rose and fell with the wind. Isn’t that the direction of the great
Grimpen Mire?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn’t you think yourself that
it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear to speak
the truth.”

“Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be
the calling of a strange bird.”

“No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these
stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a cause?
You don’t believe it, do you, Watson?”

“No, no.”

“And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is another
to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear such a cry as
that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the hound beside him as
he lay. It all fits together. I don’t think that I am a coward, Watson,
but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood. Feel my hand!”

It was as cold as a block of marble.

“You’ll be all right tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I’ll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise that
we do now?”

“Shall we turn back?”

“No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it. We
after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us. Come
on! We’ll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose upon
the moor.”

We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the
craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning steadily
in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a light upon
a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be far away upon
the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a few yards of us.
But at last we could see whence it came, and then we knew that we were
indeed very close. A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the
rocks which flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it
and also to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of
Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our approach, and
crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light. It was strange
to see this single candle burning there in the middle of the moor, with
no sign of life near it--just the one straight yellow flame and the
gleam of the rock on each side of it.

“What shall we do now?” whispered Sir Henry.

“Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a
glimpse of him.”

The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the
rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust out
an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and scored with
vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with
matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of those old savages
who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The light beneath him was
reflected in his small, cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and
left through the darkness like a crafty and savage animal who has heard
the steps of the hunters.

Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that
Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or
the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was not
well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he
might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward
therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict
screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splintered up against
the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short,
squat, strongly built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run.
At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds.
We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running with
great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in his way
with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver
might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if
attacked and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away.

We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon
found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long
time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly
among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until
we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever wider.
Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him
disappearing in the distance.

And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and
unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go
home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the
right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the
lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony
statue on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the
tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you that
I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I could
judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs
a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were
brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay
before him. He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place.
It was not the convict. This man was far from the place where the
latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller man. With a cry
of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in the instant during
which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was gone. There was the
sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but
its peak bore no trace of that silent and motionless figure.

I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was some
distance away. The baronet’s nerves were still quivering from that cry,
which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not in the mood
for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man upon the tor and
could not feel the thrill which his strange presence and his commanding
attitude had given to me. “A warder, no doubt,” said he. “The moor
has been thick with them since this fellow escaped.” Well, perhaps his
explanation may be the right one, but I should like to have some further
proof of it. Today we mean to communicate to the Princetown people where
they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines that
we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back as our
own prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and you must
acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in
the matter of a report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite
irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I should let you have
all the facts and leave you to select for yourself those which will
be of most service to you in helping you to your conclusions. We are
certainly making some progress. So far as the Barrymores go we have
found the motive of their actions, and that has cleared up the situation
very much. But the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants
remains as inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to
throw some light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could
come down to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course
of the next few days.




Chapter 10. Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson



So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have forwarded
during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I have arrived
at a point in my narrative where I am compelled to abandon this method
and to trust once more to my recollections, aided by the diary which
I kept at the time. A few extracts from the latter will carry me on to
those scenes which are indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I
proceed, then, from the morning which followed our abortive chase of the
convict and our other strange experiences upon the moor.

October 16th. A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain. The house
is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the
dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins upon the sides of the
hills, and the distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes upon
their wet faces. It is melancholy outside and in. The baronet is in a
black reaction after the excitements of the night. I am conscious myself
of a weight at my heart and a feeling of impending danger--ever present
danger, which is the more terrible because I am unable to define it.

And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long sequence of
incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which is
at work around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the Hall,
fulfilling so exactly the conditions of the family legend, and there
are the repeated reports from peasants of the appearance of a strange
creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound
which resembled the distant baying of a hound. It is incredible,
impossible, that it should really be outside the ordinary laws of
nature. A spectral hound which leaves material footmarks and fills the
air with its howling is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may
fall in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also, but if I have one
quality upon earth it is common sense, and nothing will persuade me to
believe in such a thing. To do so would be to descend to the level of
these poor peasants, who are not content with a mere fiend dog but must
needs describe him with hell-fire shooting from his mouth and eyes.
Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and I am his agent. But facts
are facts, and I have twice heard this crying upon the moor. Suppose
that there were really some huge hound loose upon it; that would go far
to explain everything. But where could such a hound lie concealed, where
did it get its food, where did it come from, how was it that no one
saw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explanation offers
almost as many difficulties as the other. And always, apart from the
hound, there is the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the
cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at
least was real, but it might have been the work of a protecting friend
as easily as of an enemy. Where is that friend or enemy now? Has he
remained in London, or has he followed us down here? Could he--could he
be the stranger whom I saw upon the tor?

It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet there are
some things to which I am ready to swear. He is no one whom I have seen
down here, and I have now met all the neighbours. The figure was far
taller than that of Stapleton, far thinner than that of Frankland.
Barrymore it might possibly have been, but we had left him behind us,
and I am certain that he could not have followed us. A stranger then is
still dogging us, just as a stranger dogged us in London. We have never
shaken him off. If I could lay my hands upon that man, then at last we
might find ourselves at the end of all our difficulties. To this one
purpose I must now devote all my energies.

My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second and
wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as possible to
anyone. He is silent and distrait. His nerves have been strangely shaken
by that sound upon the moor. I will say nothing to add to his anxieties,
but I will take my own steps to attain my own end.

We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymore asked leave
to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in his study some little
time. Sitting in the billiard-room I more than once heard the sound of
voices raised, and I had a pretty good idea what the point was which was
under discussion. After a time the baronet opened his door and called
for me. “Barrymore considers that he has a grievance,” he said. “He
thinks that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law down
when he, of his own free will, had told us the secret.”

The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us.

“I may have spoken too warmly, sir,” said he, “and if I have, I am sure
that I beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very much surprised when
I heard you two gentlemen come back this morning and learned that you
had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow has enough to fight against
without my putting more upon his track.”

“If you had told us of your own free will it would have been a different
thing,” said the baronet, “you only told us, or rather your wife only
told us, when it was forced from you and you could not help yourself.”

“I didn’t think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir Henry--indeed
I didn’t.”

“The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered over the
moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You only want to
get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr. Stapleton’s house,
for example, with no one but himself to defend it. There’s no safety for
anyone until he is under lock and key.”

“He’ll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word upon that.
But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I assure you,
Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary arrangements will have
been made and he will be on his way to South America. For God’s sake,
sir, I beg of you not to let the police know that he is still on the
moor. They have given up the chase there, and he can lie quiet until the
ship is ready for him. You can’t tell on him without getting my wife and
me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police.”

“What do you say, Watson?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “If he were safely out of the country it would
relieve the tax-payer of a burden.”

“But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?”

“He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with all
that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he was
hiding.”

“That is true,” said Sir Henry. “Well, Barrymore--”

“God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have killed
my poor wife had he been taken again.”

“I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson? But, after what
we have heard I don’t feel as if I could give the man up, so there is an
end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go.”

With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he hesitated
and then came back.

“You’ve been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I
can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I should
have said it before, but it was long after the inquest that I found it
out. I’ve never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man. It’s about
poor Sir Charles’s death.”

The baronet and I were both upon our feet. “Do you know how he died?”

“No, sir, I don’t know that.”

“What then?”

“I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a woman.”

“To meet a woman! He?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the woman’s name?”

“I can’t give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials. Her
initials were L. L.”

“How do you know this, Barrymore?”

“Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had usually a
great many letters, for he was a public man and well known for his kind
heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was glad to turn to him. But
that morning, as it chanced, there was only this one letter, so I took
the more notice of it. It was from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed
in a woman’s hand.”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have done
had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was cleaning out
Sir Charles’s study--it had never been touched since his death--and she
found the ashes of a burned letter in the back of the grate. The greater
part of it was charred to pieces, but one little slip, the end of a
page, hung together, and the writing could still be read, though it was
gray on a black ground. It seemed to us to be a postscript at the end
of the letter and it said: ‘Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn
this letter, and be at the gate by ten o clock. Beneath it were signed
the initials L. L.”

“Have you got that slip?”

“No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it.”

“Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?”

“Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should not
have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone.”

“And you have no idea who L. L. is?”

“No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay our hands
upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles’s death.”

“I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this important
information.”

“Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to us.
And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir Charles, as we
well might be considering all that he has done for us. To rake this
up couldn’t help our poor master, and it’s well to go carefully when
there’s a lady in the case. Even the best of us--”

“You thought it might injure his reputation?”

“Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have been
kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly not to
tell you all that I know about the matter.”

“Very good, Barrymore; you can go.” When the butler had left us Sir
Henry turned to me. “Well, Watson, what do you think of this new light?”

“It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before.”

“So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up the whole
business. We have gained that much. We know that there is someone who
has the facts if we can only find her. What do you think we should do?”

“Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue for
which he has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not bring him
down.”

I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning’s
conversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had been very busy
of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street were few and short,
with no comments upon the information which I had supplied and hardly
any reference to my mission. No doubt his blackmailing case is absorbing
all his faculties. And yet this new factor must surely arrest his
attention and renew his interest. I wish that he were here.

October 17th. All day today the rain poured down, rustling on the ivy
and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon the
bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil! Whatever his crimes, he has
suffered something to atone for them. And then I thought of that other
one--the face in the cab, the figure against the moon. Was he also out
in that deluged--the unseen watcher, the man of darkness? In the evening
I put on my waterproof and I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of
dark imaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling
about my ears. God help those who wander into the great mire now, for
even the firm uplands are becoming a morass. I found the black tor upon
which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from its craggy summit I
looked out myself across the melancholy downs. Rain squalls drifted
across their russet face, and the heavy, slate-coloured clouds hung
low over the landscape, trailing in gray wreaths down the sides of the
fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the
mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They
were the only signs of human life which I could see, save only those
prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere
was there any trace of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot
two nights before.

As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his dog-cart
over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying farmhouse of
Foulmire. He has been very attentive to us, and hardly a day has passed
that he has not called at the Hall to see how we were getting on. He
insisted upon my climbing into his dog-cart, and he gave me a lift
homeward. I found him much troubled over the disappearance of his little
spaniel. It had wandered on to the moor and had never come back. I
gave him such consolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the
Grimpen Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again.

“By the way, Mortimer,” said I as we jolted along the rough road, “I
suppose there are few people living within driving distance of this whom
you do not know?”

“Hardly any, I think.”

“Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L. L.?”

He thought for a few minutes.

“No,” said he. “There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for whom
I can’t answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no one whose
initials are those. Wait a bit though,” he added after a pause. “There
is Laura Lyons--her initials are L. L.--but she lives in Coombe Tracey.”

“Who is she?” I asked.

“She is Frankland’s daughter.”

“What! Old Frankland the crank?”

“Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching on the
moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her. The fault from what
I hear may not have been entirely on one side. Her father refused to
have anything to do with her because she had married without his consent
and perhaps for one or two other reasons as well. So, between the old
sinner and the young one the girl has had a pretty bad time.”

“How does she live?”

“I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be more,
for his own affairs are considerably involved. Whatever she may have
deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the bad. Her story
got about, and several of the people here did something to enable her
to earn an honest living. Stapleton did for one, and Sir Charles for
another. I gave a trifle myself. It was to set her up in a typewriting
business.”

He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to satisfy
his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is no reason why
we should take anyone into our confidence. Tomorrow morning I shall
find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of
equivocal reputation, a long step will have been made towards clearing
one incident in this chain of mysteries. I am certainly developing the
wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an
inconvenient extent I asked him casually to what type Frankland’s skull
belonged, and so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive.
I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.

I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous and
melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just now, which
gives me one more strong card which I can play in due time.

Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played ecarte
afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the library, and I took
the chance to ask him a few questions.

“Well,” said I, “has this precious relation of yours departed, or is he
still lurking out yonder?”

“I don’t know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has
brought nothing but trouble here! I’ve not heard of him since I left out
food for him last, and that was three days ago.”

“Did you see him then?”

“No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way.”

“Then he was certainly there?”

“So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it.”

I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore.

“You know that there is another man then?”

“Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No, sir.”

“How do you know of him then?”

“Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He’s in hiding, too,
but he’s not a convict as far as I can make out. I don’t like it, Dr.
Watson--I tell you straight, sir, that I don’t like it.” He spoke with a
sudden passion of earnestness.

“Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter but
that of your master. I have come here with no object except to help him.
Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don’t like.”

Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst or
found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.

“It’s all these goings-on, sir,” he cried at last, waving his hand
towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. “There’s foul play
somewhere, and there’s black villainy brewing, to that I’ll swear!
Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way back to London
again!”

“But what is it that alarms you?”

“Look at Sir Charles’s death! That was bad enough, for all that the
coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. There’s not a
man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it. Look at this
stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting! What’s he waiting
for? What does it mean? It means no good to anyone of the name of
Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to be quit of it all on the day
that Sir Henry’s new servants are ready to take over the Hall.”

“But about this stranger,” said I. “Can you tell me anything about
him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or what he was
doing?”

“He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing away.
At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he found that he
had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he was, as far as he could
see, but what he was doing he could not make out.”

“And where did he say that he lived?”

“Among the old houses on the hillside--the stone huts where the old folk
used to live.”

“But how about his food?”

“Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and brings all
he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he wants.”

“Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time.”
 When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window, and I looked
through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and at the tossing outline
of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild night indoors, and what must it
be in a stone hut upon the moor. What passion of hatred can it be which
leads a man to lurk in such a place at such a time! And what deep and
earnest purpose can he have which calls for such a trial! There, in that
hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which
has vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have passed
before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart of the
mystery.




Chapter 11. The Man on the Tor



The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter has
brought my narrative up to the eighteenth of October, a time when these
strange events began to move swiftly towards their terrible conclusion.
The incidents of the next few days are indelibly graven upon my
recollection, and I can tell them without reference to the notes made
at the time. I start them from the day which succeeded that upon which
I had established two facts of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura
Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made
an appointment with him at the very place and hour that he met his
death, the other that the lurking man upon the moor was to be found
among the stone huts upon the hillside. With these two facts in my
possession I felt that either my intelligence or my courage must be
deficient if I could not throw some further light upon these dark
places.

I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about Mrs.
Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with him at
cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however, I informed him
about my discovery and asked him whether he would care to accompany
me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to come, but on second
thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went alone the results might
be better. The more formal we made the visit the less information we
might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, therefore, not without some
prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my new quest.

When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses, and
I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had no
difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and well appointed.
A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room
a lady, who was sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a
pleasant smile of welcome. Her face fell, however, when she saw that
I was a stranger, and she sat down again and asked me the object of my
visit.

The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty. Her
eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though
considerably freckled, were flushed with the exquisite bloom of the
brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose.
Admiration was, I repeat, the first impression. But the second was
criticism. There was something subtly wrong with the face, some
coarseness of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness
of lip which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are
afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in
the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me the
reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that instant how
delicate my mission was.

“I have the pleasure,” said I, “of knowing your father.”

It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it. “There
is nothing in common between my father and me,” she said. “I owe him
nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not for the late Sir
Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I might have starved for
all that my father cared.”

“It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here to
see you.”

The freckles started out on the lady’s face.

“What can I tell you about him?” she asked, and her fingers played
nervously over the stops of her typewriter.

“You knew him, did you not?”

“I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I am
able to support myself it is largely due to the interest which he took
in my unhappy situation.”

“Did you correspond with him?”

The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.

“What is the object of these questions?” she asked sharply.

“The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should ask
them here than that the matter should pass outside our control.”

She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she looked up
with something reckless and defiant in her manner.

“Well, I’ll answer,” she said. “What are your questions?”

“Did you correspond with Sir Charles?”

“I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy and
his generosity.”

“Have you the dates of those letters?”

“No.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very
retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth.”

“But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he know
enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he has
done?”

She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

“There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to
help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of Sir
Charles’s. He was exceedingly kind, and it was through him that Sir
Charles learned about my affairs.”

I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his
almoner upon several occasions, so the lady’s statement bore the impress
of truth upon it.

“Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?” I continued.

Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. “Really, sir, this is a very
extraordinary question.”

“I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it.”

“Then I answer, certainly not.”

“Not on the very day of Sir Charles’s death?”

The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me. Her
dry lips could not speak the “No” which I saw rather than heard.

“Surely your memory deceives you,” said I. “I could even quote a passage
of your letter. It ran ‘Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn
this letter, and be at the gate by ten o’clock.’”

I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a supreme
effort.

“Is there no such thing as a gentleman?” she gasped.

“You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter. But sometimes
a letter may be legible even when burned. You acknowledge now that you
wrote it?”

“Yes, I did write it,” she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of
words. “I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be
ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I had an
interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me.”

“But why at such an hour?”

“Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day
and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get
there earlier.”

“But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the house?”

“Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor’s
house?”

“Well, what happened when you did get there?”

“I never went.”

“Mrs. Lyons!”

“No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went. Something
intervened to prevent my going.”

“What was that?”

“That is a private matter. I cannot tell it.”

“You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles at
the very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny that you
kept the appointment.”

“That is the truth.”

Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past that
point.

“Mrs. Lyons,” said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive
interview, “you are taking a very great responsibility and putting
yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean
breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the police
you will find how seriously you are compromised. If your position is
innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having written to Sir
Charles upon that date?”

“Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from it and
that I might find myself involved in a scandal.”

“And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your
letter?”

“If you have read the letter you will know.”

“I did not say that I had read all the letter.”

“You quoted some of it.”

“I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned and it
was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that you were so
pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter which he received
on the day of his death.”

“The matter is a very private one.”

“The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation.”

“I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy history
you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to regret it.”

“I have heard so much.”

“My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I abhor.
The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the possibility
that he may force me to live with him. At the time that I wrote this
letter to Sir Charles I had learned that there was a prospect of
my regaining my freedom if certain expenses could be met. It meant
everything to me--peace of mind, happiness, self-respect--everything. I
knew Sir Charles’s generosity, and I thought that if he heard the story
from my own lips he would help me.”

“Then how is it that you did not go?”

“Because I received help in the interval from another source.”

“Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?”

“So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next
morning.”

The woman’s story hung coherently together, and all my questions were
unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she had, indeed,
instituted divorce proceedings against her husband at or about the time
of the tragedy.

It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to
Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be necessary
to take her there, and could not have returned to Coombe Tracey until
the early hours of the morning. Such an excursion could not be kept
secret. The probability was, therefore, that she was telling the truth,
or, at least, a part of the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened.
Once again I had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across
every path by which I tried to get at the object of my mission. And yet
the more I thought of the lady’s face and of her manner the more I felt
that something was being held back from me. Why should she turn so pale?
Why should she fight against every admission until it was forced from
her? Why should she have been so reticent at the time of the tragedy?
Surely the explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she
would have me believe. For the moment I could proceed no farther in that
direction, but must turn back to that other clue which was to be sought
for among the stone huts upon the moor.

And that was a most vague direction. I realized it as I drove back
and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people.
Barrymore’s only indication had been that the stranger lived in one of
these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them are scattered throughout
the length and breadth of the moor. But I had my own experience for a
guide since it had shown me the man himself standing upon the summit of
the Black Tor. That, then, should be the centre of my search. From there
I should explore every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right
one. If this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at
the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had dogged
us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd of Regent Street,
but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor. On the other
hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant should not be within it I
must remain there, however long the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had
missed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run
him to earth where my master had failed.

Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at
last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was none other
than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, gray-whiskered and red-faced,
outside the gate of his garden, which opened on to the highroad along
which I travelled.

“Good-day, Dr. Watson,” cried he with unwonted good humour, “you must
really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass of wine and
to congratulate me.”

My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what I
had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to send
Perkins and the wagonette home, and the opportunity was a good one. I
alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that I should walk over in time
for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his dining-room.

“It is a great day for me, sir--one of the red-letter days of my life,”
 he cried with many chuckles. “I have brought off a double event. I mean
to teach them in these parts that law is law, and that there is a man
here who does not fear to invoke it. I have established a right of way
through the centre of old Middleton’s park, slap across it, sir, within
a hundred yards of his own front door. What do you think of that? We’ll
teach these magnates that they cannot ride roughshod over the rights
of the commoners, confound them! And I’ve closed the wood where the
Fernworthy folk used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think that
there are no rights of property, and that they can swarm where they like
with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided, Dr. Watson, and
both in my favour. I haven’t had such a day since I had Sir John Morland
for trespass because he shot in his own warren.”

“How on earth did you do that?”

“Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading--Frankland v.
Morland, Court of Queen’s Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I got my
verdict.”

“Did it do you any good?”

“None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the
matter. I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt, for
example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy tonight.
I told the police last time they did it that they should stop these
disgraceful exhibitions. The County Constabulary is in a scandalous
state, sir, and it has not afforded me the protection to which I am
entitled. The case of Frankland v. Regina will bring the matter before
the attention of the public. I told them that they would have occasion
to regret their treatment of me, and already my words have come true.”

“How so?” I asked.

The old man put on a very knowing expression. “Because I could tell them
what they are dying to know; but nothing would induce me to help the
rascals in any way.”

I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get away
from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it. I had seen
enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to understand that any
strong sign of interest would be the surest way to stop his confidences.

“Some poaching case, no doubt?” said I with an indifferent manner.

“Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that! What about
the convict on the moor?”

I stared. “You don’t mean that you know where he is?” said I.

“I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I could
help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it never struck you that
the way to catch that man was to find out where he got his food and so
trace it to him?”

He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth. “No
doubt,” said I; “but how do you know that he is anywhere upon the moor?”

“I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who takes
him his food.”

My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the power
of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a weight from my
mind.

“You’ll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a child.
I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. He passes along
the same path at the same hour, and to whom should he be going except to
the convict?”

Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance of interest. A
child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was supplied by a boy. It was
on his track, and not upon the convict’s, that Frankland had stumbled.
If I could get his knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But
incredulity and indifference were evidently my strongest cards.

“I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of one of
the moorland shepherds taking out his father’s dinner.”

The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old autocrat.
His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his gray whiskers bristled like
those of an angry cat.

“Indeed, sir!” said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching moor. “Do
you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see the low hill beyond
with the thornbush upon it? It is the stoniest part of the whole moor.
Is that a place where a shepherd would be likely to take his station?
Your suggestion, sir, is a most absurd one.”

I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. My
submission pleased him and led him to further confidences.

“You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I come to an
opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his bundle. Every
day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been able--but wait a moment,
Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me, or is there at the present moment
something moving upon that hillside?”

It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark dot
against the dull green and gray.

“Come, sir, come!” cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. “You will see with
your own eyes and judge for yourself.”

The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod, stood upon
the flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eye to it and gave a
cry of satisfaction.

“Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!”

There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle upon his
shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached the crest I saw
the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant against the cold blue
sky. He looked round him with a furtive and stealthy air, as one who
dreads pursuit. Then he vanished over the hill.

“Well! Am I right?”

“Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand.”

“And what the errand is even a county constable could guess. But not
one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy also, Dr.
Watson. Not a word! You understand!”

“Just as you wish.”

“They have treated me shamefully--shamefully. When the facts come out in
Frankland v. Regina I venture to think that a thrill of indignation will
run through the country. Nothing would induce me to help the police in
any way. For all they cared it might have been me, instead of my effigy,
which these rascals burned at the stake. Surely you are not going! You
will help me to empty the decanter in honour of this great occasion!”

But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading him
from his announced intention of walking home with me. I kept the road
as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off across the moor and
made for the stony hill over which the boy had disappeared. Everything
was working in my favour, and I swore that it should not be through lack
of energy or perseverance that I should miss the chance which fortune
had thrown in my way.

The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill, and
the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and gray
shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the farthest sky-line, out of
which jutted the fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the
wide expanse there was no sound and no movement. One great gray bird, a
gull or curlew, soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be
the only living things between the huge arch of the sky and the desert
beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery
and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy was
nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the hills there
was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them there
was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen against the
weather. My heart leaped within me as I saw it. This must be the burrow
where the stranger lurked. At last my foot was on the threshold of his
hiding place--his secret was within my grasp.

As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do when
with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself
that the place had indeed been used as a habitation. A vague pathway
among the boulders led to the dilapidated opening which served as a
door. All was silent within. The unknown might be lurking there, or
he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of
adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the butt
of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. The
place was empty.

But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent. This
was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof
lay upon that very stone slab upon which Neolithic man had once
slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it
lay some cooking utensils and a bucket half-full of water. A litter of
empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for some time, and I
saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and
a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of
the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this stood
a small cloth bundle--the same, no doubt, which I had seen through the
telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread,
a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down
again, after having examined it, my heart leaped to see that beneath it
there lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it. I raised it, and this
was what I read, roughly scrawled in pencil: “Dr. Watson has gone to
Coombe Tracey.”

For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking out the
meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry, who was
being dogged by this secret man. He had not followed me himself, but
he had set an agent--the boy, perhaps--upon my track, and this was his
report. Possibly I had taken no step since I had been upon the moor
which had not been observed and reported. Always there was this feeling
of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and
delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme moment
that one realized that one was indeed entangled in its meshes.

If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round the hut
in search of them. There was no trace, however, of anything of the kind,
nor could I discover any sign which might indicate the character or
intentions of the man who lived in this singular place, save that he
must be of Spartan habits and cared little for the comforts of life.
When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the gaping roof I
understood how strong and immutable must be the purpose which had kept
him in that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by
chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut until
I knew.

Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet
and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant
pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There were the two towers
of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke which marked the
village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the hill, was the house
of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and peaceful in the golden
evening light, and yet as I looked at them my soul shared none of the
peace of Nature but quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that
interview which every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves
but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited with
sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.

And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a boot
striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming nearer and
nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner and cocked the pistol in
my pocket, determined not to discover myself until I had an opportunity
of seeing something of the stranger. There was a long pause which showed
that he had stopped. Then once more the footsteps approached and a
shadow fell across the opening of the hut.

“It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson,” said a well-known voice. “I
really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in.”




Chapter 12. Death on the Moor



For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears.
Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight
of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That
cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the
world.

“Holmes!” I cried--“Holmes!”

“Come out,” said he, “and please be careful with the revolver.”

I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone outside,
his gray eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon my astonished
features. He was thin and worn, but clear and alert, his keen face
bronzed by the sun and roughened by the wind. In his tweed suit and
cloth cap he looked like any other tourist upon the moor, and he had
contrived, with that catlike love of personal cleanliness which was one
of his characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen
as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

“I never was more glad to see anyone in my life,” said I as I wrung him
by the hand.

“Or more astonished, eh?”

“Well, I must confess to it.”

“The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no idea that
you had found my occasional retreat, still less that you were inside it,
until I was within twenty paces of the door.”

“My footprint, I presume?”

“No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your
footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously desire
to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I see the stub
of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend
Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it there beside the path.
You threw it down, no doubt, at that supreme moment when you charged
into the empty hut.”

“Exactly.”

“I thought as much--and knowing your admirable tenacity I was convinced
that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach, waiting for the
tenant to return. So you actually thought that I was the criminal?”

“I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out.”

“Excellent, Watson! And how did you localize me? You saw me, perhaps, on
the night of the convict hunt, when I was so imprudent as to allow the
moon to rise behind me?”

“Yes, I saw you then.”

“And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this one?”

“No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where to
look.”

“The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make it out
when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens.” He rose and peeped
into the hut. “Ha, I see that Cartwright has brought up some supplies.
What’s this paper? So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have you?”

“Yes.”

“To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?”

“Exactly.”

“Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on parallel
lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall have a fairly
full knowledge of the case.”

“Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the
responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my
nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what have
you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street working out that
case of blackmailing.”

“That was what I wished you to think.”

“Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!” I cried with some
bitterness. “I think that I have deserved better at your hands, Holmes.”

“My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in many other
cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have seemed to play a
trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your own sake that I did it,
and it was my appreciation of the danger which you ran which led me to
come down and examine the matter for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry
and you it is confident that my point of view would have been the
same as yours, and my presence would have warned our very formidable
opponents to be on their guard. As it is, I have been able to get about
as I could not possibly have done had I been living in the Hall, and
I remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all my
weight at a critical moment.”

“But why keep me in the dark?”

“For you to know could not have helped us and might possibly have led
to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something, or in your
kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or other, and so an
unnecessary risk would be run. I brought Cartwright down with me--you
remember the little chap at the express office--and he has seen after
my simple wants: a loaf of bread and a clean collar. What does man want
more? He has given me an extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of
feet, and both have been invaluable.”

“Then my reports have all been wasted!”--My voice trembled as I recalled
the pains and the pride with which I had composed them.

Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.

“Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I assure
you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only delayed one day
upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly upon the zeal and
the intelligence which you have shown over an extraordinarily difficult
case.”

I was still rather raw over the deception which had been practised upon
me, but the warmth of Holmes’s praise drove my anger from my mind. I
felt also in my heart that he was right in what he said and that it was
really best for our purpose that I should not have known that he was
upon the moor.

“That’s better,” said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face. “And
now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons--it was not
difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you had gone, for
I am already aware that she is the one person in Coombe Tracey who might
be of service to us in the matter. In fact, if you had not gone today it
is exceedingly probable that I should have gone tomorrow.”

The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had turned
chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There, sitting together
in the twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation with the lady. So
interested was he that I had to repeat some of it twice before he was
satisfied.

“This is most important,” said he when I had concluded. “It fills up a
gap which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex affair. You
are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists between this lady and
the man Stapleton?”

“I did not know of a close intimacy.”

“There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write, there
is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a very powerful
weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to detach his wife--”

“His wife?”

“I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you have
given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is in reality
his wife.”

“Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he have
permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?”

“Sir Henry’s falling in love could do no harm to anyone except Sir
Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make love to her,
as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the lady is his wife and
not his sister.”

“But why this elaborate deception?”

“Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to him in
the character of a free woman.”

All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took shape and
centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive colourless man, with his
straw hat and his butterfly-net, I seemed to see something terrible--a
creature of infinite patience and craft, with a smiling face and a
murderous heart.

“It is he, then, who is our enemy--it is he who dogged us in London?”

“So I read the riddle.”

“And the warning--it must have come from her!”

“Exactly.”

The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed, loomed
through the darkness which had girt me so long.

“But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is his
wife?”

“Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of
autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare say
he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a schoolmaster in
the north of England. Now, there is no one more easy to trace than a
schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies by which one may identify
any man who has been in the profession. A little investigation showed me
that a school had come to grief under atrocious circumstances, and that
the man who had owned it--the name was different--had disappeared with
his wife. The descriptions agreed. When I learned that the missing man
was devoted to entomology the identification was complete.”

The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the shadows.

“If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons come
in?” I asked.

“That is one of the points upon which your own researches have shed a
light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the situation very
much. I did not know about a projected divorce between herself and her
husband. In that case, regarding Stapleton as an unmarried man, she
counted no doubt upon becoming his wife.”

“And when she is undeceived?”

“Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first duty
to see her--both of us--tomorrow. Don’t you think, Watson, that you are
away from your charge rather long? Your place should be at Baskerville
Hall.”

The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had settled
upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a violet sky.

“One last question, Holmes,” I said as I rose. “Surely there is no need
of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it all? What is he
after?”

Holmes’s voice sank as he answered:

“It is murder, Watson--refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder. Do not
ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even as his are
upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already almost at my mercy.
There is but one danger which can threaten us. It is that he should
strike before we are ready to do so. Another day--two at the most--and
I have my case complete, but until then guard your charge as closely
as ever a fond mother watched her ailing child. Your mission today has
justified itself, and yet I could almost wish that you had not left his
side. Hark!”

A terrible scream--a prolonged yell of horror and anguish--burst out of
the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the blood to ice in
my veins.

“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “What is it? What does it mean?”

Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic outline at
the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head thrust forward,
his face peering into the darkness.

“Hush!” he whispered. “Hush!”

The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had pealed out
from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it burst upon our ears,
nearer, louder, more urgent than before.

“Where is it?” Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of his voice
that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul. “Where is it, Watson?”

“There, I think.” I pointed into the darkness.

“No, there!”

Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night, louder and much
nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep, muttered
rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling like the low,
constant murmur of the sea.

“The hound!” cried Holmes. “Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if we are
too late!”

He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed at his
heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground immediately in
front of us there came one last despairing yell, and then a dull, heavy
thud. We halted and listened. Not another sound broke the heavy silence
of the windless night.

I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted. He
stamped his feet upon the ground.

“He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late.”

“No, no, surely not!”

“Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes of
abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has happened we’ll
avenge him!”

Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders, forcing
our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and rushing down slopes,
heading always in the direction whence those dreadful sounds had come.
At every rise Holmes looked eagerly round him, but the shadows were
thick upon the moor, and nothing moved upon its dreary face.

“Can you see anything?”

“Nothing.”

“But, hark, what is that?”

A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our left!
On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which overlooked
a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was spread-eagled some dark,
irregular object. As we ran towards it the vague outline hardened into
a definite shape. It was a prostrate man face downward upon the ground,
the head doubled under him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded
and the body hunched together as if in the act of throwing a somersault.
So grotesque was the attitude that I could not for the instant realize
that that moan had been the passing of his soul. Not a whisper, not a
rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which we stooped. Holmes laid
his hand upon him and held it up again with an exclamation of horror.
The gleam of the match which he struck shone upon his clotted fingers
and upon the ghastly pool which widened slowly from the crushed skull
of the victim. And it shone upon something else which turned our hearts
sick and faint within us--the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy tweed
suit--the very one which he had worn on the first morning that we had
seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one clear glimpse of it, and
then the match flickered and went out, even as the hope had gone out
of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered white through the
darkness.

“The brute! The brute!” I cried with clenched hands. “Oh Holmes, I shall
never forgive myself for having left him to his fate.”

“I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case well
rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my client. It is
the greatest blow which has befallen me in my career. But how could I
know--how could I know--that he would risk his life alone upon the moor
in the face of all my warnings?”

“That we should have heard his screams--my God, those screams!--and yet
have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound which drove
him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks at this instant.
And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for this deed.”

“He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been murdered--the
one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast which he thought
to be supernatural, the other driven to his end in his wild flight to
escape from it. But now we have to prove the connection between the
man and the beast. Save from what we heard, we cannot even swear to the
existence of the latter, since Sir Henry has evidently died from the
fall. But, by heavens, cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power
before another day is past!”

We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body,
overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had brought
all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then as the moon
rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which our poor friend had
fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over the shadowy moor, half
silver and half gloom. Far away, miles off, in the direction of Grimpen,
a single steady yellow light was shining. It could only come from the
lonely abode of the Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist at
it as I gazed.

“Why should we not seize him at once?”

“Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the last
degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one
false move the villain may escape us yet.”

“What can we do?”

“There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only perform
the last offices to our poor friend.”

Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and approached the
body, black and clear against the silvered stones. The agony of those
contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain and blurred my eyes with
tears.

“We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to the
Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?”

He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and
laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained
friend? These were hidden fires, indeed!

“A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!”

“A beard?”

“It is not the baronet--it is--why, it is my neighbour, the convict!”

With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that dripping beard
was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There could be no doubt about
the beetling forehead, the sunken animal eyes. It was indeed the same
face which had glared upon me in the light of the candle from over the
rock--the face of Selden, the criminal.

Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the baronet
had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore. Barrymore
had passed it on in order to help Selden in his escape. Boots, shirt,
cap--it was all Sir Henry’s. The tragedy was still black enough, but
this man had at least deserved death by the laws of his country. I told
Holmes how the matter stood, my heart bubbling over with thankfulness
and joy.

“Then the clothes have been the poor devil’s death,” said he. “It is
clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article of
Sir Henry’s--the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all
probability--and so ran this man down. There is one very singular thing,
however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that the hound was on
his trail?”

“He heard him.”

“To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this
convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture
by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have run a long way
after he knew the animal was on his track. How did he know?”

“A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all our
conjectures are correct--”

“I presume nothing.”

“Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight. I suppose that it
does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let it go
unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would be there.”

“My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think that we
shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may remain
forever a mystery. The question now is, what shall we do with this poor
wretch’s body? We cannot leave it here to the foxes and the ravens.”

“I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate
with the police.”

“Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far. Halloa,
Watson, what’s this? It’s the man himself, by all that’s wonderful and
audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions--not a word, or my plans
crumble to the ground.”

A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red glow
of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish the dapper
shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he saw us, and
then came on again.

“Why, Dr. Watson, that’s not you, is it? You are the last man that I
should have expected to see out on the moor at this time of night. But,
dear me, what’s this? Somebody hurt? Not--don’t tell me that it is our
friend Sir Henry!” He hurried past me and stooped over the dead man. I
heard a sharp intake of his breath and the cigar fell from his fingers.

“Who--who’s this?” he stammered.

“It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown.”

Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he had
overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply from
Holmes to me. “Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?”

“He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My
friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry.”

“I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about
Sir Henry.”

“Why about Sir Henry in particular?” I could not help asking.

“Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not come
I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I
heard cries upon the moor. By the way”--his eyes darted again from my
face to Holmes’s--“did you hear anything else besides a cry?”

“No,” said Holmes; “did you?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom
hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I was
wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound tonight.”

“We heard nothing of the kind,” said I.

“And what is your theory of this poor fellow’s death?”

“I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head.
He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over
here and broken his neck.”

“That seems the most reasonable theory,” said Stapleton, and he gave a
sigh which I took to indicate his relief. “What do you think about it,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My friend bowed his compliments. “You are quick at identification,” said
he.

“We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came down.
You are in time to see a tragedy.”

“Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend’s explanation will cover
the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with me
tomorrow.”

“Oh, you return tomorrow?”

“That is my intention.”

“I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which have
puzzled us?”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An investigator
needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory
case.”

My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner. Stapleton
still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.

“I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would
give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing it.
I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe until
morning.”

And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton’s offer of hospitality,
Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to
return alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly away over the
broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered slope
which showed where the man was lying who had come so horribly to his
end.




Chapter 13. Fixing the Nets



“We’re at close grips at last,” said Holmes as we walked together across
the moor. “What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled himself together
in the face of what must have been a paralyzing shock when he found that
the wrong man had fallen a victim to his plot. I told you in London,
Watson, and I tell you now again, that we have never had a foeman more
worthy of our steel.”

“I am sorry that he has seen you.”

“And so was I at first. But there was no getting out of it.”

“What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he knows
you are here?”

“It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to desperate
measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be too confident in
his own cleverness and imagine that he has completely deceived us.”

“Why should we not arrest him at once?”

“My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your instinct is
always to do something energetic. But supposing, for argument’s sake,
that we had him arrested tonight, what on earth the better off should
we be for that? We could prove nothing against him. There’s the devilish
cunning of it! If he were acting through a human agent we could get some
evidence, but if we were to drag this great dog to the light of day it
would not help us in putting a rope round the neck of its master.”

“Surely we have a case.”

“Not a shadow of one--only surmise and conjecture. We should be laughed
out of court if we came with such a story and such evidence.”

“There is Sir Charles’s death.”

“Found dead without a mark upon him. You and I know that he died of
sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him, but how are we to
get twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs are there of a hound?
Where are the marks of its fangs? Of course we know that a hound does
not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was dead before ever the
brute overtook him. But we have to prove all this, and we are not in a
position to do it.”

“Well, then, tonight?”

“We are not much better off tonight. Again, there was no direct
connection between the hound and the man’s death. We never saw the
hound. We heard it, but we could not prove that it was running upon this
man’s trail. There is a complete absence of motive. No, my dear fellow;
we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that we have no case at present,
and that it is worth our while to run any risk in order to establish
one.”

“And how do you propose to do so?”

“I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when the
position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own plan as
well. Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof; but I hope before the
day is past to have the upper hand at last.”

I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in thought,
as far as the Baskerville gates.

“Are you coming up?”

“Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word,
Watson. Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that
Selden’s death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He will have a
better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo tomorrow,
when he is engaged, if I remember your report aright, to dine with these
people.”

“And so am I.”

“Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. That will be easily
arranged. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think that we are
both ready for our suppers.”

Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, for he
had for some days been expecting that recent events would bring him down
from London. He did raise his eyebrows, however, when he found that my
friend had neither any luggage nor any explanations for its absence.
Between us we soon supplied his wants, and then over a belated supper
we explained to the baronet as much of our experience as it seemed
desirable that he should know. But first I had the unpleasant duty of
breaking the news to Barrymore and his wife. To him it may have been an
unmitigated relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron. To all the world
he was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her he
always remained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, the child who
had clung to her hand. Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to
mourn him.

“I’ve been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in the
morning,” said the baronet. “I guess I should have some credit, for I
have kept my promise. If I hadn’t sworn not to go about alone I might
have had a more lively evening, for I had a message from Stapleton
asking me over there.”

“I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening,” said
Holmes drily. “By the way, I don’t suppose you appreciate that we have
been mourning over you as having broken your neck?”

Sir Henry opened his eyes. “How was that?”

“This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I fear your servant who
gave them to him may get into trouble with the police.”

“That is unlikely. There was no mark on any of them, as far as I know.”

“That’s lucky for him--in fact, it’s lucky for all of you, since you are
all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. I am not sure that as
a conscientious detective my first duty is not to arrest the whole
household. Watson’s reports are most incriminating documents.”

“But how about the case?” asked the baronet. “Have you made anything out
of the tangle? I don’t know that Watson and I are much the wiser since
we came down.”

“I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation rather more
clear to you before long. It has been an exceedingly difficult and most
complicated business. There are several points upon which we still want
light--but it is coming all the same.”

“We’ve had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you. We heard the
hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is not all empty superstition.
I had something to do with dogs when I was out West, and I know one when
I hear one. If you can muzzle that one and put him on a chain I’ll be
ready to swear you are the greatest detective of all time.”

“I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you will give me
your help.”

“Whatever you tell me to do I will do.”

“Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, without always
asking the reason.”

“Just as you like.”

“If you will do this I think the chances are that our little problem
will soon be solved. I have no doubt--”

He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into the air. The
lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and so still that it might
have been that of a clear-cut classical statue, a personification of
alertness and expectation.

“What is it?” we both cried.

I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some internal
emotion. His features were still composed, but his eyes shone with
amused exultation.

“Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur,” said he as he waved his hand
towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite wall. “Watson
won’t allow that I know anything of art but that is mere jealousy
because our views upon the subject differ. Now, these are a really very
fine series of portraits.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you say so,” said Sir Henry, glancing with some
surprise at my friend. “I don’t pretend to know much about these things,
and I’d be a better judge of a horse or a steer than of a picture. I
didn’t know that you found time for such things.”

“I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now. That’s a Kneller,
I’ll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and the stout
gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are all family
portraits, I presume?”

“Every one.”

“Do you know the names?”

“Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say my
lessons fairly well.”

“Who is the gentleman with the telescope?”

“That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the West
Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper is Sir William
Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the House of Commons
under Pitt.”

“And this Cavalier opposite to me--the one with the black velvet and the
lace?”

“Ah, you have a right to know about him. That is the cause of all the
mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the Baskervilles.
We’re not likely to forget him.”

I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.

“Dear me!” said Holmes, “he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man enough, but
I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his eyes. I had pictured
him as a more robust and ruffianly person.”

“There’s no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the date,
1647, are on the back of the canvas.”

Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer seemed to
have a fascination for him, and his eyes were continually fixed upon it
during supper. It was not until later, when Sir Henry had gone to his
room, that I was able to follow the trend of his thoughts. He led me
back into the banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle in his hand, and he
held it up against the time-stained portrait on the wall.

“Do you see anything there?”

I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the white lace
collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed between them. It
was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim, hard, and stern, with a
firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly intolerant eye.

“Is it like anyone you know?”

“There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw.”

“Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an instant!” He stood upon a
chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved his right
arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets.

“Good heavens!” I cried in amazement.

The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.

“Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examine faces and not
their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal investigator that
he should see through a disguise.”

“But this is marvellous. It might be his portrait.”

“Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears to be
both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits is enough
to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The fellow is a
Baskerville--that is evident.”

“With designs upon the succession.”

“Exactly. This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of our
most obvious missing links. We have him, Watson, we have him, and I dare
swear that before tomorrow night he will be fluttering in our net as
helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin, a cork, and a card, and
we add him to the Baker Street collection!” He burst into one of his
rare fits of laughter as he turned away from the picture. I have not
heard him laugh often, and it has always boded ill to somebody.

I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier still, for
I saw him as I dressed, coming up the drive.

“Yes, we should have a full day today,” he remarked, and he rubbed his
hands with the joy of action. “The nets are all in place, and the drag
is about to begin. We’ll know before the day is out whether we have
caught our big, leanjawed pike, or whether he has got through the
meshes.”

“Have you been on the moor already?”

“I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death of
Selden. I think I can promise that none of you will be troubled in the
matter. And I have also communicated with my faithful Cartwright, who
would certainly have pined away at the door of my hut, as a dog does at
his master’s grave, if I had not set his mind at rest about my safety.”

“What is the next move?”

“To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!”

“Good-morning, Holmes,” said the baronet. “You look like a general who
is planning a battle with his chief of the staff.”

“That is the exact situation. Watson was asking for orders.”

“And so do I.”

“Very good. You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with our friends
the Stapletons tonight.”

“I hope that you will come also. They are very hospitable people, and I
am sure that they would be very glad to see you.”

“I fear that Watson and I must go to London.”

“To London?”

“Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the present
juncture.”

The baronet’s face perceptibly lengthened.

“I hoped that you were going to see me through this business. The Hall
and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is alone.”

“My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly what I tell
you. You can tell your friends that we should have been happy to have
come with you, but that urgent business required us to be in town. We
hope very soon to return to Devonshire. Will you remember to give them
that message?”

“If you insist upon it.”

“There is no alternative, I assure you.”

I saw by the baronet’s clouded brow that he was deeply hurt by what he
regarded as our desertion.

“When do you desire to go?” he asked coldly.

“Immediately after breakfast. We will drive in to Coombe Tracey, but
Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he will come back to you.
Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton to tell him that you regret
that you cannot come.”

“I have a good mind to go to London with you,” said the baronet. “Why
should I stay here alone?”

“Because it is your post of duty. Because you gave me your word that you
would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay.”

“All right, then, I’ll stay.”

“One more direction! I wish you to drive to Merripit House. Send back
your trap, however, and let them know that you intend to walk home.”

“To walk across the moor?”

“Yes.”

“But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me not to
do.”

“This time you may do it with safety. If I had not every confidence in
your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but it is essential that
you should do it.”

“Then I will do it.”

“And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any direction
save along the straight path which leads from Merripit House to the
Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home.”

“I will do just what you say.”

“Very good. I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast as
possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon.”

I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered that Holmes
had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit would terminate
next day. It had not crossed my mind however, that he would wish me to
go with him, nor could I understand how we could both be absent at a
moment which he himself declared to be critical. There was nothing for
it, however, but implicit obedience; so we bade good-bye to our rueful
friend, and a couple of hours afterwards we were at the station of
Coombe Tracey and had dispatched the trap upon its return journey. A
small boy was waiting upon the platform.

“Any orders, sir?”

“You will take this train to town, Cartwright. The moment you arrive you
will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name, to say that if he
finds the pocketbook which I have dropped he is to send it by registered
post to Baker Street.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ask at the station office if there is a message for me.”

The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It ran:

Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive five-forty.
Lestrade.

“That is in answer to mine of this morning. He is the best of the
professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. Now, Watson, I
think that we cannot employ our time better than by calling upon your
acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons.”

His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident. He would use the
baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were really gone,
while we should actually return at the instant when we were likely to
be needed. That telegram from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry to the
Stapletons, must remove the last suspicions from their minds. Already I
seemed to see our nets drawing closer around that leanjawed pike.

Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened his
interview with a frankness and directness which considerably amazed her.

“I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death of the
late Sir Charles Baskerville,” said he. “My friend here, Dr. Watson,
has informed me of what you have communicated, and also of what you have
withheld in connection with that matter.”

“What have I withheld?” she asked defiantly.

“You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate at ten
o’clock. We know that that was the place and hour of his death. You have
withheld what the connection is between these events.”

“There is no connection.”

“In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary one. But
I think that we shall succeed in establishing a connection, after all. I
wish to be perfectly frank with you, Mrs. Lyons. We regard this case as
one of murder, and the evidence may implicate not only your friend Mr.
Stapleton but his wife as well.”

The lady sprang from her chair.

“His wife!” she cried.

“The fact is no longer a secret. The person who has passed for his
sister is really his wife.”

Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands were grasping the arms of her
chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with the pressure
of her grip.

“His wife!” she said again. “His wife! He is not a married man.”

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can do so--!”

The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words.

“I have come prepared to do so,” said Holmes, drawing several papers
from his pocket. “Here is a photograph of the couple taken in York four
years ago. It is indorsed ‘Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,’ but you will have no
difficulty in recognizing him, and her also, if you know her by sight.
Here are three written descriptions by trustworthy witnesses of Mr. and
Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that time kept St. Oliver’s private school. Read
them and see if you can doubt the identity of these people.”

She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, rigid face
of a desperate woman.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said, “this man had offered me marriage on condition
that I could get a divorce from my husband. He has lied to me, the
villain, in every conceivable way. Not one word of truth has he ever
told me. And why--why? I imagined that all was for my own sake. But now
I see that I was never anything but a tool in his hands. Why should I
preserve faith with him who never kept any with me? Why should I try to
shield him from the consequences of his own wicked acts? Ask me what you
like, and there is nothing which I shall hold back. One thing I swear
to you, and that is that when I wrote the letter I never dreamed of any
harm to the old gentleman, who had been my kindest friend.”

“I entirely believe you, madam,” said Sherlock Holmes. “The recital of
these events must be very painful to you, and perhaps it will make it
easier if I tell you what occurred, and you can check me if I make any
material mistake. The sending of this letter was suggested to you by
Stapleton?”

“He dictated it.”

“I presume that the reason he gave was that you would receive help from
Sir Charles for the legal expenses connected with your divorce?”

“Exactly.”

“And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you from keeping
the appointment?”

“He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any other man
should find the money for such an object, and that though he was a poor
man himself he would devote his last penny to removing the obstacles
which divided us.”

“He appears to be a very consistent character. And then you heard
nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper?”

“No.”

“And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment with Sir
Charles?”

“He did. He said that the death was a very mysterious one, and that I
should certainly be suspected if the facts came out. He frightened me
into remaining silent.”

“Quite so. But you had your suspicions?”

She hesitated and looked down.

“I knew him,” she said. “But if he had kept faith with me I should
always have done so with him.”

“I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape,” said
Sherlock Holmes. “You have had him in your power and he knew it, and yet
you are alive. You have been walking for some months very near to the
edge of a precipice. We must wish you good-morning now, Mrs. Lyons, and
it is probable that you will very shortly hear from us again.”

“Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty thins
away in front of us,” said Holmes as we stood waiting for the arrival of
the express from town. “I shall soon be in the position of being able
to put into a single connected narrative one of the most singular
and sensational crimes of modern times. Students of criminology will
remember the analogous incidents in Godno, in Little Russia, in the year
‘66, and of course there are the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but
this case possesses some features which are entirely its own. Even now
we have no clear case against this very wily man. But I shall be very
much surprised if it is not clear enough before we go to bed this
night.”

The London express came roaring into the station, and a small, wiry
bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage. We all three
shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way in which
Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a good deal since
the days when they had first worked together. I could well remember
the scorn which the theories of the reasoner used then to excite in the
practical man.

“Anything good?” he asked.

“The biggest thing for years,” said Holmes. “We have two hours before
we need think of starting. I think we might employ it in getting some
dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London fog out of your
throat by giving you a breath of the pure night air of Dartmoor. Never
been there? Ah, well, I don’t suppose you will forget your first visit.”




Chapter 14. The Hound of the Baskervilles



One of Sherlock Holmes’s defects--if, indeed, one may call it a
defect--was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full plans
to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment. Partly it
came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved to dominate and
surprise those who were around him. Partly also from his professional
caution, which urged him never to take any chances. The result, however,
was very trying for those who were acting as his agents and assistants.
I had often suffered under it, but never more so than during that long
drive in the darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we
were about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing,
and I could only surmise what his course of action would be. My nerves
thrilled with anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and
the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow road told me that we
were back upon the moor once again. Every stride of the horses and every
turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to our supreme adventure.

Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of the hired
wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial matters when our
nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. It was a relief to me,
after that unnatural restraint, when we at last passed Frankland’s
house and knew that we were drawing near to the Hall and to the scene
of action. We did not drive up to the door but got down near the gate of
the avenue. The wagonette was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe
Tracey forthwith, while we started to walk to Merripit House.

“Are you armed, Lestrade?”

The little detective smiled. “As long as I have my trousers I have a
hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have something in it.”

“Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies.”

“You’re mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What’s the game
now?”

“A waiting game.”

“My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place,” said the detective
with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes of the hill and
at the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen Mire. “I see the
lights of a house ahead of us.”

“That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must request you
to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper.”

We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the house,
but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards from it.

“This will do,” said he. “These rocks upon the right make an admirable
screen.”

“We are to wait here?”

“Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow,
Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson? Can you
tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticed windows at this
end?”

“I think they are the kitchen windows.”

“And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?”

“That is certainly the dining-room.”

“The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creep forward
quietly and see what they are doing--but for heaven’s sake don’t let
them know that they are watched!”

I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which surrounded
the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a point whence I
could look straight through the uncurtained window.

There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton. They sat
with their profiles towards me on either side of the round table. Both
of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and wine were in front of them.
Stapleton was talking with animation, but the baronet looked pale and
distrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk across the ill-omened
moor was weighing heavily upon his mind.

As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henry
filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at his
cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of boots upon
gravel. The steps passed along the path on the other side of the wall
under which I crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at the
door of an out-house in the corner of the orchard. A key turned in
a lock, and as he passed in there was a curious scuffling noise from
within. He was only a minute or so inside, and then I heard the key turn
once more and he passed me and reentered the house. I saw him rejoin his
guest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to
tell them what I had seen.

“You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?” Holmes asked when I had
finished my report.

“No.”

“Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other room
except the kitchen?”

“I cannot think where she is.”

I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense, white
fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction and banked itself up like a
wall on that side of us, low but thick and well defined. The moon shone
on it, and it looked like a great shimmering ice-field, with the heads
of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its surface. Holmes’s face
was turned towards it, and he muttered impatiently as he watched its
sluggish drift.

“It’s moving towards us, Watson.”

“Is that serious?”

“Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon earth which could have
disarranged my plans. He can’t be very long, now. It is already ten
o’clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his coming out
before the fog is over the path.”

The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and bright,
while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light.
Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its serrated roof and
bristling chimneys hard outlined against the silver-spangled sky. Broad
bars of golden light from the lower windows stretched across the orchard
and the moor. One of them was suddenly shut off. The servants had left
the kitchen. There only remained the lamp in the dining-room where the
two men, the murderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted
over their cigars.

Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one-half of the moor
was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already the first thin
wisps of it were curling across the golden square of the lighted window.
The farther wall of the orchard was already invisible, and the trees
were standing out of a swirl of white vapour. As we watched it the
fog-wreaths came crawling round both corners of the house and rolled
slowly into one dense bank on which the upper floor and the roof
floated like a strange ship upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand
passionately upon the rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his
impatience.

“If he isn’t out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered. In
half an hour we won’t be able to see our hands in front of us.”

“Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?”

“Yes, I think it would be as well.”

So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we were
half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, with the
moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on.

“We are going too far,” said Holmes. “We dare not take the chance of his
being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we must hold our
ground where we are.” He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear to the
ground. “Thank God, I think that I hear him coming.”

A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching among
the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of us.
The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain, there
stepped the man whom we were awaiting. He looked round him in surprise
as he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came swiftly along
the path, passed close to where we lay, and went on up the long slope
behind us. As he walked he glanced continually over either shoulder,
like a man who is ill at ease.

“Hist!” cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking pistol.
“Look out! It’s coming!”

There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart
of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay,
and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to break
from the heart of it. I was at Holmes’s elbow, and I glanced for an
instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly
in the moonlight. But suddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed
stare, and his lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade
gave a yell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground.
I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed
by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of
the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a
hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its
eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap
were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of
a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more
hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke
upon us out of the wall of fog.

With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the track,
following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we by
the apparition that we allowed him to pass before we had recovered our
nerve. Then Holmes and I both fired together, and the creature gave a
hideous howl, which showed that one at least had hit him. He did not
pause, however, but bounded onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir
Henry looking back, his face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in
horror, glaring helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him
down. But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to the
winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound him we
could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran that night. I
am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I outpaced the
little professional. In front of us as we flew up the track we heard
scream after scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar of the hound. I was
in time to see the beast spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground,
and worry at his throat. But the next instant Holmes had emptied five
barrels of his revolver into the creature’s flank. With a last howl of
agony and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet
pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side. I stooped, panting,
and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head, but it was
useless to press the trigger. The giant hound was dead.

Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his collar,
and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was
no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in time. Already our
friend’s eyelids shivered and he made a feeble effort to move. Lestrade
thrust his brandy-flask between the baronet’s teeth, and two frightened
eyes were looking up at us.

“My God!” he whispered. “What was it? What, in heaven’s name, was it?”

“It’s dead, whatever it is,” said Holmes. “We’ve laid the family ghost
once and forever.”

In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was lying
stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and it was not a pure
mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the two--gaunt, savage,
and as large as a small lioness. Even now in the stillness of death,
the huge jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame and the small,
deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the
glowing muzzle, and as I held them up my own fingers smouldered and
gleamed in the darkness.

“Phosphorus,” I said.

“A cunning preparation of it,” said Holmes, sniffing at the dead animal.
“There is no smell which might have interfered with his power of scent.
We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having exposed you to this
fright. I was prepared for a hound, but not for such a creature as this.
And the fog gave us little time to receive him.”

“You have saved my life.”

“Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?”

“Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for
anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to do?”

“To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures tonight. If
you will wait, one or other of us will go back with you to the Hall.”

He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale and
trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he sat shivering
with his face buried in his hands.

“We must leave you now,” said Holmes. “The rest of our work must be
done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and now we
only want our man.

“It’s a thousand to one against our finding him at the house,” he
continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. “Those shots
must have told him that the game was up.”

“We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them.”

“He followed the hound to call him off--of that you may be certain. No,
no, he’s gone by this time! But we’ll search the house and make sure.”

The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to
room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in the
passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes caught
up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No sign could we
see of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper floor, however, one of
the bedroom doors was locked.

“There’s someone in here,” cried Lestrade. “I can hear a movement. Open
this door!”

A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the door
just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol in
hand, we all three rushed into the room.

But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villain
whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so strange
and so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in amazement.

The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were
lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of
butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation of
this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there was an
upright beam, which had been placed at some period as a support for the
old worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the roof. To this post a
figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been
used to secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it
was that of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat and was
secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered the lower part of
the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes full of grief and shame and a
dreadful questioning--stared back at us. In a minute we had torn off
the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in
front of us. As her beautiful head fell upon her chest I saw the clear
red weal of a whiplash across her neck.

“The brute!” cried Holmes. “Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Put her
in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion.”

She opened her eyes again.

“Is he safe?” she asked. “Has he escaped?”

“He cannot escape us, madam.”

“No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?”

“Yes.”

“And the hound?”

“It is dead.”

She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

“Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated me!”
 She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with horror that they
were all mottled with bruises. “But this is nothing--nothing! It is my
mind and soul that he has tortured and defiled. I could endure it all,
ill-usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as long as I could
still cling to the hope that I had his love, but now I know that in
this also I have been his dupe and his tool.” She broke into passionate
sobbing as she spoke.

“You bear him no good will, madam,” said Holmes. “Tell us then where we
shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, help us now and so
atone.”

“There is but one place where he can have fled,” she answered. “There is
an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire. It was there that
he kept his hound and there also he had made preparations so that he
might have a refuge. That is where he would fly.”

The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held the
lamp towards it.

“See,” said he. “No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire
tonight.”

She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed with
fierce merriment.

“He may find his way in, but never out,” she cried. “How can he see the
guiding wands tonight? We planted them together, he and I, to mark the
pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have plucked them out
today. Then indeed you would have had him at your mercy!”

It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had
lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while
Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The story
of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he took
the blow bravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom he had
loved. But the shock of the night’s adventures had shattered his nerves,
and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever under the care of
Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to travel together round the
world before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he
had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate.

And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative, in
which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and vague
surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a
manner. On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had lifted
and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they had found
a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the horror of this
woman’s life when we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid us
on her husband’s track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of
firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the
end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the path
zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits
and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and
lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic
vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once
thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft
undulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as
we walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was
tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was
the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone
had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass
which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes
sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we
not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot
upon firm land again. He held an old black boot in the air. “Meyers,
Toronto,” was printed on the leather inside.

“It is worth a mud bath,” said he. “It is our friend Sir Henry’s missing
boot.”

“Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight.”

“Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound
upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching
it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight. We know at least
that he came so far in safety.”

But more than that we were never destined to know, though there was much
which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footsteps in the
mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we at last
reached firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly for them.
But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes. If the earth told a
true story, then Stapleton never reached that island of refuge towards
which he struggled through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in
the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the
huge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is
forever buried.

Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hid his
savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with rubbish
showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the crumbling
remains of the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foul
reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a staple and chain with
a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been confined.
A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the
debris.

“A dog!” said Holmes. “By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer
will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this place
contains any secret which we have not already fathomed. He could hide
his hound, but he could not hush its voice, and hence came those cries
which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear. On an emergency he
could keep the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but it was always a
risk, and it was only on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end
of all his efforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no
doubt the luminous mixture with which the creature was daubed. It was
suggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, and by the
desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder the poor devil of
a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did, and as we ourselves
might have done, when he saw such a creature bounding through the
darkness of the moor upon his track. It was a cunning device, for, apart
from the chance of driving your victim to his death, what peasant would
venture to inquire too closely into such a creature should he get sight
of it, as many have done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson,
and I say it again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a
more dangerous man than he who is lying yonder”--he swept his long arm
towards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which stretched
away until it merged into the russet slopes of the moor.




Chapter 15. A Retrospection



It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and foggy
night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker
Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshire he had been
engaged in two affairs of the utmost importance, in the first of which
he had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood in connection
with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while in the second
he had defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from the charge
of murder which hung over her in connection with the death of her
step-daughter, Mlle. Carere, the young lady who, as it will be
remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New York.
My friend was in excellent spirits over the success which had attended
a succession of difficult and important cases, so that I was able to
induce him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery. I had
waited patiently for the opportunity for I was aware that he would never
permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and logical mind would not
be drawn from its present work to dwell upon memories of the past. Sir
Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on their way to that
long voyage which had been recommended for the restoration of his
shattered nerves. They had called upon us that very afternoon, so that
it was natural that the subject should come up for discussion.

“The whole course of events,” said Holmes, “from the point of view of
the man who called himself Stapleton was simple and direct, although
to us, who had no means in the beginning of knowing the motives of
his actions and could only learn part of the facts, it all appeared
exceedingly complex. I have had the advantage of two conversations with
Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely cleared up that I
am not aware that there is anything which has remained a secret to us.
You will find a few notes upon the matter under the heading B in my
indexed list of cases.”

“Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of events from
memory.”

“Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts in my
mind. Intense mental concentration has a curious way of blotting out
what has passed. The barrister who has his case at his fingers’ ends and
is able to argue with an expert upon his own subject finds that a week
or two of the courts will drive it all out of his head once more. So
each of my cases displaces the last, and Mlle. Carere has blurred my
recollection of Baskerville Hall. Tomorrow some other little problem may
be submitted to my notice which will in turn dispossess the fair French
lady and the infamous Upwood. So far as the case of the hound goes,
however, I will give you the course of events as nearly as I can, and
you will suggest anything which I may have forgotten.

“My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait did not
lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son of that
Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who fled with
a sinister reputation to South America, where he was said to have died
unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry, and had one child, this
fellow, whose real name is the same as his father’s. He married Beryl
Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a
considerable sum of public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and
fled to England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire.
His reason for attempting this special line of business was that he had
struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon the voyage
home, and that he had used this man’s ability to make the undertaking a
success. Fraser, the tutor, died however, and the school which had begun
well sank from disrepute into infamy. The Vandeleurs found it convenient
to change their name to Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his
fortune, his schemes for the future, and his taste for entomology to
the south of England. I learned at the British Museum that he was a
recognized authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur
has been permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his
Yorkshire days, been the first to describe.

“We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be of such
intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry and found
that only two lives intervened between him and a valuable estate. When
he went to Devonshire his plans were, I believe, exceedingly hazy, but
that he meant mischief from the first is evident from the way in which
he took his wife with him in the character of his sister. The idea of
using her as a decoy was clearly already in his mind, though he may not
have been certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged. He
meant in the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool
or run any risk for that end. His first act was to establish himself as
near to his ancestral home as he could, and his second was to cultivate
a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neighbours.

“The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so prepared
the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call him,
knew that the old man’s heart was weak and that a shock would kill him.
So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also that Sir
Charles was superstitious and had taken this grim legend very seriously.
His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which the baronet could
be done to death, and yet it would be hardly possible to bring home the
guilt to the real murderer.

“Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with
considerable finesse. An ordinary schemer would have been content
to work with a savage hound. The use of artificial means to make the
creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part. The dog he
bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road. It
was the strongest and most savage in their possession. He brought it
down by the North Devon line and walked a great distance over the moor
so as to get it home without exciting any remarks. He had already on his
insect hunts learned to penetrate the Grimpen Mire, and so had found a
safe hiding-place for the creature. Here he kennelled it and waited his
chance.

“But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be decoyed
outside of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton lurked about
with his hound, but without avail. It was during these fruitless quests
that he, or rather his ally, was seen by peasants, and that the legend
of the demon dog received a new confirmation. He had hoped that his wife
might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she proved unexpectedly
independent. She would not endeavour to entangle the old gentleman in
a sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to his enemy.
Threats and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move her. She
would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton was at a
deadlock.

“He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that Sir
Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him the minister
of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman, Mrs. Laura Lyons.
By representing himself as a single man he acquired complete influence
over her, and he gave her to understand that in the event of her
obtaining a divorce from her husband he would marry her. His plans were
suddenly brought to a head by his knowledge that Sir Charles was about
to leave the Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he
himself pretended to coincide. He must act at once, or his victim might
get beyond his power. He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons to
write this letter, imploring the old man to give her an interview on
the evening before his departure for London. He then, by a specious
argument, prevented her from going, and so had the chance for which he
had waited.

“Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to get
his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring the beast
round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that he would find
the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited by its master, sprang over
the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate baronet, who fled screaming
down the yew alley. In that gloomy tunnel it must indeed have been a
dreadful sight to see that huge black creature, with its flaming jaws
and blazing eyes, bounding after its victim. He fell dead at the end
of the alley from heart disease and terror. The hound had kept upon the
grassy border while the baronet had run down the path, so that no track
but the man’s was visible. On seeing him lying still the creature had
probably approached to sniff at him, but finding him dead had turned
away again. It was then that it left the print which was actually
observed by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was called off and hurried away to
its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was left which puzzled
the authorities, alarmed the countryside, and finally brought the case
within the scope of our observation.

“So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive the
devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible to make
a case against the real murderer. His only accomplice was one who could
never give him away, and the grotesque, inconceivable nature of
the device only served to make it more effective. Both of the women
concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left
with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that he
had designs upon the old man, and also of the existence of the hound.
Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things, but had been impressed by the
death occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which was only
known to him. However, both of them were under his influence, and he had
nothing to fear from them. The first half of his task was successfully
accomplished but the more difficult still remained.

“It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an heir
in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from his friend Dr.
Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details about the arrival of
Henry Baskerville. Stapleton’s first idea was that this young stranger
from Canada might possibly be done to death in London without coming
down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his wife ever since she had
refused to help him in laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not
leave her long out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence
over her. It was for this reason that he took her to London with him.
They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in Craven Street,
which was actually one of those called upon by my agent in search
of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her room while
he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and
afterwards to the station and to the Northumberland Hotel. His wife had
some inkling of his plans; but she had such a fear of her husband--a
fear founded upon brutal ill-treatment--that she dare not write to warn
the man whom she knew to be in danger. If the letter should fall into
Stapleton’s hands her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we
know, she adopted the expedient of cutting out the words which would
form the message, and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It
reached the baronet, and gave him the first warning of his danger.

“It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir Henry’s
attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he might always
have the means of setting him upon his track. With characteristic
promptness and audacity he set about this at once, and we cannot doubt
that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel was well bribed to help him
in his design. By chance, however, the first boot which was procured for
him was a new one and, therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had
it returned and obtained another--a most instructive incident, since it
proved conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound,
as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an old
boot and this indifference to a new one. The more outre and grotesque an
incident is the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and the very
point which appears to complicate a case is, when duly considered and
scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it.

“Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed always
by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my
appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am inclined to think
that Stapleton’s career of crime has been by no means limited to this
single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that during the last three
years there have been four considerable burglaries in the west country,
for none of which was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at
Folkestone Court, in May, was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling
of the page, who surprised the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot
doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this fashion, and
that for years he has been a desperate and dangerous man.

“We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when he got
away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending back
my own name to me through the cabman. From that moment he understood
that I had taken over the case in London, and that therefore there was
no chance for him there. He returned to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival
of the baronet.”

“One moment!” said I. “You have, no doubt, described the sequence
of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left
unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in London?”

“I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly of
importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant,
though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power by
sharing all his plans with him. There was an old manservant at Merripit
House, whose name was Anthony. His connection with the Stapletons can
be traced for several years, as far back as the school-mastering days,
so that he must have been aware that his master and mistress were really
husband and wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the
country. It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England,
while Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American countries. The
man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but with a curious
lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man cross the Grimpen
Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out. It is very probable,
therefore, that in the absence of his master it was he who cared for the
hound, though he may never have known the purpose for which the beast
was used.

“The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon
followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself at
that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that when I examined
the paper upon which the printed words were fastened I made a close
inspection for the water-mark. In doing so I held it within a few inches
of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the scent known as
white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very
necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each
other, and cases have more than once within my own experience depended
upon their prompt recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a
lady, and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus
I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed at the criminal before
ever we went to the west country.

“It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that I
could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his
guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, and I came
down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My hardships were
not so great as you imagined, though such trifling details must never
interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed for the most
part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it was
necessary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come down with
me, and in his disguise as a country boy he was of great assistance
to me. I was dependent upon him for food and clean linen. When I was
watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently watching you, so that I
was able to keep my hand upon all the strings.

“I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly, being
forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of
great service to me, and especially that one incidentally truthful piece
of biography of Stapleton’s. I was able to establish the identity of
the man and the woman and knew at last exactly how I stood. The case
had been considerably complicated through the incident of the escaped
convict and the relations between him and the Barrymores. This also you
cleared up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the
same conclusions from my own observations.

“By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete
knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case which could go to
a jury. Even Stapleton’s attempt upon Sir Henry that night which ended
in the death of the unfortunate convict did not help us much in proving
murder against our man. There seemed to be no alternative but to
catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and
apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of a
severe shock to our client we succeeded in completing our case and
driving Stapleton to his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been
exposed to this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of the
case, but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing
spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict the fog which
enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We succeeded in our
object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer assure me
will be a temporary one. A long journey may enable our friend to recover
not only from his shattered nerves but also from his wounded feelings.
His love for the lady was deep and sincere, and to him the saddest part
of all this black business was that he should have been deceived by her.

“It only remains to indicate the part which she had played throughout.
There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an influence over her
which may have been love or may have been fear, or very possibly both,
since they are by no means incompatible emotions. It was, at least,
absolutely effective. At his command she consented to pass as his
sister, though he found the limits of his power over her when he
endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to murder. She was ready to
warn Sir Henry so far as she could without implicating her husband, and
again and again she tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have been
capable of jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying court to the
lady, even though it was part of his own plan, still he could not help
interrupting with a passionate outburst which revealed the fiery soul
which his self-contained manner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging
the intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would frequently come
to Merripit House and that he would sooner or later get the opportunity
which he desired. On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned
suddenly against him. She had learned something of the death of the
convict, and she knew that the hound was being kept in the outhouse on
the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She taxed her husband
with his intended crime, and a furious scene followed in which he showed
her for the first time that she had a rival in his love. Her fidelity
turned in an instant to bitter hatred, and he saw that she would betray
him. He tied her up, therefore, that she might have no chance of warning
Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole countryside put
down the baronet’s death to the curse of his family, as they certainly
would do, he could win his wife back to accept an accomplished fact and
to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that in any case
he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not been there, his doom
would none the less have been sealed. A woman of Spanish blood does
not condone such an injury so lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without
referring to my notes, I cannot give you a more detailed account of
this curious case. I do not know that anything essential has been left
unexplained.”

“He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done the old
uncle with his bogie hound.”

“The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not
frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the resistance
which might be offered.”

“No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came into the
succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had been
living unannounced under another name so close to the property? How
could he claim it without causing suspicion and inquiry?”

“It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when
you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are within the field
of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question
to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the problem on
several occasions. There were three possible courses. He might claim the
property from South America, establish his identity before the British
authorities there and so obtain the fortune without ever coming to
England at all, or he might adopt an elaborate disguise during the
short time that he need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an
accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting him in as heir, and
retaining a claim upon some proportion of his income. We cannot doubt
from what we know of him that he would have found some way out of the
difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of severe
work, and for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts into more
pleasant channels. I have a box for ‘Les Huguenots.’ Have you heard the
De Reszkes? Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we
can stop at Marcini’s for a little dinner on the way?”





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Project Gutenberg's Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

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almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
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Title: Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

Author: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Posting Date: July 31, 2008 [EBook #834]
Release Date: March, 1997
Last Updated: March 6, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES ***




Produced by Angela M. Cable





MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle




Adventure I. Silver Blaze


“I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we sat
down together to our breakfast one morning.

“Go! Where to?”

“To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland.”

I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not already
been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the one topic of
conversation through the length and breadth of England. For a whole day
my companion had rambled about the room with his chin upon his chest and
his brows knitted, charging and recharging his pipe with the strongest
black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks.
Fresh editions of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, only
to be glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silent as he was,
I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was brooding. There was
but one problem before the public which could challenge his powers of
analysis, and that was the singular disappearance of the favorite for
the Wessex Cup, and the tragic murder of its trainer. When, therefore,
he suddenly announced his intention of setting out for the scene of the
drama it was only what I had both expected and hoped for.

“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in the
way,” said I.

“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favor upon me by coming. And
I think that your time will not be misspent, for there are points about
the case which promise to make it an absolutely unique one. We have, I
think, just time to catch our train at Paddington, and I will go further
into the matter upon our journey. You would oblige me by bringing with
you your very excellent field-glass.”

And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter, while
Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped
travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh papers which he
had procured at Paddington. We had left Reading far behind us before
he thrust the last one of them under the seat, and offered me his
cigar-case.

“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing at his
watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an hour.”

“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.

“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards
apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that you
have looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker and the
disappearance of Silver Blaze?”

“I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have to say.”

“It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be
used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of fresh
evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and of such
personal importance to so many people, that we are suffering from a
plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. The difficulty is to
detach the framework of fact--of absolute undeniable fact--from the
embellishments of theorists and reporters. Then, having established
ourselves upon this sound basis, it is our duty to see what inferences
may be drawn and what are the special points upon which the whole
mystery turns. On Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel
Ross, the owner of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is looking
after the case, inviting my cooperation.”

“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And this is Thursday morning. Why
didn't you go down yesterday?”

“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson--which is, I am afraid, a more
common occurrence than any one would think who only knew me through your
memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it possible that the most
remarkable horse in England could long remain concealed, especially in
so sparsely inhabited a place as the north of Dartmoor. From hour to
hour yesterday I expected to hear that he had been found, and that
his abductor was the murderer of John Straker. When, however, another
morning had come, and I found that beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy
Simpson nothing had been done, I felt that it was time for me to take
action. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not been wasted.”

“You have formed a theory, then?”

“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I shall
enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much as stating
it to another person, and I can hardly expect your co-operation if I do
not show you the position from which we start.”

I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes,
leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off the points
upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events which had
led to our journey.

“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Somomy stock, and holds as
brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth year,
and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to Colonel Ross,
his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the catastrophe he was the first
favorite for the Wessex Cup, the betting being three to one on him. He
has always, however, been a prime favorite with the racing public, and
has never yet disappointed them, so that even at those odds enormous
sums of money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that
there were many people who had the strongest interest in preventing
Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of the flag next Tuesday.

“The fact was, of course, appreciated at King's Pyland, where the
Colonel's training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken to
guard the favorite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired jockey
who rode in Colonel Ross's colors before he became too heavy for the
weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five years as jockey and
for seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be a zealous and
honest servant. Under him were three lads; for the establishment was a
small one, containing only four horses in all. One of these lads sat up
each night in the stable, while the others slept in the loft. All three
bore excellent characters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived
in a small villa about two hundred yards from the stables. He has no
children, keeps one maid-servant, and is comfortably off. The country
round is very lonely, but about half a mile to the north there is a
small cluster of villas which have been built by a Tavistock contractor
for the use of invalids and others who may wish to enjoy the pure
Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two miles to the west, while
across the moor, also about two miles distant, is the larger training
establishment of Mapleton, which belongs to Lord Backwater, and is
managed by Silas Brown. In every other direction the moor is a complete
wilderness, inhabited only by a few roaming gypsies. Such was the
general situation last Monday night when the catastrophe occurred.

“On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as usual, and
the stables were locked up at nine o'clock. Two of the lads walked up
to the trainer's house, where they had supper in the kitchen, while the
third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a few minutes after nine
the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to the stables his supper, which
consisted of a dish of curried mutton. She took no liquid, as there was
a water-tap in the stables, and it was the rule that the lad on duty
should drink nothing else. The maid carried a lantern with her, as it
was very dark and the path ran across the open moor.

“Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man
appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he stepped
into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she saw that he
was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a gray suit of tweeds,
with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and carried a heavy stick with a knob
to it. She was most impressed, however, by the extreme pallor of his
face and by the nervousness of his manner. His age, she thought, would
be rather over thirty than under it.

“'Can you tell me where I am?' he asked. 'I had almost made up my mind
to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.'

“'You are close to the King's Pyland training-stables,' said she.

“'Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!' he cried. 'I understand that a
stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is his supper
which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you would not be too
proud to earn the price of a new dress, would you?' He took a piece of
white paper folded up out of his waistcoat pocket. 'See that the boy
has this to-night, and you shall have the prettiest frock that money can
buy.'

“She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran past him
to the window through which she was accustomed to hand the meals. It was
already opened, and Hunter was seated at the small table inside. She had
begun to tell him of what had happened, when the stranger came up again.

“'Good-evening,' said he, looking through the window. 'I wanted to have
a word with you.' The girl has sworn that as he spoke she noticed the
corner of the little paper packet protruding from his closed hand.

“'What business have you here?' asked the lad.

“'It's business that may put something into your pocket,' said the
other. 'You've two horses in for the Wessex Cup--Silver Blaze and
Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won't be a loser. Is it a
fact that at the weights Bayard could give the other a hundred yards in
five furlongs, and that the stable have put their money on him?'

“'So, you're one of those damned touts!' cried the lad. 'I'll show you
how we serve them in King's Pyland.' He sprang up and rushed across the
stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away to the house, but as she
ran she looked back and saw that the stranger was leaning through the
window. A minute later, however, when Hunter rushed out with the hound
he was gone, and though he ran all round the buildings he failed to find
any trace of him.”

“One moment,” I asked. “Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with the
dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?”

“Excellent, Watson, excellent!” murmured my companion. “The importance
of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a special wire to
Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The boy locked the door
before he left it. The window, I may add, was not large enough for a man
to get through.

“Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent a
message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker was
excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to have quite
realized its true significance. It left him, however, vaguely uneasy,
and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning, found that he was
dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said that he could not sleep on
account of his anxiety about the horses, and that he intended to walk
down to the stables to see that all was well. She begged him to remain
at home, as she could hear the rain pattering against the window, but in
spite of her entreaties he pulled on his large mackintosh and left the
house.

“Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her husband
had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called the maid, and
set off for the stables. The door was open; inside, huddled together
upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of absolute stupor, the
favorite's stall was empty, and there were no signs of his trainer.

“The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the harness-room
were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during the night, for they
are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously under the influence of
some powerful drug, and as no sense could be got out of him, he was left
to sleep it off while the two lads and the two women ran out in search
of the absentees. They still had hopes that the trainer had for some
reason taken out the horse for early exercise, but on ascending the
knoll near the house, from which all the neighboring moors were visible,
they not only could see no signs of the missing favorite, but they
perceived something which warned them that they were in the presence of
a tragedy.

“About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker's overcoat was
flapping from a furze-bush. Immediately beyond there was a bowl-shaped
depression in the moor, and at the bottom of this was found the dead
body of the unfortunate trainer. His head had been shattered by a savage
blow from some heavy weapon, and he was wounded on the thigh, where
there was a long, clean cut, inflicted evidently by some very sharp
instrument. It was clear, however, that Straker had defended himself
vigorously against his assailants, for in his right hand he held a small
knife, which was clotted with blood up to the handle, while in his left
he clasped a red and black silk cravat, which was recognized by the maid
as having been worn on the preceding evening by the stranger who had
visited the stables. Hunter, on recovering from his stupor, was also
quite positive as to the ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain
that the same stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his
curried mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman. As to the
missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud which lay at the
bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been there at the time of the
struggle. But from that morning he has disappeared, and although a large
reward has been offered, and all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on the
alert, no news has come of him. Finally, an analysis has shown that
the remains of his supper left by the stable-lad contain an appreciable
quantity of powdered opium, while the people at the house partook of the
same dish on the same night without any ill effect.

“Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise, and
stated as baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what the police
have done in the matter.

“Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an extremely
competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination he might rise to
great heights in his profession. On his arrival he promptly found and
arrested the man upon whom suspicion naturally rested. There was little
difficulty in finding him, for he inhabited one of those villas which I
have mentioned. His name, it appears, was Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man
of excellent birth and education, who had squandered a fortune upon the
turf, and who lived now by doing a little quiet and genteel book-making
in the sporting clubs of London. An examination of his betting-book
shows that bets to the amount of five thousand pounds had been
registered by him against the favorite. On being arrested he volunteered
the statement that he had come down to Dartmoor in the hope of
getting some information about the King's Pyland horses, and also about
Desborough, the second favorite, which was in charge of Silas Brown at
the Mapleton stables. He did not attempt to deny that he had acted as
described upon the evening before, but declared that he had no sinister
designs, and had simply wished to obtain first-hand information. When
confronted with his cravat, he turned very pale, and was utterly unable
to account for its presence in the hand of the murdered man. His wet
clothing showed that he had been out in the storm of the night before,
and his stick, which was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just
such a weapon as might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible
injuries to which the trainer had succumbed. On the other hand, there
was no wound upon his person, while the state of Straker's knife would
show that one at least of his assailants must bear his mark upon him.
There you have it all in a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me any
light I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”

I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which Holmes,
with characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though most of the
facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently appreciated their
relative importance, nor their connection to each other.

“Is it not possible,” I suggested, “that the incised wound upon Straker
may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive struggles which
follow any brain injury?”

“It is more than possible; it is probable,” said Holmes. “In that case
one of the main points in favor of the accused disappears.”

“And yet,” said I, “even now I fail to understand what the theory of the
police can be.”

“I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave objections to
it,” returned my companion. “The police imagine, I take it, that this
Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and having in some way obtained
a duplicate key, opened the stable door and took out the horse, with
the intention, apparently, of kidnapping him altogether. His bridle is
missing, so that Simpson must have put this on. Then, having left the
door open behind him, he was leading the horse away over the moor, when
he was either met or overtaken by the trainer. A row naturally ensued.
Simpson beat out the trainer's brains with his heavy stick without
receiving any injury from the small knife which Straker used in
self-defence, and then the thief either led the horse on to some secret
hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during the struggle, and be
now wandering out on the moors. That is the case as it appears to
the police, and improbable as it is, all other explanations are more
improbable still. However, I shall very quickly test the matter when I
am once upon the spot, and until then I cannot really see how we can get
much further than our present position.”

It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock, which
lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge circle of
Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the station--the one a tall,
fair man with lion-like hair and beard and curiously penetrating light
blue eyes; the other a small, alert person, very neat and dapper, in a
frock-coat and gaiters, with trim little side-whiskers and an eye-glass.
The latter was Colonel Ross, the well-known sportsman; the other,
Inspector Gregory, a man who was rapidly making his name in the English
detective service.

“I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes,” said the Colonel.
“The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be suggested, but I
wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to avenge poor Straker and in
recovering my horse.”

“Have there been any fresh developments?” asked Holmes.

“I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress,” said the
Inspector. “We have an open carriage outside, and as you would no doubt
like to see the place before the light fails, we might talk it over as
we drive.”

A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau, and were
rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city. Inspector Gregory was
full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks, while Holmes threw
in an occasional question or interjection. Colonel Ross leaned back with
his arms folded and his hat tilted over his eyes, while I listened with
interest to the dialogue of the two detectives. Gregory was formulating
his theory, which was almost exactly what Holmes had foretold in the
train.

“The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson,” he remarked, “and
I believe myself that he is our man. At the same time I recognize that
the evidence is purely circumstantial, and that some new development may
upset it.”

“How about Straker's knife?”

“We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in his
fall.”

“My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down. If so,
it would tell against this man Simpson.”

“Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The
evidence against him is certainly very strong. He had a great interest
in the disappearance of the favorite. He lies under suspicion of having
poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly out in the storm, he was
armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat was found in the dead man's
hand. I really think we have enough to go before a jury.”

Holmes shook his head. “A clever counsel would tear it all to rags,”
 said he. “Why should he take the horse out of the stable? If he wished
to injure it why could he not do it there? Has a duplicate key been
found in his possession? What chemist sold him the powdered opium? Above
all, where could he, a stranger to the district, hide a horse, and such
a horse as this? What is his own explanation as to the paper which he
wished the maid to give to the stable-boy?”

“He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his purse. But
your other difficulties are not so formidable as they seem. He is not
a stranger to the district. He has twice lodged at Tavistock in the
summer. The opium was probably brought from London. The key, having
served its purpose, would be hurled away. The horse may be at the bottom
of one of the pits or old mines upon the moor.”

“What does he say about the cravat?”

“He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost it. But a
new element has been introduced into the case which may account for his
leading the horse from the stable.”

Holmes pricked up his ears.

“We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped on
Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took place. On
Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was some understanding
between Simpson and these gypsies, might he not have been leading the
horse to them when he was overtaken, and may they not have him now?”

“It is certainly possible.”

“The moor is being scoured for these gypsies. I have also examined every
stable and out-house in Tavistock, and for a radius of ten miles.”

“There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?”

“Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect. As
Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had an interest
in the disappearance of the favorite. Silas Brown, the trainer, is known
to have had large bets upon the event, and he was no friend to poor
Straker. We have, however, examined the stables, and there is nothing to
connect him with the affair.”

“And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of the
Mapleton stables?”

“Nothing at all.”

Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased. A few
minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little red-brick villa with
overhanging eaves which stood by the road. Some distance off, across a
paddock, lay a long gray-tiled out-building. In every other direction
the low curves of the moor, bronze-colored from the fading ferns,
stretched away to the sky-line, broken only by the steeples of
Tavistock, and by a cluster of houses away to the westward which marked
the Mapleton stables. We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes,
who continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front of
him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts. It was only when I touched
his arm that he roused himself with a violent start and stepped out of
the carriage.

“Excuse me,” said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at him in
some surprise. “I was day-dreaming.” There was a gleam in his eyes and a
suppressed excitement in his manner which convinced me, used as I was
to his ways, that his hand was upon a clue, though I could not imagine
where he had found it.

“Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the crime,
Mr. Holmes?” said Gregory.

“I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into one or
two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I presume?”

“Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow.”

“He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?”

“I have always found him an excellent servant.”

“I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in his pockets at
the time of his death, Inspector?”

“I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if you would care to
see them.”

“I should be very glad.” We all filed into the front room and sat round
the central table while the Inspector unlocked a square tin box and laid
a small heap of things before us. There was a box of vestas, two inches
of tallow candle, an A D P brier-root pipe, a pouch of seal-skin with
half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a silver watch with a gold chain,
five sovereigns in gold, an aluminum pencil-case, a few papers, and an
ivory-handled knife with a very delicate, inflexible blade marked Weiss
& Co., London.

“This is a very singular knife,” said Holmes, lifting it up and
examining it minutely. “I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it, that
it is the one which was found in the dead man's grasp. Watson, this
knife is surely in your line?”

“It is what we call a cataract knife,” said I.

“I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate work.
A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough expedition,
especially as it would not shut in his pocket.”

“The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found beside his body,”
 said the Inspector. “His wife tells us that the knife had lain upon the
dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he left the room. It was
a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he could lay his hands on at
the moment.”

“Very possible. How about these papers?”

“Three of them are receipted hay-dealers' accounts. One of them is a
letter of instructions from Colonel Ross. This other is a milliner's
account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by Madame Lesurier,
of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs. Straker tells us that
Derbyshire was a friend of her husband's and that occasionally his
letters were addressed here.”

“Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes,” remarked Holmes,
glancing down the account. “Twenty-two guineas is rather heavy for a
single costume. However there appears to be nothing more to learn, and
we may now go down to the scene of the crime.”

As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting in
the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the Inspector's
sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin and eager, stamped with the print
of a recent horror.

“Have you got them? Have you found them?” she panted.

“No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to help us,
and we shall do all that is possible.”

“Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time ago,
Mrs. Straker?” said Holmes.

“No, sir; you are mistaken.”

“Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of
dove-colored silk with ostrich-feather trimming.”

“I never had such a dress, sir,” answered the lady.

“Ah, that quite settles it,” said Holmes. And with an apology he
followed the Inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took us to
the hollow in which the body had been found. At the brink of it was the
furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.

“There was no wind that night, I understand,” said Holmes.

“None; but very heavy rain.”

“In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush, but
placed there.”

“Yes, it was laid across the bush.”

“You fill me with interest, I perceive that the ground has been trampled
up a good deal. No doubt many feet have been here since Monday night.”

“A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have all
stood upon that.”

“Excellent.”

“In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of Fitzroy
Simpson's shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze.”

“My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!” Holmes took the bag, and,
descending into the hollow, he pushed the matting into a more central
position. Then stretching himself upon his face and leaning his chin
upon his hands, he made a careful study of the trampled mud in front of
him. “Hullo!” said he, suddenly. “What's this?” It was a wax vesta half
burned, which was so coated with mud that it looked at first like a
little chip of wood.

“I cannot think how I came to overlook it,” said the Inspector, with an
expression of annoyance.

“It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was
looking for it.”

“What! You expected to find it?”

“I thought it not unlikely.”

He took the boots from the bag, and compared the impressions of each of
them with marks upon the ground. Then he clambered up to the rim of the
hollow, and crawled about among the ferns and bushes.

“I am afraid that there are no more tracks,” said the Inspector. “I
have examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in each
direction.”

“Indeed!” said Holmes, rising. “I should not have the impertinence to
do it again after what you say. But I should like to take a little walk
over the moor before it grows dark, that I may know my ground to-morrow,
and I think that I shall put this horseshoe into my pocket for luck.”

Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my companion's
quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his watch. “I wish you
would come back with me, Inspector,” said he. “There are several points
on which I should like your advice, and especially as to whether we do
not owe it to the public to remove our horse's name from the entries for
the Cup.”

“Certainly not,” cried Holmes, with decision. “I should let the name
stand.”

The Colonel bowed. “I am very glad to have had your opinion, sir,” said
he. “You will find us at poor Straker's house when you have finished
your walk, and we can drive together into Tavistock.”

He turned back with the Inspector, while Holmes and I walked slowly
across the moor. The sun was beginning to sink behind the stables of
Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain in front of us was tinged with
gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the faded ferns and
brambles caught the evening light. But the glories of the landscape were
all wasted upon my companion, who was sunk in the deepest thought.

“It's this way, Watson,” said he at last. “We may leave the question
of who killed John Straker for the instant, and confine ourselves to
finding out what has become of the horse. Now, supposing that he broke
away during or after the tragedy, where could he have gone to? The horse
is a very gregarious creature. If left to himself his instincts would
have been either to return to King's Pyland or go over to Mapleton. Why
should he run wild upon the moor? He would surely have been seen by now.
And why should gypsies kidnap him? These people always clear out when
they hear of trouble, for they do not wish to be pestered by the police.
They could not hope to sell such a horse. They would run a great risk
and gain nothing by taking him. Surely that is clear.”

“Where is he, then?”

“I have already said that he must have gone to King's Pyland or to
Mapleton. He is not at King's Pyland. Therefore he is at Mapleton. Let
us take that as a working hypothesis and see what it leads us to. This
part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked, is very hard and dry. But
it falls away towards Mapleton, and you can see from here that there
is a long hollow over yonder, which must have been very wet on Monday
night. If our supposition is correct, then the horse must have crossed
that, and there is the point where we should look for his tracks.”

We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few more
minutes brought us to the hollow in question. At Holmes' request I
walked down the bank to the right, and he to the left, but I had not
taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout, and saw him waving
his hand to me. The track of a horse was plainly outlined in the soft
earth in front of him, and the shoe which he took from his pocket
exactly fitted the impression.

“See the value of imagination,” said Holmes. “It is the one quality
which Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have happened, acted upon
the supposition, and find ourselves justified. Let us proceed.”

We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile of dry,
hard turf. Again the ground sloped, and again we came on the tracks.
Then we lost them for half a mile, but only to pick them up once more
quite close to Mapleton. It was Holmes who saw them first, and he stood
pointing with a look of triumph upon his face. A man's track was visible
beside the horse's.

“The horse was alone before,” I cried.

“Quite so. It was alone before. Hullo, what is this?”

The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of King's
Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after it. His eyes
were on the trail, but I happened to look a little to one side, and
saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back again in the opposite
direction.

“One for you, Watson,” said Holmes, when I pointed it out. “You have
saved us a long walk, which would have brought us back on our own
traces. Let us follow the return track.”

We had not to go far. It ended at the paving of asphalt which led up
to the gates of the Mapleton stables. As we approached, a groom ran out
from them.

“We don't want any loiterers about here,” said he.

“I only wished to ask a question,” said Holmes, with his finger and
thumb in his waistcoat pocket. “Should I be too early to see your
master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o'clock to-morrow
morning?”

“Bless you, sir, if any one is about he will be, for he is always
the first stirring. But here he is, sir, to answer your questions for
himself. No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to let him see
me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like.”

As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn from his
pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the gate with a
hunting-crop swinging in his hand.

“What's this, Dawson!” he cried. “No gossiping! Go about your business!
And you, what the devil do you want here?”

“Ten minutes' talk with you, my good sir,” said Holmes in the sweetest
of voices.

“I've no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no stranger here. Be
off, or you may find a dog at your heels.”

Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer's ear. He
started violently and flushed to the temples.

“It's a lie!” he shouted, “an infernal lie!”

“Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it over in
your parlor?”

“Oh, come in if you wish to.”

Holmes smiled. “I shall not keep you more than a few minutes, Watson,”
 said he. “Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”

It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into grays before
Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never have I seen such a change as
had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short time. His face was
ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon his brow, and his hands
shook until the hunting-crop wagged like a branch in the wind. His
bullying, overbearing manner was all gone too, and he cringed along at
my companion's side like a dog with its master.

“Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done,” said he.

“There must be no mistake,” said Holmes, looking round at him. The other
winced as he read the menace in his eyes.

“Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I change it
first or not?”

Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. “No, don't,” said
he; “I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or--”

“Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”

“Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.” He turned
upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the other held out
to him, and we set off for King's Pyland.

“A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than Master
Silas Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we trudged along
together.

“He has the horse, then?”

“He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly what
his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced that I was
watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly square toes in the
impressions, and that his own boots exactly corresponded to them.
Again, of course no subordinate would have dared to do such a thing.
I described to him how, when according to his custom he was the first
down, he perceived a strange horse wandering over the moor. How he went
out to it, and his astonishment at recognizing, from the white forehead
which has given the favorite its name, that chance had put in his power
the only horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his money.
Then I described how his first impulse had been to lead him back to
King's Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he could hide the
horse until the race was over, and how he had led it back and concealed
it at Mapleton. When I told him every detail he gave it up and thought
only of saving his own skin.”

“But his stables had been searched?”

“Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”

“But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now, since he
has every interest in injuring it?”

“My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He knows that
his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”

“Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to show
much mercy in any case.”

“The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own methods,
and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the advantage of
being unofficial. I don't know whether you observed it, Watson, but the
Colonel's manner has been just a trifle cavalier to me. I am inclined
now to have a little amusement at his expense. Say nothing to him about
the horse.”

“Certainly not without your permission.”

“And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the question
of who killed John Straker.”

“And you will devote yourself to that?”

“On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”

I was thunderstruck by my friend's words. We had only been a few hours
in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation which he had
begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to me. Not a word more
could I draw from him until we were back at the trainer's house. The
Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting us in the parlor.

“My friend and I return to town by the night-express,” said Holmes. “We
have had a charming little breath of your beautiful Dartmoor air.”

The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel's lip curled in a sneer.

“So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said he.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave difficulties
in the way,” said he. “I have every hope, however, that your horse
will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will have your jockey in
readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of Mr. John Straker?”

The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.

“My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you to
wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should like to put
to the maid.”

“I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London consultant,”
 said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the room. “I do not see
that we are any further than when he came.”

“At least you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said I.

“Yes, I have his assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of his
shoulders. “I should prefer to have the horse.”

I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he entered
the room again.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”

As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the door
open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he leaned
forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.

“You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to them?”

“I do, sir.”

“Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”

“Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone lame, sir.”

I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled and
rubbed his hands together.

“A long shot, Watson; a very long shot,” said he, pinching my arm.
“Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular epidemic
among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”

Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor opinion
which he had formed of my companion's ability, but I saw by the
Inspector's face that his attention had been keenly aroused.

“You consider that to be important?” he asked.

“Exceedingly so.”

“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?”

“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.


Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met us by
appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag to the course
beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner was cold in the
extreme.

“I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.

“I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked Holmes.

The Colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty years,
and never was asked such a question as that before,” said he. “A
child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and his mottled
off-foreleg.”

“How is the betting?”

“Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen to one
yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter, until you can
hardly get three to one now.”

“Hum!” said Holmes. “Somebody knows something, that is clear.”

As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I glanced at
the card to see the entries.

Wessex Plate [it ran] 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs added for four
and five year olds. Second, L300. Third, L200. New course (one mile and
five furlongs). Mr. Heath Newton's The Negro. Red cap. Cinnamon jacket.
Colonel Wardlaw's Pugilist. Pink cap. Blue and black jacket. Lord
Backwater's Desborough. Yellow cap and sleeves. Colonel Ross's Silver
Blaze. Black cap. Red jacket. Duke of Balmoral's Iris. Yellow and black
stripes. Lord Singleford's Rasper. Purple cap. Black sleeves.

“We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word,” said the
Colonel. “Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favorite?”

“Five to four against Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to four
against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough! Five to four
on the field!”

“There are the numbers up,” I cried. “They are all six there.”

“All six there? Then my horse is running,” cried the Colonel in great
agitation. “But I don't see him. My colors have not passed.”

“Only five have passed. This must be he.”

As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing enclosure
and cantered past us, bearing on its back the well-known black and red
of the Colonel.

“That's not my horse,” cried the owner. “That beast has not a white hair
upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr. Holmes?”

“Well, well, let us see how he gets on,” said my friend, imperturbably.
For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass. “Capital! An
excellent start!” he cried suddenly. “There they are, coming round the
curve!”

From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight. The six
horses were so close together that a carpet could have covered them,
but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable showed to the front.
Before they reached us, however, Desborough's bolt was shot, and the
Colonel's horse, coming away with a rush, passed the post a good six
lengths before its rival, the Duke of Balmoral's Iris making a bad
third.

“It's my race, anyhow,” gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over his
eyes. “I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it. Don't you
think that you have kept up your mystery long enough, Mr. Holmes?”

“Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go round and
have a look at the horse together. Here he is,” he continued, as we made
our way into the weighing enclosure, where only owners and their friends
find admittance. “You have only to wash his face and his leg in spirits
of wine, and you will find that he is the same old Silver Blaze as
ever.”

“You take my breath away!”

“I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of running
him just as he was sent over.”

“My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and well.
It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand apologies
for having doubted your ability. You have done me a great service by
recovering my horse. You would do me a greater still if you could lay
your hands on the murderer of John Straker.”

“I have done so,” said Holmes quietly.

The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. “You have got him! Where
is he, then?”

“He is here.”

“Here! Where?”

“In my company at the present moment.”

The Colonel flushed angrily. “I quite recognize that I am under
obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but I must regard what you
have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I assure you that I have not associated
you with the crime, Colonel,” said he. “The real murderer is standing
immediately behind you.” He stepped past and laid his hand upon the
glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

“The horse!” cried both the Colonel and myself.

“Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was
done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was entirely
unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell, and as I stand
to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a lengthy explanation
until a more fitting time.”



We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as we
whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a short one
to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to our
companion's narrative of the events which had occurred at the Dartmoor
training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by which he had
unravelled them.

“I confess,” said he, “that any theories which I had formed from
the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were
indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details which
concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the conviction
that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although, of course, I saw
that the evidence against him was by no means complete. It was while I
was in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer's house, that the
immense significance of the curried mutton occurred to me. You may
remember that I was distrait, and remained sitting after you had all
alighted. I was marvelling in my own mind how I could possibly have
overlooked so obvious a clue.”

“I confess,” said the Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it helps
us.”

“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium is by no
means tasteless. The flavor is not disagreeable, but it is perceptible.
Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would undoubtedly detect
it, and would probably eat no more. A curry was exactly the medium
which would disguise this taste. By no possible supposition could
this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry to be served in
the trainer's family that night, and it is surely too monstrous a
coincidence to suppose that he happened to come along with powdered
opium upon the very night when a dish happened to be served which would
disguise the flavor. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes
eliminated from the case, and our attention centers upon Straker and
his wife, the only two people who could have chosen curried mutton for
supper that night. The opium was added after the dish was set aside
for the stable-boy, for the others had the same for supper with no ill
effects. Which of them, then, had access to that dish without the maid
seeing them?

“Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of the
silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably suggests others.
The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was kept in the stables,
and yet, though some one had been in and had fetched out a horse, he
had not barked enough to arouse the two lads in the loft. Obviously the
midnight visitor was some one whom the dog knew well.

“I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker went
down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out Silver Blaze.
For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously, or why should he drug
his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss to know why. There have been
cases before now where trainers have made sure of great sums of money
by laying against their own horses, through agents, and then preventing
them from winning by fraud. Sometimes it is a pulling jockey. Sometimes
it is some surer and subtler means. What was it here? I hoped that the
contents of his pockets might help me to form a conclusion.

“And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife which was
found in the dead man's hand, a knife which certainly no sane man would
choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told us, a form of knife
which is used for the most delicate operations known in surgery. And it
was to be used for a delicate operation that night. You must know, with
your wide experience of turf matters, Colonel Ross, that it is possible
to make a slight nick upon the tendons of a horse's ham, and to do it
subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse so treated
would develop a slight lameness, which would be put down to a strain in
exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to foul play.”

“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried the Colonel.

“We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take the
horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have certainly
roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick of the knife. It
was absolutely necessary to do it in the open air.”

“I have been blind!” cried the Colonel. “Of course that was why he
needed the candle, and struck the match.”

“Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate enough to
discover not only the method of the crime, but even its motives. As a
man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not carry other people's
bills about in their pockets. We have most of us quite enough to do to
settle our own. I at once concluded that Straker was leading a double
life, and keeping a second establishment. The nature of the bill showed
that there was a lady in the case, and one who had expensive tastes.
Liberal as you are with your servants, one can hardly expect that they
can buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies. I questioned
Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and having
satisfied myself that it had never reached her, I made a note of the
milliner's address, and felt that by calling there with Straker's
photograph I could easily dispose of the mythical Derbyshire.

“From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse to a
hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his flight had
dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up--with some idea,
perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse's leg. Once in the
hollow, he had got behind the horse and had struck a light; but the
creature frightened at the sudden glare, and with the strange instinct
of animals feeling that some mischief was intended, had lashed out, and
the steel shoe had struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already,
in spite of the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicate
task, and so, as he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make it
clear?”

“Wonderful!” cried the Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been there!”

“My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that so
astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate tendon-nicking
without a little practice. What could he practice on? My eyes fell upon
the sheep, and I asked a question which, rather to my surprise, showed
that my surmise was correct.

“When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had
recognized Straker as an excellent customer of the name of Derbyshire,
who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality for expensive
dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had plunged him over head and
ears in debt, and so led him into this miserable plot.”

“You have explained all but one thing,” cried the Colonel. “Where was
the horse?”

“Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbors. We must have
an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham Junction, if I am
not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in less than ten minutes. If
you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms, Colonel, I shall be happy to
give you any other details which might interest you.”




Adventure II. The Yellow Face


[In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerous cases in
which my companion's singular gifts have made us the listeners to, and
eventually the actors in, some strange drama, it is only natural that I
should dwell rather upon his successes than upon his failures. And this
not so much for the sake of his reputation--for, indeed, it was when
he was at his wits' end that his energy and his versatility were most
admirable--but because where he failed it happened too often that no one
else succeeded, and that the tale was left forever without a conclusion.
Now and again, however, it chanced that even when he erred, the truth
was still discovered. I have noted of some half-dozen cases of the
kind; the Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual and that which I am about to
recount are the two which present the strongest features of interest.]

Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise's sake.
Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly
one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen; but he
looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy, and he seldom
bestirred himself save when there was some professional object to be
served. Then he was absolutely untiring and indefatigable. That he
should have kept himself in training under such circumstances is
remarkable, but his diet was usually of the sparest, and his habits
were simple to the verge of austerity. Save for the occasional use of
cocaine, he had no vices, and he only turned to the drug as a protest
against the monotony of existence when cases were scanty and the papers
uninteresting.

One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk with
me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were breaking out
upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the chestnuts were just
beginning to burst into their five-fold leaves. For two hours we rambled
about together, in silence for the most part, as befits two men who know
each other intimately. It was nearly five before we were back in Baker
Street once more.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said our page-boy, as he opened the door. “There's
been a gentleman here asking for you, sir.”

Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. “So much for afternoon walks!” said
he. “Has this gentleman gone, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Didn't you ask him in?”

“Yes, sir; he came in.”

“How long did he wait?”

“Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir, a-walkin'
and a-stampin' all the time he was here. I was waitin' outside the door,
sir, and I could hear him. At last he outs into the passage, and he
cries, 'Is that man never goin' to come?' Those were his very words,
sir. 'You'll only need to wait a little longer,' says I. 'Then I'll wait
in the open air, for I feel half choked,' says he. 'I'll be back before
long.' And with that he ups and he outs, and all I could say wouldn't
hold him back.”

“Well, well, you did your best,” said Holmes, as we walked into our
room. “It's very annoying, though, Watson. I was badly in need of
a case, and this looks, from the man's impatience, as if it were of
importance. Hullo! That's not your pipe on the table. He must have
left his behind him. A nice old brier with a good long stem of what the
tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many real amber mouthpieces there
are in London? Some people think that a fly in it is a sign. Well, he
must have been disturbed in his mind to leave a pipe behind him which he
evidently values highly.”

“How do you know that he values it highly?” I asked.

“Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven and sixpence.
Now it has, you see, been twice mended, once in the wooden stem and once
in the amber. Each of these mends, done, as you observe, with silver
bands, must have cost more than the pipe did originally. The man must
value the pipe highly when he prefers to patch it up rather than buy a
new one with the same money.”

“Anything else?” I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe about in his
hand, and staring at it in his peculiar pensive way.

He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin fore-finger, as a
professor might who was lecturing on a bone.

“Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest,” said he. “Nothing
has more individuality, save perhaps watches and bootlaces. The
indications here, however, are neither very marked nor very important.
The owner is obviously a muscular man, left-handed, with an excellent
set of teeth, careless in his habits, and with no need to practise
economy.”

My friend threw out the information in a very offhand way, but I saw
that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed his reasoning.

“You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling pipe,”
 said I.

“This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,” Holmes answered,
knocking a little out on his palm. “As he might get an excellent smoke
for half the price, he has no need to practise economy.”

“And the other points?”

“He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and gas-jets.
You can see that it is quite charred all down one side. Of course a
match could not have done that. Why should a man hold a match to the
side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a lamp without getting the
bowl charred. And it is all on the right side of the pipe. From that I
gather that he is a left-handed man. You hold your own pipe to the lamp,
and see how naturally you, being right-handed, hold the left side to the
flame. You might do it once the other way, but not as a constancy. This
has always been held so. Then he has bitten through his amber. It takes
a muscular, energetic fellow, and one with a good set of teeth, to do
that. But if I am not mistaken I hear him upon the stair, so we shall
have something more interesting than his pipe to study.”

An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man entered the room.
He was well but quietly dressed in a dark-gray suit, and carried a brown
wide-awake in his hand. I should have put him at about thirty, though he
was really some years older.

“I beg your pardon,” said he, with some embarrassment; “I suppose I
should have knocked. Yes, of course I should have knocked. The fact
is that I am a little upset, and you must put it all down to that.” He
passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is half dazed, and then
fell rather than sat down upon a chair.

“I can see that you have not slept for a night or two,” said Holmes,
in his easy, genial way. “That tries a man's nerves more than work, and
more even than pleasure. May I ask how I can help you?”

“I wanted your advice, sir. I don't know what to do and my whole life
seems to have gone to pieces.”

“You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?”

“Not that only. I want your opinion as a judicious man--as a man of the
world. I want to know what I ought to do next. I hope to God you'll be
able to tell me.”

He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me that to
speak at all was very painful to him, and that his will all through was
overriding his inclinations.

“It's a very delicate thing,” said he. “One does not like to speak of
one's domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful to discuss the
conduct of one's wife with two men whom I have never seen before. It's
horrible to have to do it. But I've got to the end of my tether, and I
must have advice.”

“My dear Mr. Grant Munro--” began Holmes.

Our visitor sprang from his chair. “What!” he cried, “you know my name?”

“If you wish to preserve your incognito,” said Holmes, smiling, “I would
suggest that you cease to write your name upon the lining of your
hat, or else that you turn the crown towards the person whom you are
addressing. I was about to say that my friend and I have listened to a
good many strange secrets in this room, and that we have had the good
fortune to bring peace to many troubled souls. I trust that we may do as
much for you. Might I beg you, as time may prove to be of importance, to
furnish me with the facts of your case without further delay?”

Our visitor again passed his hand over his forehead, as if he found it
bitterly hard. From every gesture and expression I could see that he was
a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of pride in his nature, more
likely to hide his wounds than to expose them. Then suddenly, with a
fierce gesture of his closed hand, like one who throws reserve to the
winds, he began.

“The facts are these, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am a married man, and
have been so for three years. During that time my wife and I have loved
each other as fondly and lived as happily as any two that ever were
joined. We have not had a difference, not one, in thought or word or
deed. And now, since last Monday, there has suddenly sprung up a barrier
between us, and I find that there is something in her life and in her
thought of which I know as little as if she were the woman who brushes
by me in the street. We are estranged, and I want to know why.

“Now there is one thing that I want to impress upon you before I go
any further, Mr. Holmes. Effie loves me. Don't let there be any mistake
about that. She loves me with her whole heart and soul, and never more
than now. I know it. I feel it. I don't want to argue about that. A man
can tell easily enough when a woman loves him. But there's this secret
between us, and we can never be the same until it is cleared.”

“Kindly let me have the facts, Mr. Munro,” said Holmes, with some
impatience.

“I'll tell you what I know about Effie's history. She was a widow when
I met her first, though quite young--only twenty-five. Her name then was
Mrs. Hebron. She went out to America when she was young, and lived in
the town of Atlanta, where she married this Hebron, who was a lawyer
with a good practice. They had one child, but the yellow fever broke out
badly in the place, and both husband and child died of it. I have seen
his death certificate. This sickened her of America, and she came back
to live with a maiden aunt at Pinner, in Middlesex. I may mention that
her husband had left her comfortably off, and that she had a capital of
about four thousand five hundred pounds, which had been so well invested
by him that it returned an average of seven per cent. She had only been
six months at Pinner when I met her; we fell in love with each other,
and we married a few weeks afterwards.

“I am a hop merchant myself, and as I have an income of seven or
eight hundred, we found ourselves comfortably off, and took a nice
eighty-pound-a-year villa at Norbury. Our little place was very
countrified, considering that it is so close to town. We had an inn and
two houses a little above us, and a single cottage at the other side of
the field which faces us, and except those there were no houses until
you got half way to the station. My business took me into town at
certain seasons, but in summer I had less to do, and then in our country
home my wife and I were just as happy as could be wished. I tell you
that there never was a shadow between us until this accursed affair
began.

“There's one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When we
married, my wife made over all her property to me--rather against my
will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business affairs went
wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was done. Well, about six
weeks ago she came to me.

“'Jack,' said she, 'when you took my money you said that if ever I
wanted any I was to ask you for it.'

“'Certainly,' said I. 'It's all your own.'

“'Well,' said she, 'I want a hundred pounds.'

“I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imagined it was simply a new
dress or something of the kind that she was after.

“'What on earth for?' I asked.

“'Oh,' said she, in her playful way, 'you said that you were only my
banker, and bankers never ask questions, you know.'

“'If you really mean it, of course you shall have the money,' said I.

“'Oh, yes, I really mean it.'

“'And you won't tell me what you want it for?'

“'Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.'

“So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time that
there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a check, and I
never thought any more of the matter. It may have nothing to do with
what came afterwards, but I thought it only right to mention it.

“Well, I told you just now that there is a cottage not far from our
house. There is just a field between us, but to reach it you have to
go along the road and then turn down a lane. Just beyond it is a nice
little grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very fond of strolling
down there, for trees are always a neighborly kind of things. The
cottage had been standing empty this eight months, and it was a pity,
for it was a pretty two-storied place, with an old-fashioned porch and
honeysuckle about it. I have stood many a time and thought what a neat
little homestead it would make.

“Well, last Monday evening I was taking a stroll down that way, when
I met an empty van coming up the lane, and saw a pile of carpets and
things lying about on the grass-plot beside the porch. It was clear that
the cottage had at last been let. I walked past it, and wondered what
sort of folk they were who had come to live so near us. And as I looked
I suddenly became aware that a face was watching me out of one of the
upper windows.

“I don't know what there was about that face, Mr. Holmes, but it seemed
to send a chill right down my back. I was some little way off, so that
I could not make out the features, but there was something unnatural and
inhuman about the face. That was the impression that I had, and I moved
quickly forwards to get a nearer view of the person who was watching
me. But as I did so the face suddenly disappeared, so suddenly that it
seemed to have been plucked away into the darkness of the room. I stood
for five minutes thinking the business over, and trying to analyze my
impressions. I could not tell if the face were that of a man or a
woman. It had been too far from me for that. But its color was what had
impressed me most. It was of a livid chalky white, and with something
set and rigid about it which was shockingly unnatural. So disturbed
was I that I determined to see a little more of the new inmates of
the cottage. I approached and knocked at the door, which was instantly
opened by a tall, gaunt woman with a harsh, forbidding face.

“'What may you be wantin'?' she asked, in a Northern accent.

“'I am your neighbor over yonder,' said I, nodding towards my house. 'I
see that you have only just moved in, so I thought that if I could be of
any help to you in any--'

“'Ay, we'll just ask ye when we want ye,' said she, and shut the door
in my face. Annoyed at the churlish rebuff, I turned my back and walked
home. All evening, though I tried to think of other things, my mind
would still turn to the apparition at the window and the rudeness of the
woman. I determined to say nothing about the former to my wife, for
she is a nervous, highly strung woman, and I had no wish that she would
share the unpleasant impression which had been produced upon myself. I
remarked to her, however, before I fell asleep, that the cottage was now
occupied, to which she returned no reply.

“I am usually an extremely sound sleeper. It has been a standing jest
in the family that nothing could ever wake me during the night. And yet
somehow on that particular night, whether it may have been the slight
excitement produced by my little adventure or not I know not, but
I slept much more lightly than usual. Half in my dreams I was dimly
conscious that something was going on in the room, and gradually became
aware that my wife had dressed herself and was slipping on her mantle
and her bonnet. My lips were parted to murmur out some sleepy words of
surprise or remonstrance at this untimely preparation, when suddenly my
half-opened eyes fell upon her face, illuminated by the candle-light,
and astonishment held me dumb. She wore an expression such as I had
never seen before--such as I should have thought her incapable of
assuming. She was deadly pale and breathing fast, glancing furtively
towards the bed as she fastened her mantle, to see if she had disturbed
me. Then, thinking that I was still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from
the room, and an instant later I heard a sharp creaking which could only
come from the hinges of the front door. I sat up in bed and rapped my
knuckles against the rail to make certain that I was truly awake. Then
I took my watch from under the pillow. It was three in the morning. What
on this earth could my wife be doing out on the country road at three in
the morning?

“I had sat for about twenty minutes turning the thing over in my mind
and trying to find some possible explanation. The more I thought, the
more extraordinary and inexplicable did it appear. I was still puzzling
over it when I heard the door gently close again, and her footsteps
coming up the stairs.

“'Where in the world have you been, Effie?' I asked as she entered.

“She gave a violent start and a kind of gasping cry when I spoke, and
that cry and start troubled me more than all the rest, for there was
something indescribably guilty about them. My wife had always been
a woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a chill to see her
slinking into her own room, and crying out and wincing when her own
husband spoke to her.

“'You awake, Jack!' she cried, with a nervous laugh. 'Why, I thought
that nothing could awake you.'

“'Where have you been?' I asked, more sternly.

“'I don't wonder that you are surprised,' said she, and I could see that
her fingers were trembling as she undid the fastenings of her mantle.
'Why, I never remember having done such a thing in my life before. The
fact is that I felt as though I were choking, and had a perfect longing
for a breath of fresh air. I really think that I should have fainted if
I had not gone out. I stood at the door for a few minutes, and now I am
quite myself again.'

“All the time that she was telling me this story she never once looked
in my direction, and her voice was quite unlike her usual tones. It
was evident to me that she was saying what was false. I said nothing
in reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at heart, with my mind
filled with a thousand venomous doubts and suspicions. What was it that
my wife was concealing from me? Where had she been during that strange
expedition? I felt that I should have no peace until I knew, and yet I
shrank from asking her again after once she had told me what was false.
All the rest of the night I tossed and tumbled, framing theory after
theory, each more unlikely than the last.

“I should have gone to the City that day, but I was too disturbed in my
mind to be able to pay attention to business matters. My wife seemed
to be as upset as myself, and I could see from the little questioning
glances which she kept shooting at me that she understood that I
disbelieved her statement, and that she was at her wits' end what to do.
We hardly exchanged a word during breakfast, and immediately afterwards
I went out for a walk, that I might think the matter out in the fresh
morning air.

“I went as far as the Crystal Palace, spent an hour in the grounds, and
was back in Norbury by one o'clock. It happened that my way took me past
the cottage, and I stopped for an instant to look at the windows, and to
see if I could catch a glimpse of the strange face which had looked
out at me on the day before. As I stood there, imagine my surprise, Mr.
Holmes, when the door suddenly opened and my wife walked out.

“I was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight of her; but my
emotions were nothing to those which showed themselves upon her face
when our eyes met. She seemed for an instant to wish to shrink back
inside the house again; and then, seeing how useless all concealment
must be, she came forward, with a very white face and frightened eyes
which belied the smile upon her lips.

“'Ah, Jack,' she said, 'I have just been in to see if I can be of any
assistance to our new neighbors. Why do you look at me like that, Jack?
You are not angry with me?'

“'So,' said I, 'this is where you went during the night.'

“'What do you mean?' she cried.

“'You came here. I am sure of it. Who are these people, that you should
visit them at such an hour?'

“'I have not been here before.'

“'How can you tell me what you know is false?' I cried. 'Your very voice
changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret from you? I shall
enter that cottage, and I shall probe the matter to the bottom.'

“'No, no, Jack, for God's sake!' she gasped, in uncontrollable emotion.
Then, as I approached the door, she seized my sleeve and pulled me back
with convulsive strength.

“'I implore you not to do this, Jack,' she cried. 'I swear that I will
tell you everything some day, but nothing but misery can come of it if
you enter that cottage.' Then, as I tried to shake her off, she clung to
me in a frenzy of entreaty.

“'Trust me, Jack!' she cried. 'Trust me only this once. You will never
have cause to regret it. You know that I would not have a secret from
you if it were not for your own sake. Our whole lives are at stake in
this. If you come home with me, all will be well. If you force your way
into that cottage, all is over between us.'

“There was such earnestness, such despair, in her manner that her words
arrested me, and I stood irresolute before the door.

“'I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,' said I
at last. 'It is that this mystery comes to an end from now. You are
at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must promise me that there
shall be no more nightly visits, no more doings which are kept from my
knowledge. I am willing to forget those which are passed if you will
promise that there shall be no more in the future.'

“'I was sure that you would trust me,' she cried, with a great sigh of
relief. 'It shall be just as you wish. Come away--oh, come away up to
the house.'

“Still pulling at my sleeve, she led me away from the cottage. As we
went I glanced back, and there was that yellow livid face watching us
out of the upper window. What link could there be between that creature
and my wife? Or how could the coarse, rough woman whom I had seen the
day before be connected with her? It was a strange puzzle, and yet I
knew that my mind could never know ease again until I had solved it.

“For two days after this I stayed at home, and my wife appeared to abide
loyally by our engagement, for, as far as I know, she never stirred out
of the house. On the third day, however, I had ample evidence that
her solemn promise was not enough to hold her back from this secret
influence which drew her away from her husband and her duty.

“I had gone into town on that day, but I returned by the 2.40 instead of
the 3.36, which is my usual train. As I entered the house the maid ran
into the hall with a startled face.

“'Where is your mistress?' I asked.

“'I think that she has gone out for a walk,' she answered.

“My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs to make
sure that she was not in the house. As I did so I happened to glance out
of one of the upper windows, and saw the maid with whom I had just been
speaking running across the field in the direction of the cottage. Then
of course I saw exactly what it all meant. My wife had gone over there,
and had asked the servant to call her if I should return. Tingling with
anger, I rushed down and hurried across, determined to end the matter
once and forever. I saw my wife and the maid hurrying back along the
lane, but I did not stop to speak with them. In the cottage lay the
secret which was casting a shadow over my life. I vowed that, come what
might, it should be a secret no longer. I did not even knock when I
reached it, but turned the handle and rushed into the passage.

“It was all still and quiet upon the ground floor. In the kitchen a
kettle was singing on the fire, and a large black cat lay coiled up in
the basket; but there was no sign of the woman whom I had seen before.
I ran into the other room, but it was equally deserted. Then I rushed up
the stairs, only to find two other rooms empty and deserted at the top.
There was no one at all in the whole house. The furniture and pictures
were of the most common and vulgar description, save in the one chamber
at the window of which I had seen the strange face. That was comfortable
and elegant, and all my suspicions rose into a fierce bitter flame when
I saw that on the mantelpiece stood a copy of a full-length photograph
of my wife, which had been taken at my request only three months ago.

“I stayed long enough to make certain that the house was absolutely
empty. Then I left it, feeling a weight at my heart such as I had never
had before. My wife came out into the hall as I entered my house; but I
was too hurt and angry to speak with her, and pushing past her, I made
my way into my study. She followed me, however, before I could close the
door.

“'I am sorry that I broke my promise, Jack,' said she; 'but if you knew
all the circumstances I am sure that you would forgive me.'

“'Tell me everything, then,' said I.

“'I cannot, Jack, I cannot,' she cried.

“'Until you tell me who it is that has been living in that cottage, and
who it is to whom you have given that photograph, there can never be any
confidence between us,' said I, and breaking away from her, I left the
house. That was yesterday, Mr. Holmes, and I have not seen her since,
nor do I know anything more about this strange business. It is the first
shadow that has come between us, and it has so shaken me that I do not
know what I should do for the best. Suddenly this morning it occurred to
me that you were the man to advise me, so I have hurried to you now, and
I place myself unreservedly in your hands. If there is any point which I
have not made clear, pray question me about it. But, above all, tell me
quickly what I am to do, for this misery is more than I can bear.”

Holmes and I had listened with the utmost interest to this extraordinary
statement, which had been delivered in the jerky, broken fashion of a
man who is under the influence of extreme emotions. My companion sat
silent for some time, with his chin upon his hand, lost in thought.

“Tell me,” said he at last, “could you swear that this was a man's face
which you saw at the window?”

“Each time that I saw it I was some distance away from it, so that it is
impossible for me to say.”

“You appear, however, to have been disagreeably impressed by it.”

“It seemed to be of an unnatural color, and to have a strange rigidity
about the features. When I approached, it vanished with a jerk.”

“How long is it since your wife asked you for a hundred pounds?”

“Nearly two months.”

“Have you ever seen a photograph of her first husband?”

“No; there was a great fire at Atlanta very shortly after his death, and
all her papers were destroyed.”

“And yet she had a certificate of death. You say that you saw it.”

“Yes; she got a duplicate after the fire.”

“Did you ever meet any one who knew her in America?”

“No.”

“Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?”

“No.”

“Or get letters from it?”

“No.”

“Thank you. I should like to think over the matter a little now. If the
cottage is now permanently deserted we may have some difficulty. If, on
the other hand, as I fancy is more likely, the inmates were warned of
your coming, and left before you entered yesterday, then they may be
back now, and we should clear it all up easily. Let me advise you, then,
to return to Norbury, and to examine the windows of the cottage again.
If you have reason to believe that it is inhabited, do not force your
way in, but send a wire to my friend and me. We shall be with you within
an hour of receiving it, and we shall then very soon get to the bottom
of the business.”

“And if it is still empty?”

“In that case I shall come out to-morrow and talk it over with you.
Good-by; and, above all, do not fret until you know that you really have
a cause for it.”

“I am afraid that this is a bad business, Watson,” said my companion, as
he returned after accompanying Mr. Grant Munro to the door. “What do you
make of it?”

“It had an ugly sound,” I answered.

“Yes. There's blackmail in it, or I am much mistaken.”

“And who is the blackmailer?”

“Well, it must be the creature who lives in the only comfortable room
in the place, and has her photograph above his fireplace. Upon my word,
Watson, there is something very attractive about that livid face at the
window, and I would not have missed the case for worlds.”

“You have a theory?”

“Yes, a provisional one. But I shall be surprised if it does not turn
out to be correct. This woman's first husband is in that cottage.”

“Why do you think so?”

“How else can we explain her frenzied anxiety that her second one should
not enter it? The facts, as I read them, are something like this:
This woman was married in America. Her husband developed some hateful
qualities; or shall we say that he contracted some loathsome disease,
and became a leper or an imbecile? She flies from him at last, returns
to England, changes her name, and starts her life, as she thinks,
afresh. She has been married three years, and believes that her position
is quite secure, having shown her husband the death certificate of
some man whose name she has assumed, when suddenly her whereabouts
is discovered by her first husband; or, we may suppose, by some
unscrupulous woman who has attached herself to the invalid. They write
to the wife, and threaten to come and expose her. She asks for a hundred
pounds, and endeavors to buy them off. They come in spite of it, and
when the husband mentions casually to the wife that there are new-comers
in the cottage, she knows in some way that they are her pursuers. She
waits until her husband is asleep, and then she rushes down to endeavor
to persuade them to leave her in peace. Having no success, she goes
again next morning, and her husband meets her, as he has told us, as
she comes out. She promises him then not to go there again, but two days
afterwards the hope of getting rid of those dreadful neighbors was too
strong for her, and she made another attempt, taking down with her the
photograph which had probably been demanded from her. In the midst of
this interview the maid rushed in to say that the master had come home,
on which the wife, knowing that he would come straight down to the
cottage, hurried the inmates out at the back door, into the grove of
fir-trees, probably, which was mentioned as standing near. In this way
he found the place deserted. I shall be very much surprised, however, if
it is still so when he reconnoitres it this evening. What do you think
of my theory?”

“It is all surmise.”

“But at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our
knowledge which cannot be covered by it, it will be time enough to
reconsider it. We can do nothing more until we have a message from our
friend at Norbury.”

But we had not a very long time to wait for that. It came just as we had
finished our tea. “The cottage is still tenanted,” it said. “Have seen
the face again at the window. Will meet the seven o'clock train, and
will take no steps until you arrive.”


He was waiting on the platform when we stepped out, and we could see in
the light of the station lamps that he was very pale, and quivering with
agitation.

“They are still there, Mr. Holmes,” said he, laying his hand hard upon
my friend's sleeve. “I saw lights in the cottage as I came down. We
shall settle it now once and for all.”

“What is your plan, then?” asked Holmes, as he walked down the dark
tree-lined road.

“I am going to force my way in and see for myself who is in the house. I
wish you both to be there as witnesses.”

“You are quite determined to do this, in spite of your wife's warning
that it is better that you should not solve the mystery?”

“Yes, I am determined.”

“Well, I think that you are in the right. Any truth is better than
indefinite doubt. We had better go up at once. Of course, legally, we
are putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong; but I think that it is
worth it.”

It was a very dark night, and a thin rain began to fall as we turned
from the high road into a narrow lane, deeply rutted, with hedges on
either side. Mr. Grant Munro pushed impatiently forward, however, and we
stumbled after him as best we could.

“There are the lights of my house,” he murmured, pointing to a glimmer
among the trees. “And here is the cottage which I am going to enter.”

We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there was the building
close beside us. A yellow bar falling across the black foreground showed
that the door was not quite closed, and one window in the upper story
was brightly illuminated. As we looked, we saw a dark blur moving across
the blind.

“There is that creature!” cried Grant Munro. “You can see for yourselves
that some one is there. Now follow me, and we shall soon know all.”

We approached the door; but suddenly a woman appeared out of the shadow
and stood in the golden track of the lamp-light. I could not see her
face in the darkness, but her arms were thrown out in an attitude of
entreaty.

“For God's sake, don't Jack!” she cried. “I had a presentiment that you
would come this evening. Think better of it, dear! Trust me again, and
you will never have cause to regret it.”

“I have trusted you too long, Effie,” he cried, sternly. “Leave go of
me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle this matter
once and forever!” He pushed her to one side, and we followed closely
after him. As he threw the door open an old woman ran out in front of
him and tried to bar his passage, but he thrust her back, and an instant
afterwards we were all upon the stairs. Grant Munro rushed into the
lighted room at the top, and we entered at his heels.

It was a cosey, well-furnished apartment, with two candles burning upon
the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the corner, stooping over a
desk, there sat what appeared to be a little girl. Her face was turned
away as we entered, but we could see that she was dressed in a red
frock, and that she had long white gloves on. As she whisked round
to us, I gave a cry of surprise and horror. The face which she turned
towards us was of the strangest livid tint, and the features were
absolutely devoid of any expression. An instant later the mystery was
explained. Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind the child's
ear, a mask peeled off from her countenance, and there was a little coal
black negress, with all her white teeth flashing in amusement at our
amazed faces. I burst out laughing, out of sympathy with her merriment;
but Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand clutching his throat.

“My God!” he cried. “What can be the meaning of this?”

“I will tell you the meaning of it,” cried the lady, sweeping into
the room with a proud, set face. “You have forced me, against my own
judgment, to tell you, and now we must both make the best of it. My
husband died at Atlanta. My child survived.”

“Your child?”

She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. “You have never seen this
open.”

“I understood that it did not open.”

She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a portrait
within of a man strikingly handsome and intelligent-looking, but bearing
unmistakable signs upon his features of his African descent.

“That is John Hebron, of Atlanta,” said the lady, “and a nobler man
never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in order to wed
him, but never once while he lived did I for an instant regret it. It
was our misfortune that our only child took after his people rather than
mine. It is often so in such matches, and little Lucy is darker far than
ever her father was. But dark or fair, she is my own dear little girlie,
and her mother's pet.” The little creature ran across at the words and
nestled up against the lady's dress. “When I left her in America,” she
continued, “it was only because her health was weak, and the change
might have done her harm. She was given to the care of a faithful Scotch
woman who had once been our servant. Never for an instant did I dream
of disowning her as my child. But when chance threw you in my way, Jack,
and I learned to love you, I feared to tell you about my child. God
forgive me, I feared that I should lose you, and I had not the courage
to tell you. I had to choose between you, and in my weakness I turned
away from my own little girl. For three years I have kept her existence
a secret from you, but I heard from the nurse, and I knew that all was
well with her. At last, however, there came an overwhelming desire to
see the child once more. I struggled against it, but in vain. Though I
knew the danger, I determined to have the child over, if it were but
for a few weeks. I sent a hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her
instructions about this cottage, so that she might come as a neighbor,
without my appearing to be in any way connected with her. I pushed my
precautions so far as to order her to keep the child in the house during
the daytime, and to cover up her little face and hands so that even
those who might see her at the window should not gossip about there
being a black child in the neighborhood. If I had been less cautious
I might have been more wise, but I was half crazy with fear that you
should learn the truth.

“It was you who told me first that the cottage was occupied. I should
have waited for the morning, but I could not sleep for excitement, and
so at last I slipped out, knowing how difficult it is to awake you. But
you saw me go, and that was the beginning of my troubles. Next day you
had my secret at your mercy, but you nobly refrained from pursuing your
advantage. Three days later, however, the nurse and child only just
escaped from the back door as you rushed in at the front one. And now
to-night you at last know all, and I ask you what is to become of us, my
child and me?” She clasped her hands and waited for an answer.

It was a long ten minutes before Grant Munro broke the silence, and
when his answer came it was one of which I love to think. He lifted
the little child, kissed her, and then, still carrying her, he held his
other hand out to his wife and turned towards the door.

“We can talk it over more comfortably at home,” said he. “I am not a
very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one than you have
given me credit for being.”

Holmes and I followed them down the lane, and my friend plucked at my
sleeve as we came out.

“I think,” said he, “that we shall be of more use in London than in
Norbury.”

Not another word did he say of the case until late that night, when he
was turning away, with his lighted candle, for his bedroom.

“Watson,” said he, “if it should ever strike you that I am getting a
little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case
than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be
infinitely obliged to you.”




Adventure III. The Stock-Broker's Clerk


Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the Paddington
district. Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom I purchased it, had at one time an
excellent general practice; but his age, and an affliction of the nature
of St. Vitus's dance from which he suffered, had very much thinned it.
The public not unnaturally goes on the principle that he who would heal
others must himself be whole, and looks askance at the curative powers
of the man whose own case is beyond the reach of his drugs. Thus as my
predecessor weakened his practice declined, until when I purchased
it from him it had sunk from twelve hundred to little more than three
hundred a year. I had confidence, however, in my own youth and energy,
and was convinced that in a very few years the concern would be as
flourishing as ever.

For three months after taking over the practice I was kept very closely
at work, and saw little of my friend Sherlock Holmes, for I was too busy
to visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywhere himself save upon
professional business. I was surprised, therefore, when, one morning in
June, as I sat reading the British Medical Journal after breakfast, I
heard a ring at the bell, followed by the high, somewhat strident tones
of my old companion's voice.

“Ah, my dear Watson,” said he, striding into the room, “I am very
delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirely recovered
from all the little excitements connected with our adventure of the Sign
of Four.”

“Thank you, we are both very well,” said I, shaking him warmly by the
hand.

“And I hope, also,” he continued, sitting down in the rocking-chair,
“that the cares of medical practice have not entirely obliterated the
interest which you used to take in our little deductive problems.”

“On the contrary,” I answered, “it was only last night that I was
looking over my old notes, and classifying some of our past results.”

“I trust that you don't consider your collection closed.”

“Not at all. I should wish nothing better than to have some more of such
experiences.”

“To-day, for example?”

“Yes, to-day, if you like.”

“And as far off as Birmingham?”

“Certainly, if you wish it.”

“And the practice?”

“I do my neighbor's when he goes. He is always ready to work off the
debt.”

“Ha! Nothing could be better,” said Holmes, leaning back in his chair
and looking keenly at me from under his half closed lids. “I perceive
that you have been unwell lately. Summer colds are always a little
trying.”

“I was confined to the house by a severe chill for three days last week.
I thought, however, that I had cast off every trace of it.”

“So you have. You look remarkably robust.”

“How, then, did you know of it?”

“My dear fellow, you know my methods.”

“You deduced it, then?”

“Certainly.”

“And from what?”

“From your slippers.”

I glanced down at the new patent leathers which I was wearing. “How on
earth--” I began, but Holmes answered my question before it was asked.

“Your slippers are new,” he said. “You could not have had them more than
a few weeks. The soles which you are at this moment presenting to me are
slightly scorched. For a moment I thought they might have got wet and
been burned in the drying. But near the instep there is a small circular
wafer of paper with the shopman's hieroglyphics upon it. Damp would of
course have removed this. You had, then, been sitting with your feet
outstretched to the fire, which a man would hardly do even in so wet a
June as this if he were in his full health.”

Like all Holmes's reasoning the thing seemed simplicity itself when it
was once explained. He read the thought upon my features, and his smile
had a tinge of bitterness.

“I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain,” said he.
“Results without causes are much more impressive. You are ready to come
to Birmingham, then?”

“Certainly. What is the case?”

“You shall hear it all in the train. My client is outside in a
four-wheeler. Can you come at once?”

“In an instant.” I scribbled a note to my neighbor, rushed upstairs to
explain the matter to my wife, and joined Holmes upon the door-step.

“Your neighbor is a doctor,” said he, nodding at the brass plate.

“Yes; he bought a practice as I did.”

“An old-established one?”

“Just the same as mine. Both have been ever since the houses were
built.”

“Ah! Then you got hold of the best of the two.”

“I think I did. But how do you know?”

“By the steps, my boy. Yours are worn three inches deeper than his. But
this gentleman in the cab is my client, Mr. Hall Pycroft. Allow me to
introduce you to him. Whip your horse up, cabby, for we have only just
time to catch our train.”

The man whom I found myself facing was a well built, fresh-complexioned
young fellow, with a frank, honest face and a slight, crisp, yellow
mustache. He wore a very shiny top hat and a neat suit of sober black,
which made him look what he was--a smart young City man, of the class
who have been labeled cockneys, but who give us our crack volunteer
regiments, and who turn out more fine athletes and sportsmen than any
body of men in these islands. His round, ruddy face was naturally full
of cheeriness, but the corners of his mouth seemed to me to be pulled
down in a half-comical distress. It was not, however, until we were
all in a first-class carriage and well started upon our journey to
Birmingham that I was able to learn what the trouble was which had
driven him to Sherlock Holmes.

“We have a clear run here of seventy minutes,” Holmes remarked. “I
want you, Mr. Hall Pycroft, to tell my friend your very interesting
experience exactly as you have told it to me, or with more detail if
possible. It will be of use to me to hear the succession of events
again. It is a case, Watson, which may prove to have something in it, or
may prove to have nothing, but which, at least, presents those unusual
and outré features which are as dear to you as they are to me. Now, Mr.
Pycroft, I shall not interrupt you again.”

Our young companion looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.

“The worst of the story is,” said he, “that I show myself up as such a
confounded fool. Of course it may work out all right, and I don't see
that I could have done otherwise; but if I have lost my crib and get
nothing in exchange I shall feel what a soft Johnnie I have been. I'm
not very good at telling a story, Dr. Watson, but it is like this with
me:

“I used to have a billet at Coxon & Woodhouse's, of Draper's Gardens,
but they were let in early in the spring through the Venezuelan loan,
as no doubt you remember, and came a nasty cropper. I had been with them
five years, and old Coxon gave me a ripping good testimonial when
the smash came, but of course we clerks were all turned adrift, the
twenty-seven of us. I tried here and tried there, but there were lots of
other chaps on the same lay as myself, and it was a perfect frost for a
long time. I had been taking three pounds a week at Coxon's, and I had
saved about seventy of them, but I soon worked my way through that and
out at the other end. I was fairly at the end of my tether at last,
and could hardly find the stamps to answer the advertisements or the
envelopes to stick them to. I had worn out my boots paddling up office
stairs, and I seemed just as far from getting a billet as ever.

“At last I saw a vacancy at Mawson & Williams's, the great stock-broking
firm in Lombard Street. I dare say E. C. is not much in your line, but
I can tell you that this is about the richest house in London.
The advertisement was to be answered by letter only. I sent in my
testimonial and application, but without the least hope of getting it.
Back came an answer by return, saying that if I would appear next Monday
I might take over my new duties at once, provided that my appearance was
satisfactory. No one knows how these things are worked. Some people say
that the manager just plunges his hand into the heap and takes the first
that comes. Anyhow it was my innings that time, and I don't ever wish to
feel better pleased. The screw was a pound a week rise, and the duties
just about the same as at Coxon's.

“And now I come to the queer part of the business. I was in diggings out
Hampstead way, 17 Potter's Terrace. Well, I was sitting doing a smoke
that very evening after I had been promised the appointment, when up
came my landlady with a card which had 'Arthur Pinner, Financial Agent,'
printed upon it. I had never heard the name before and could not imagine
what he wanted with me; but, of course, I asked her to show him up. In
he walked, a middle-sized, dark-haired, dark-eyed, black-bearded man,
with a touch of the Sheeny about his nose. He had a brisk kind of way
with him and spoke sharply, like a man who knew the value of time.”

“'Mr. Hall Pycroft, I believe?'” said he.

“'Yes, sir,' I answered, pushing a chair towards him.

“'Lately engaged at Coxon & Woodhouse's?'

“'Yes, sir.'

“'And now on the staff of Mawson's.'

“'Quite so.'

“'Well,' said he, 'the fact is that I have heard some really
extraordinary stories about your financial ability. You remember Parker,
who used to be Coxon's manager? He can never say enough about it.'

“Of course I was pleased to hear this. I had always been pretty sharp in
the office, but I had never dreamed that I was talked about in the City
in this fashion.

“'You have a good memory?' said he.

“'Pretty fair,' I answered, modestly.

“'Have you kept in touch with the market while you have been out of
work?' he asked.

“'Yes. I read the stock exchange list every morning.'

“'Now that shows real application!' he cried. 'That is the way to
prosper! You won't mind my testing you, will you? Let me see. How are
Ayrshires?'

“'A hundred and six and a quarter to a hundred and five and
seven-eighths.'

“'And New Zealand consolidated?'

“'A hundred and four.

“'And British Broken Hills?'

“'Seven to seven-and-six.'

“'Wonderful!' he cried, with his hands up. 'This quite fits in with all
that I had heard. My boy, my boy, you are very much too good to be a
clerk at Mawson's!'

“This outburst rather astonished me, as you can think. 'Well,' said I,
'other people don't think quite so much of me as you seem to do, Mr.
Pinner. I had a hard enough fight to get this berth, and I am very glad
to have it.'

“'Pooh, man; you should soar above it. You are not in your true sphere.
Now, I'll tell you how it stands with me. What I have to offer is little
enough when measured by your ability, but when compared with Mawson's,
it's light to dark. Let me see. When do you go to Mawson's?'

“'On Monday.'

“'Ha, ha! I think I would risk a little sporting flutter that you don't
go there at all.'

“'Not go to Mawson's?'

“'No, sir. By that day you will be the business manager of the
Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, with a hundred and thirty-four
branches in the towns and villages of France, not counting one in
Brussels and one in San Remo.'

“This took my breath away. 'I never heard of it,' said I.

“'Very likely not. It has been kept very quiet, for the capital was all
privately subscribed, and it's too good a thing to let the public
into. My brother, Harry Pinner, is promoter, and joins the board after
allotment as managing director. He knew I was in the swim down here, and
asked me to pick up a good man cheap. A young, pushing man with plenty
of snap about him. Parker spoke of you, and that brought me here
to-night. We can only offer you a beggarly five hundred to start with.'

“'Five hundred a year!' I shouted.

“'Only that at the beginning; but you are to have an overriding
commission of one per cent on all business done by your agents, and you
may take my word for it that this will come to more than your salary.'

“'But I know nothing about hardware.'

“'Tut, my boy; you know about figures.'

“My head buzzed, and I could hardly sit still in my chair. But suddenly
a little chill of doubt came upon me.

“'I must be frank with you,' said I. 'Mawson only gives me two hundred,
but Mawson is safe. Now, really, I know so little about your company
that--'

“'Ah, smart, smart!' he cried, in a kind of ecstasy of delight. 'You
are the very man for us. You are not to be talked over, and quite right,
too. Now, here's a note for a hundred pounds, and if you think that we
can do business you may just slip it into your pocket as an advance upon
your salary.'

“'That is very handsome,' said I. 'When should I take over my new
duties?'

“'Be in Birmingham to-morrow at one,' said he. 'I have a note in my
pocket here which you will take to my brother. You will find him at
126b Corporation Street, where the temporary offices of the company
are situated. Of course he must confirm your engagement, but between
ourselves it will be all right.'

“'Really, I hardly know how to express my gratitude, Mr. Pinner,' said
I.

“'Not at all, my boy. You have only got your deserts. There are one or
two small things--mere formalities--which I must arrange with you.
You have a bit of paper beside you there. Kindly write upon it “I am
perfectly willing to act as business manager to the Franco-Midland
Hardware Company, Limited, at a minimum salary of L500.”'

“I did as he asked, and he put the paper in his pocket.

“'There is one other detail,' said he. 'What do you intend to do about
Mawson's?'

“I had forgotten all about Mawson's in my joy. 'I'll write and resign,'
said I.

“'Precisely what I don't want you to do. I had a row over you with
Mawson's manager. I had gone up to ask him about you, and he was very
offensive; accused me of coaxing you away from the service of the firm,
and that sort of thing. At last I fairly lost my temper. “If you want
good men you should pay them a good price,” said I.'

“'He would rather have our small price than your big one,' said he.

“'I'll lay you a fiver,' said I, 'that when he has my offer you'll never
so much as hear from him again.'

“'Done!' said he. 'We picked him out of the gutter, and he won't leave
us so easily.' Those were his very words.”

“'The impudent scoundrel!' I cried. 'I've never so much as seen him in
my life. Why should I consider him in any way? I shall certainly not
write if you would rather I didn't.'

“'Good! That's a promise,' said he, rising from his chair. 'Well, I'm
delighted to have got so good a man for my brother. Here's your advance
of a hundred pounds, and here is the letter. Make a note of the address,
126b Corporation Street, and remember that one o'clock to-morrow is
your appointment. Good-night; and may you have all the fortune that you
deserve!'

“That's just about all that passed between us, as near as I can
remember. You can imagine, Dr. Watson, how pleased I was at such an
extraordinary bit of good fortune. I sat up half the night hugging
myself over it, and next day I was off to Birmingham in a train that
would take me in plenty time for my appointment. I took my things to
a hotel in New Street, and then I made my way to the address which had
been given me.

“It was a quarter of an hour before my time, but I thought that would
make no difference. 126b was a passage between two large shops, which
led to a winding stone stair, from which there were many flats, let as
offices to companies or professional men. The names of the occupants
were painted at the bottom on the wall, but there was no such name as
the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited. I stood for a few minutes
with my heart in my boots, wondering whether the whole thing was an
elaborate hoax or not, when up came a man and addressed me. He was very
like the chap I had seen the night before, the same figure and voice,
but he was clean shaven and his hair was lighter.

“'Are you Mr. Hall Pycroft?' he asked.

“'Yes,' said I.

“'Oh! I was expecting you, but you are a trifle before your time. I had
a note from my brother this morning in which he sang your praises very
loudly.'

“'I was just looking for the offices when you came.

“'We have not got our name up yet, for we only secured these temporary
premises last week. Come up with me, and we will talk the matter over.'

“I followed him to the top of a very lofty stair, and there, right under
the slates, were a couple of empty, dusty little rooms, uncarpeted and
uncurtained, into which he led me. I had thought of a great office with
shining tables and rows of clerks, such as I was used to, and I dare say
I stared rather straight at the two deal chairs and one little table,
which, with a ledger and a waste paper basket, made up the whole
furniture.

“'Don't be disheartened, Mr. Pycroft,' said my new acquaintance, seeing
the length of my face. 'Rome was not built in a day, and we have lots of
money at our backs, though we don't cut much dash yet in offices. Pray
sit down, and let me have your letter.'

“I gave it to him, and he read it over very carefully.

“'You seem to have made a vast impression upon my brother Arthur,' said
he; 'and I know that he is a pretty shrewd judge. He swears by London,
you know; and I by Birmingham; but this time I shall follow his advice.
Pray consider yourself definitely engaged.”

“'What are my duties?' I asked.

“'You will eventually manage the great depot in Paris, which will pour
a flood of English crockery into the shops of a hundred and thirty-four
agents in France. The purchase will be completed in a week, and
meanwhile you will remain in Birmingham and make yourself useful.'

“'How?'

“For answer, he took a big red book out of a drawer.

“'This is a directory of Paris,' said he, 'with the trades after the
names of the people. I want you to take it home with you, and to mark
off all the hardware sellers, with their addresses. It would be of the
greatest use to me to have them.'

“'Surely there are classified lists?' I suggested.

“'Not reliable ones. Their system is different from ours. Stick at it,
and let me have the lists by Monday, at twelve. Good-day, Mr. Pycroft.
If you continue to show zeal and intelligence you will find the company
a good master.'

“I went back to the hotel with the big book under my arm, and with very
conflicting feelings in my breast. On the one hand, I was definitely
engaged and had a hundred pounds in my pocket; on the other, the look
of the offices, the absence of name on the wall, and other of the points
which would strike a business man had left a bad impression as to the
position of my employers. However, come what might, I had my money, so I
settled down to my task. All Sunday I was kept hard at work, and yet by
Monday I had only got as far as H. I went round to my employer, found
him in the same dismantled kind of room, and was told to keep at
it until Wednesday, and then come again. On Wednesday it was still
unfinished, so I hammered away until Friday--that is, yesterday. Then I
brought it round to Mr. Harry Pinner.

“'Thank you very much,' said he; 'I fear that I underrated the
difficulty of the task. This list will be of very material assistance to
me.'

“'It took some time,' said I.

“'And now,' said he, 'I want you to make a list of the furniture shops,
for they all sell crockery.'

“'Very good.'

“'And you can come up to-morrow evening, at seven, and let me know how
you are getting on. Don't overwork yourself. A couple of hours at Day's
Music Hall in the evening would do you no harm after your labors.' He
laughed as he spoke, and I saw with a thrill that his second tooth upon
the left-hand side had been very badly stuffed with gold.”


Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight, and I stared with
astonishment at our client.

“You may well look surprised, Dr. Watson; but it is this way,” said he:
“When I was speaking to the other chap in London, at the time that he
laughed at my not going to Mawson's, I happened to notice that his tooth
was stuffed in this very identical fashion. The glint of the gold in
each case caught my eye, you see. When I put that with the voice and
figure being the same, and only those things altered which might be
changed by a razor or a wig, I could not doubt that it was the same man.
Of course you expect two brothers to be alike, but not that they should
have the same tooth stuffed in the same way. He bowed me out, and I
found myself in the street, hardly knowing whether I was on my head or
my heels. Back I went to my hotel, put my head in a basin of cold water,
and tried to think it out. Why had he sent me from London to Birmingham?
Why had he got there before me? And why had he written a letter from
himself to himself? It was altogether too much for me, and I could make
no sense of it. And then suddenly it struck me that what was dark to me
might be very light to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I had just time to get up to
town by the night train to see him this morning, and to bring you both
back with me to Birmingham.”

There was a pause after the stock-broker's clerk had concluded his
surprising experience. Then Sherlock Holmes cocked his eye at me,
leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet critical face, like
a connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a comet vintage.

“Rather fine, Watson, is it not?” said he. “There are points in it which
please me. I think that you will agree with me that an interview with
Mr. Arthur Harry Pinner in the temporary offices of the Franco-Midland
Hardware Company, Limited, would be a rather interesting experience for
both of us.”

“But how can we do it?” I asked.

“Oh, easily enough,” said Hall Pycroft, cheerily. “You are two friends
of mine who are in want of a billet, and what could be more natural than
that I should bring you both round to the managing director?”

“Quite so, of course,” said Holmes. “I should like to have a look at
the gentleman, and see if I can make anything of his little game.
What qualities have you, my friend, which would make your services
so valuable? or is it possible that--” He began biting his nails and
staring blankly out of the window, and we hardly drew another word from
him until we were in New Street.

At seven o'clock that evening we were walking, the three of us, down
Corporation Street to the company's offices.

“It is no use our being at all before our time,” said our client. “He
only comes there to see me, apparently, for the place is deserted up to
the very hour he names.”

“That is suggestive,” remarked Holmes.

“By Jove, I told you so!” cried the clerk. “That's he walking ahead of
us there.”

He pointed to a smallish, dark, well-dressed man who was bustling along
the other side of the road. As we watched him he looked across at a boy
who was bawling out the latest edition of the evening paper, and running
over among the cabs and busses, he bought one from him. Then, clutching
it in his hand, he vanished through a door-way.

“There he goes!” cried Hall Pycroft. “These are the company's offices
into which he has gone. Come with me, and I'll fix it up as easily as
possible.”

Following his lead, we ascended five stories, until we found ourselves
outside a half-opened door, at which our client tapped. A voice within
bade us enter, and we entered a bare, unfurnished room such as Hall
Pycroft had described. At the single table sat the man whom we had seen
in the street, with his evening paper spread out in front of him, and as
he looked up at us it seemed to me that I had never looked upon a face
which bore such marks of grief, and of something beyond grief--of a
horror such as comes to few men in a lifetime. His brow glistened with
perspiration, his cheeks were of the dull, dead white of a fish's belly,
and his eyes were wild and staring. He looked at his clerk as though he
failed to recognize him, and I could see by the astonishment depicted
upon our conductor's face that this was by no means the usual appearance
of his employer.

“You look ill, Mr. Pinner!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I am not very well,” answered the other, making obvious efforts
to pull himself together, and licking his dry lips before he spoke. “Who
are these gentlemen whom you have brought with you?”

“One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price, of this
town,” said our clerk, glibly. “They are friends of mine and gentlemen
of experience, but they have been out of a place for some little time,
and they hoped that perhaps you might find an opening for them in the
company's employment.”

“Very possibly! Very possibly!” cried Mr. Pinner with a ghastly smile.
“Yes, I have no doubt that we shall be able to do something for you.
What is your particular line, Mr. Harris?”

“I am an accountant,” said Holmes.

“Ah yes, we shall want something of the sort. And you, Mr. Price?”

“A clerk,” said I.

“I have every hope that the company may accommodate you. I will let you
know about it as soon as we come to any conclusion. And now I beg that
you will go. For God's sake leave me to myself!”

These last words were shot out of him, as though the constraint which
he was evidently setting upon himself had suddenly and utterly burst
asunder. Holmes and I glanced at each other, and Hall Pycroft took a
step towards the table.

“You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment to receive some
directions from you,” said he.

“Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly,” the other resumed in a calmer tone.
“You may wait here a moment; and there is no reason why your friends
should not wait with you. I will be entirely at your service in three
minutes, if I might trespass upon your patience so far.” He rose with a
very courteous air, and, bowing to us, he passed out through a door at
the farther end of the room, which he closed behind him.

“What now?” whispered Holmes. “Is he giving us the slip?”

“Impossible,” answered Pycroft.

“Why so?”

“That door leads into an inner room.”

“There is no exit?”

“None.”

“Is it furnished?”

“It was empty yesterday.”

“Then what on earth can he be doing? There is something which I don't
understand in this manner. If ever a man was three parts mad with
terror, that man's name is Pinner. What can have put the shivers on
him?”

“He suspects that we are detectives,” I suggested.

“That's it,” cried Pycroft.

Holmes shook his head. “He did not turn pale. He was pale when we
entered the room,” said he. “It is just possible that--”

His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the direction of the
inner door.

“What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?” cried the clerk.

Again and much louder came the rat-tat-tat. We all gazed expectantly at
the closed door. Glancing at Holmes, I saw his face turn rigid, and he
leaned forward in intense excitement. Then suddenly came a low guggling,
gargling sound, and a brisk drumming upon woodwork. Holmes sprang
frantically across the room and pushed at the door. It was fastened on
the inner side. Following his example, we threw ourselves upon it with
all our weight. One hinge snapped, then the other, and down came the
door with a crash. Rushing over it, we found ourselves in the inner
room. It was empty.

But it was only for a moment that we were at fault. At one corner, the
corner nearest the room which we had left, there was a second door.
Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A coat and waistcoat were lying
on the floor, and from a hook behind the door, with his own braces
round his neck, was hanging the managing director of the Franco-Midland
Hardware Company. His knees were drawn up, his head hung at a dreadful
angle to his body, and the clatter of his heels against the door made
the noise which had broken in upon our conversation. In an instant I
had caught him round the waist, and held him up while Holmes and Pycroft
untied the elastic bands which had disappeared between the livid creases
of skin. Then we carried him into the other room, where he lay with
a clay-colored face, puffing his purple lips in and out with every
breath--a dreadful wreck of all that he had been but five minutes
before.

“What do you think of him, Watson?” asked Holmes.

I stooped over him and examined him. His pulse was feeble and
intermittent, but his breathing grew longer, and there was a little
shivering of his eyelids, which showed a thin white slit of ball
beneath.

“It has been touch and go with him,” said I, “but he'll live now. Just
open that window, and hand me the water carafe.” I undid his collar,
poured the cold water over his face, and raised and sank his arms until
he drew a long, natural breath. “It's only a question of time now,” said
I, as I turned away from him.

Holmes stood by the table, with his hands deep in his trouser's pockets
and his chin upon his breast.

“I suppose we ought to call the police in now,” said he. “And yet I
confess that I'd like to give them a complete case when they come.”

“It's a blessed mystery to me,” cried Pycroft, scratching his head.
“Whatever they wanted to bring me all the way up here for, and then--”

“Pooh! All that is clear enough,” said Holmes impatiently. “It is this
last sudden move.”

“You understand the rest, then?”

“I think that it is fairly obvious. What do you say, Watson?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I must confess that I am out of my depths,”
 said I.

“Oh surely if you consider the events at first they can only point to
one conclusion.”

“What do you make of them?”

“Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. The first is the making
of Pycroft write a declaration by which he entered the service of this
preposterous company. Do you not see how very suggestive that is?”

“I am afraid I miss the point.”

“Well, why did they want him to do it? Not as a business matter, for
these arrangements are usually verbal, and there was no earthly business
reason why this should be an exception. Don't you see, my young friend,
that they were very anxious to obtain a specimen of your handwriting,
and had no other way of doing it?”

“And why?”

“Quite so. Why? When we answer that we have made some progress with our
little problem. Why? There can be only one adequate reason. Some one
wanted to learn to imitate your writing, and had to procure a specimen
of it first. And now if we pass on to the second point we find that each
throws light upon the other. That point is the request made by Pinner
that you should not resign your place, but should leave the manager of
this important business in the full expectation that a Mr. Hall Pycroft,
whom he had never seen, was about to enter the office upon the Monday
morning.”

“My God!” cried our client, “what a blind beetle I have been!”

“Now you see the point about the handwriting. Suppose that some one
turned up in your place who wrote a completely different hand from that
in which you had applied for the vacancy, of course the game would have
been up. But in the interval the rogue had learned to imitate you,
and his position was therefore secure, as I presume that nobody in the
office had ever set eyes upon you.”

“Not a soul,” groaned Hall Pycroft.

“Very good. Of course it was of the utmost importance to prevent you
from thinking better of it, and also to keep you from coming into
contact with any one who might tell you that your double was at work
in Mawson's office. Therefore they gave you a handsome advance on your
salary, and ran you off to the Midlands, where they gave you enough work
to do to prevent your going to London, where you might have burst their
little game up. That is all plain enough.”

“But why should this man pretend to be his own brother?”

“Well, that is pretty clear also. There are evidently only two of them
in it. The other is impersonating you at the office. This one acted
as your engager, and then found that he could not find you an employer
without admitting a third person into his plot. That he was most
unwilling to do. He changed his appearance as far as he could, and
trusted that the likeness, which you could not fail to observe, would be
put down to a family resemblance. But for the happy chance of the gold
stuffing, your suspicions would probably never have been aroused.”

Hall Pycroft shook his clinched hands in the air. “Good Lord!” he cried,
“while I have been fooled in this way, what has this other Hall Pycroft
been doing at Mawson's? What should we do, Mr. Holmes? Tell me what to
do.”

“We must wire to Mawson's.”

“They shut at twelve on Saturdays.”

“Never mind. There may be some door-keeper or attendant--”

“Ah yes, they keep a permanent guard there on account of the value of
the securities that they hold. I remember hearing it talked of in the
City.”

“Very good; we shall wire to him, and see if all is well, and if a clerk
of your name is working there. That is clear enough; but what is not so
clear is why at sight of us one of the rogues should instantly walk out
of the room and hang himself.”

“The paper!” croaked a voice behind us. The man was sitting up, blanched
and ghastly, with returning reason in his eyes, and hands which rubbed
nervously at the broad red band which still encircled his throat.

“The paper! Of course!” yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm of excitement.
“Idiot that I was! I thought so much of our visit that the paper never
entered my head for an instant. To be sure, the secret must be there.”
 He flattened it out upon the table, and a cry of triumph burst from his
lips. “Look at this, Watson,” he cried. “It is a London paper, an early
edition of the Evening Standard. Here is what we want. Look at the
headlines: 'Crime in the City. Murder at Mawson & Williams's. Gigantic
attempted Robbery. Capture of the Criminal.' Here, Watson, we are all
equally anxious to hear it, so kindly read it aloud to us.”

It appeared from its position in the paper to have been the one event of
importance in town, and the account of it ran in this way:

“A desperate attempt at robbery, culminating in the death of one man and
the capture of the criminal, occurred this afternoon in the City. For
some time back Mawson & Williams, the famous financial house, have been
the guardians of securities which amount in the aggregate to a sum of
considerably over a million sterling. So conscious was the manager of
the responsibility which devolved upon him in consequence of the great
interests at stake that safes of the very latest construction have
been employed, and an armed watchman has been left day and night in the
building. It appears that last week a new clerk named Hall Pycroft was
engaged by the firm. This person appears to have been none other than
Beddington, the famous forger and cracksman, who, with his brother, had
only recently emerged from a five years' spell of penal servitude. By
some means, which are not yet clear, he succeeded in winning, under a
false name, this official position in the office, which he utilized in
order to obtain moulding of various locks, and a thorough knowledge of
the position of the strong room and the safes.

“It is customary at Mawson's for the clerks to leave at midday on
Saturday. Sergeant Tuson, of the City Police, was somewhat surprised,
therefore to see a gentleman with a carpet bag come down the steps at
twenty minutes past one. His suspicions being aroused, the sergeant
followed the man, and with the aid of Constable Pollock succeeded, after
a most desperate resistance, in arresting him. It was at once clear
that a daring and gigantic robbery had been committed. Nearly a hundred
thousand pounds' worth of American railway bonds, with a large amount
of scrip in mines and other companies, was discovered in the bag. On
examining the premises the body of the unfortunate watchman was found
doubled up and thrust into the largest of the safes, where it would not
have been discovered until Monday morning had it not been for the prompt
action of Sergeant Tuson. The man's skull had been shattered by a
blow from a poker delivered from behind. There could be no doubt
that Beddington had obtained entrance by pretending that he had left
something behind him, and having murdered the watchman, rapidly rifled
the large safe, and then made off with his booty. His brother, who
usually works with him, has not appeared in this job as far as can
at present be ascertained, although the police are making energetic
inquiries as to his whereabouts.”

“Well, we may save the police some little trouble in that direction,”
 said Holmes, glancing at the haggard figure huddled up by the window.
“Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You see that even a villain
and murderer can inspire such affection that his brother turns to
suicide when he learns that his neck is forfeited. However, we have
no choice as to our action. The doctor and I will remain on guard, Mr.
Pycroft, if you will have the kindness to step out for the police.”




Adventure IV. The “_Gloria Scott_”


“I have some papers here,” said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as we sat
one winter's night on either side of the fire, “which I really think,
Watson, that it would be worth your while to glance over. These are the
documents in the extraordinary case of the Gloria Scott, and this is the
message which struck Justice of the Peace Trevor dead with horror when
he read it.”

He had picked from a drawer a little tarnished cylinder, and, undoing
the tape, he handed me a short note scrawled upon a half-sheet of
slate-gray paper.

“The supply of game for London is going steadily up,” it ran.
“Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all orders
for fly-paper and for preservation of your hen-pheasant's life.”

As I glanced up from reading this enigmatical message, I saw Holmes
chuckling at the expression upon my face.

“You look a little bewildered,” said he.

“I cannot see how such a message as this could inspire horror. It seems
to me to be rather grotesque than otherwise.”

“Very likely. Yet the fact remains that the reader, who was a fine,
robust old man, was knocked clean down by it as if it had been the butt
end of a pistol.”

“You arouse my curiosity,” said I. “But why did you say just now that
there were very particular reasons why I should study this case?”

“Because it was the first in which I was ever engaged.”

I had often endeavored to elicit from my companion what had first turned
his mind in the direction of criminal research, but had never caught him
before in a communicative humor. Now he sat forward in this arm-chair
and spread out the documents upon his knees. Then he lit his pipe and
sat for some time smoking and turning them over.

“You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?” he asked. “He was the only
friend I made during the two years I was at college. I was never a very
sociable fellow, Watson, always rather fond of moping in my rooms and
working out my own little methods of thought, so that I never mixed
much with the men of my year. Bar fencing and boxing I had few athletic
tastes, and then my line of study was quite distinct from that of the
other fellows, so that we had no points of contact at all. Trevor was
the only man I knew, and that only through the accident of his bull
terrier freezing on to my ankle one morning as I went down to chapel.

“It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective.
I was laid by the heels for ten days, but Trevor used to come in to
inquire after me. At first it was only a minute's chat, but soon his
visits lengthened, and before the end of the term we were close friends.
He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow, full of spirits and energy,
the very opposite to me in most respects, but we had some subjects
in common, and it was a bond of union when I found that he was as
friendless as I. Finally, he invited me down to his father's place at
Donnithorpe, in Norfolk, and I accepted his hospitality for a month of
the long vacation.

“Old Trevor was evidently a man of some wealth and consideration, a
J.P., and a landed proprietor. Donnithorpe is a little hamlet just to
the north of Langmere, in the country of the Broads. The house was
an old-fashioned, wide-spread, oak-beamed brick building, with a fine
lime-lined avenue leading up to it. There was excellent wild-duck
shooting in the fens, remarkably good fishing, a small but select
library, taken over, as I understood, from a former occupant, and a
tolerable cook, so that he would be a fastidious man who could not put
in a pleasant month there.

“Trevor senior was a widower, and my friend his only son.

“There had been a daughter, I heard, but she had died of diphtheria
while on a visit to Birmingham. The father interested me extremely.
He was a man of little culture, but with a considerable amount of rude
strength, both physically and mentally. He knew hardly any books, but
he had traveled far, had seen much of the world. And had remembered
all that he had learned. In person he was a thick-set, burly man with
a shock of grizzled hair, a brown, weather-beaten face, and blue eyes
which were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet he had a reputation for
kindness and charity on the country-side, and was noted for the leniency
of his sentences from the bench.

“One evening, shortly after my arrival, we were sitting over a glass of
port after dinner, when young Trevor began to talk about those habits
of observation and inference which I had already formed into a system,
although I had not yet appreciated the part which they were to play in
my life. The old man evidently thought that his son was exaggerating in
his description of one or two trivial feats which I had performed.

“'Come, now, Mr. Holmes,' said he, laughing good-humoredly. 'I'm an
excellent subject, if you can deduce anything from me.'

“'I fear there is not very much,' I answered; 'I might suggest that
you have gone about in fear of some personal attack within the last
twelvemonth.'

“The laugh faded from his lips, and he stared at me in great surprise.

“'Well, that's true enough,' said he. 'You know, Victor,' turning to his
son, 'when we broke up that poaching gang they swore to knife us, and
Sir Edward Holly has actually been attacked. I've always been on my
guard since then, though I have no idea how you know it.'

“'You have a very handsome stick,' I answered. 'By the inscription I
observed that you had not had it more than a year. But you have taken
some pains to bore the head of it and pour melted lead into the hole so
as to make it a formidable weapon. I argued that you would not take such
precautions unless you had some danger to fear.'

“'Anything else?' he asked, smiling.

“'You have boxed a good deal in your youth.'

“'Right again. How did you know it? Is my nose knocked a little out of
the straight?'

“'No,' said I. 'It is your ears. They have the peculiar flattening and
thickening which marks the boxing man.'

“'Anything else?'

“'You have done a good deal of digging by your callosities.'

“'Made all my money at the gold fields.'

“'You have been in New Zealand.'

“'Right again.'

“'You have visited Japan.'

“'Quite true.'

“'And you have been most intimately associated with some one whose
initials were J. A., and whom you afterwards were eager to entirely
forget.'

“Mr. Trevor stood slowly up, fixed his large blue eyes upon me with a
strange wild stare, and then pitched forward, with his face among the
nutshells which strewed the cloth, in a dead faint.

“You can imagine, Watson, how shocked both his son and I were. His
attack did not last long, however, for when we undid his collar, and
sprinkled the water from one of the finger-glasses over his face, he
gave a gasp or two and sat up.

“'Ah, boys,' said he, forcing a smile, 'I hope I haven't frightened you.
Strong as I look, there is a weak place in my heart, and it does not
take much to knock me over. I don't know how you manage this, Mr.
Holmes, but it seems to me that all the detectives of fact and of fancy
would be children in your hands. That's your line of life, sir, and you
may take the word of a man who has seen something of the world.'

“And that recommendation, with the exaggerated estimate of my ability
with which he prefaced it, was, if you will believe me, Watson, the very
first thing which ever made me feel that a profession might be made
out of what had up to that time been the merest hobby. At the moment,
however, I was too much concerned at the sudden illness of my host to
think of anything else.

“'I hope that I have said nothing to pain you?' said I.

“'Well, you certainly touched upon rather a tender point. Might I ask
how you know, and how much you know?' He spoke now in a half-jesting
fashion, but a look of terror still lurked at the back of his eyes.

“'It is simplicity itself,' said I. 'When you bared your arm to draw
that fish into the boat I saw that J. A. had been tattooed in the bend
of the elbow. The letters were still legible, but it was perfectly clear
from their blurred appearance, and from the staining of the skin round
them, that efforts had been made to obliterate them. It was obvious,
then, that those initials had once been very familiar to you, and that
you had afterwards wished to forget them.'

“What an eye you have!” he cried, with a sigh of relief. 'It is just as
you say. But we won't talk of it. Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old
lovers are the worst. Come into the billiard-room and have a quiet
cigar.'


“From that day, amid all his cordiality, there was always a touch of
suspicion in Mr. Trevor's manner towards me. Even his son remarked it.
'You've given the governor such a turn,' said he, 'that he'll never be
sure again of what you know and what you don't know.' He did not mean
to show it, I am sure, but it was so strongly in his mind that it peeped
out at every action. At last I became so convinced that I was causing
him uneasiness that I drew my visit to a close. On the very day,
however, before I left, an incident occurred which proved in the sequel
to be of importance.

“We were sitting out upon the lawn on garden chairs, the three of us,
basking in the sun and admiring the view across the Broads, when a maid
came out to say that there was a man at the door who wanted to see Mr.
Trevor.

“'What is his name?' asked my host.

“'He would not give any.'

“'What does he want, then?'

“'He says that you know him, and that he only wants a moment's
conversation.'

“'Show him round here.' An instant afterwards there appeared a little
wizened fellow with a cringing manner and a shambling style of
walking. He wore an open jacket, with a splotch of tar on the sleeve,
a red-and-black check shirt, dungaree trousers, and heavy boots badly
worn. His face was thin and brown and crafty, with a perpetual smile
upon it, which showed an irregular line of yellow teeth, and his
crinkled hands were half closed in a way that is distinctive of sailors.
As he came slouching across the lawn I heard Mr. Trevor make a sort of
hiccoughing noise in his throat, and jumping out of his chair, he ran
into the house. He was back in a moment, and I smelt a strong reek of
brandy as he passed me.

“'Well, my man,' said he. 'What can I do for you?'

“The sailor stood looking at him with puckered eyes, and with the same
loose-lipped smile upon his face.

“'You don't know me?' he asked.

“'Why, dear me, it is surely Hudson,' said Mr. Trevor in a tone of
surprise.

“'Hudson it is, sir,' said the seaman. 'Why, it's thirty year and more
since I saw you last. Here you are in your house, and me still picking
my salt meat out of the harness cask.'

“'Tut, you will find that I have not forgotten old times,' cried Mr.
Trevor, and, walking towards the sailor, he said something in a low
voice. 'Go into the kitchen,' he continued out loud, 'and you will get
food and drink. I have no doubt that I shall find you a situation.'

“'Thank you, sir,' said the seaman, touching his fore-lock. 'I'm just
off a two-yearer in an eight-knot tramp, short-handed at that, and I
wants a rest. I thought I'd get it either with Mr. Beddoes or with you.'

“'Ah!' cried Trevor. 'You know where Mr. Beddoes is?'

“'Bless you, sir, I know where all my old friends are,' said the
fellow with a sinister smile, and he slouched off after the maid to the
kitchen. Mr. Trevor mumbled something to us about having been shipmate
with the man when he was going back to the diggings, and then, leaving
us on the lawn, he went indoors. An hour later, when we entered the
house, we found him stretched dead drunk upon the dining-room sofa. The
whole incident left a most ugly impression upon my mind, and I was
not sorry next day to leave Donnithorpe behind me, for I felt that my
presence must be a source of embarrassment to my friend.

“All this occurred during the first month of the long vacation. I went
up to my London rooms, where I spent seven weeks working out a few
experiments in organic chemistry. One day, however, when the autumn was
far advanced and the vacation drawing to a close, I received a telegram
from my friend imploring me to return to Donnithorpe, and saying that
he was in great need of my advice and assistance. Of course I dropped
everything and set out for the North once more.

“He met me with the dog-cart at the station, and I saw at a glance that
the last two months had been very trying ones for him. He had grown thin
and careworn, and had lost the loud, cheery manner for which he had been
remarkable.

“'The governor is dying,' were the first words he said.

“'Impossible!' I cried. 'What is the matter?'

“'Apoplexy. Nervous shock, He's been on the verge all day. I doubt if we
shall find him alive.'

“I was, as you may think, Watson, horrified at this unexpected news.

“'What has caused it?' I asked.

“'Ah, that is the point. Jump in and we can talk it over while we drive.
You remember that fellow who came upon the evening before you left us?'

“'Perfectly.'

“'Do you know who it was that we let into the house that day?'

“'I have no idea.'

“'It was the devil, Holmes,' he cried.

“I stared at him in astonishment.

“'Yes, it was the devil himself. We have not had a peaceful hour
since--not one. The governor has never held up his head from that
evening, and now the life has been crushed out of him and his heart
broken, all through this accursed Hudson.'

“'What power had he, then?'

“'Ah, that is what I would give so much to know. The kindly, charitable,
good old governor--how could he have fallen into the clutches of such a
ruffian! But I am so glad that you have come, Holmes. I trust very much
to your judgment and discretion, and I know that you will advise me for
the best.'

“We were dashing along the smooth white country road, with the long
stretch of the Broads in front of us glimmering in the red light of the
setting sun. From a grove upon our left I could already see the high
chimneys and the flag-staff which marked the squire's dwelling.

“'My father made the fellow gardener,' said my companion, 'and then, as
that did not satisfy him, he was promoted to be butler. The house seemed
to be at his mercy, and he wandered about and did what he chose in it.
The maids complained of his drunken habits and his vile language. The
dad raised their wages all round to recompense them for the annoyance.
The fellow would take the boat and my father's best gun and treat
himself to little shooting trips. And all this with such a sneering,
leering, insolent face that I would have knocked him down twenty times
over if he had been a man of my own age. I tell you, Holmes, I have
had to keep a tight hold upon myself all this time; and now I am asking
myself whether, if I had let myself go a little more, I might not have
been a wiser man.

“'Well, matters went from bad to worse with us, and this animal Hudson
became more and more intrusive, until at last, on making some insolent
reply to my father in my presence one day, I took him by the shoulders
and turned him out of the room. He slunk away with a livid face and two
venomous eyes which uttered more threats than his tongue could do. I
don't know what passed between the poor dad and him after that, but the
dad came to me next day and asked me whether I would mind apologizing to
Hudson. I refused, as you can imagine, and asked my father how he
could allow such a wretch to take such liberties with himself and his
household.

“'“Ah, my boy,” said he, “it is all very well to talk, but you don't
know how I am placed. But you shall know, Victor. I'll see that you
shall know, come what may. You wouldn't believe harm of your poor old
father, would you, lad?” He was very much moved, and shut himself up
in the study all day, where I could see through the window that he was
writing busily.

“'That evening there came what seemed to me to be a grand release,
for Hudson told us that he was going to leave us. He walked into the
dining-room as we sat after dinner, and announced his intention in the
thick voice of a half-drunken man.

“'“I've had enough of Norfolk,” said he. “I'll run down to Mr. Beddoes
in Hampshire. He'll be as glad to see me as you were, I dare say.”

“'“You're not going away in an unkind spirit, Hudson, I hope,” said my
father, with a tameness which made my blood boil.

“'“I've not had my 'pology,” said he sulkily, glancing in my direction.

“'“Victor, you will acknowledge that you have used this worthy fellow
rather roughly,” said the dad, turning to me.

“'“On the contrary, I think that we have both shown extraordinary
patience towards him,” I answered.

“'“Oh, you do, do you?” he snarls. “Very good, mate. We'll see about
that!”

“'He slouched out of the room, and half an hour afterwards left the
house, leaving my father in a state of pitiable nervousness. Night after
night I heard him pacing his room, and it was just as he was recovering
his confidence that the blow did at last fall.'

“'And how?' I asked eagerly.

“'In a most extraordinary fashion. A letter arrived for my father
yesterday evening, bearing the Fordingbridge post-mark. My father read
it, clapped both his hands to his head, and began running round the room
in little circles like a man who has been driven out of his senses. When
I at last drew him down on to the sofa, his mouth and eyelids were all
puckered on one side, and I saw that he had a stroke. Dr. Fordham came
over at once. We put him to bed; but the paralysis has spread, he has
shown no sign of returning consciousness, and I think that we shall
hardly find him alive.'

“'You horrify me, Trevor!' I cried. 'What then could have been in this
letter to cause so dreadful a result?'

“'Nothing. There lies the inexplicable part of it. The message was
absurd and trivial. Ah, my God, it is as I feared!'

“As he spoke we came round the curve of the avenue, and saw in the
fading light that every blind in the house had been drawn down. As
we dashed up to the door, my friend's face convulsed with grief, a
gentleman in black emerged from it.

“'When did it happen, doctor?' asked Trevor.

“'Almost immediately after you left.'

“'Did he recover consciousness?'

“'For an instant before the end.'

“'Any message for me.'

“'Only that the papers were in the back drawer of the Japanese cabinet.'

“My friend ascended with the doctor to the chamber of death, while I
remained in the study, turning the whole matter over and over in my
head, and feeling as sombre as ever I had done in my life. What was the
past of this Trevor, pugilist, traveler, and gold-digger, and how had he
placed himself in the power of this acid-faced seaman? Why, too, should
he faint at an allusion to the half-effaced initials upon his arm, and
die of fright when he had a letter from Fordingham? Then I remembered
that Fordingham was in Hampshire, and that this Mr. Beddoes, whom the
seaman had gone to visit and presumably to blackmail, had also been
mentioned as living in Hampshire. The letter, then, might either come
from Hudson, the seaman, saying that he had betrayed the guilty secret
which appeared to exist, or it might come from Beddoes, warning an old
confederate that such a betrayal was imminent. So far it seemed clear
enough. But then how could this letter be trivial and grotesque, as
described by the son? He must have misread it. If so, it must have been
one of those ingenious secret codes which mean one thing while they seem
to mean another. I must see this letter. If there were a hidden meaning
in it, I was confident that I could pluck it forth. For an hour I sat
pondering over it in the gloom, until at last a weeping maid brought in
a lamp, and close at her heels came my friend Trevor, pale but composed,
with these very papers which lie upon my knee held in his grasp. He sat
down opposite to me, drew the lamp to the edge of the table, and handed
me a short note scribbled, as you see, upon a single sheet of gray
paper. 'The supply of game for London is going steadily up,' it ran.
'Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all orders
for fly-paper and for preservation of your hen-pheasant's life.'

“I dare say my face looked as bewildered as yours did just now when
first I read this message. Then I reread it very carefully. It was
evidently as I had thought, and some secret meaning must lie buried
in this strange combination of words. Or could it be that there was
a prearranged significance to such phrases as 'fly-paper' and
'hen-pheasant'? Such a meaning would be arbitrary and could not be
deduced in any way. And yet I was loath to believe that this was the
case, and the presence of the word Hudson seemed to show that the
subject of the message was as I had guessed, and that it was from
Beddoes rather than the sailor. I tried it backwards, but the
combination 'life pheasant's hen' was not encouraging. Then I tried
alternate words, but neither 'the of for' nor 'supply game London'
promised to throw any light upon it.

“And then in an instant the key of the riddle was in my hands, and I saw
that every third word, beginning with the first, would give a message
which might well drive old Trevor to despair.

“It was short and terse, the warning, as I now read it to my companion:

“'The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life.'

“Victor Trevor sank his face into his shaking hands. 'It must be that,
I suppose,' said he. “This is worse than death, for it means disgrace
as well. But what is the meaning of these “head-keepers” and
“hen-pheasants”?'

“'It means nothing to the message, but it might mean a good deal to us
if we had no other means of discovering the sender. You see that he has
begun by writing “The...game...is,” and so on. Afterwards he had, to
fulfill the prearranged cipher, to fill in any two words in each space.
He would naturally use the first words which came to his mind, and
if there were so many which referred to sport among them, you may
be tolerably sure that he is either an ardent shot or interested in
breeding. Do you know anything of this Beddoes?'

“'Why, now that you mention it,' said he, 'I remember that my poor
father used to have an invitation from him to shoot over his preserves
every autumn.'

“'Then it is undoubtedly from him that the note comes,' said I. 'It only
remains for us to find out what this secret was which the sailor Hudson
seems to have held over the heads of these two wealthy and respected
men.'

“'Alas, Holmes, I fear that it is one of sin and shame!' cried my
friend. 'But from you I shall have no secrets. Here is the statement
which was drawn up by my father when he knew that the danger from Hudson
had become imminent. I found it in the Japanese cabinet, as he told the
doctor. Take it and read it to me, for I have neither the strength nor
the courage to do it myself.'

“These are the very papers, Watson, which he handed to me, and I will
read them to you, as I read them in the old study that night to him.
They are endorsed outside, as you see, 'Some particulars of the voyage
of the bark _Gloria Scott_, from her leaving Falmouth on the 8th
October, 1855, to her destruction in N. Lat. 15 degrees 20', W. Long.
25 degrees 14' on Nov. 6th.' It is in the form of a letter, and runs in
this way:

“'My dear, dear son, now that approaching disgrace begins to darken the
closing years of my life, I can write with all truth and honesty that it
is not the terror of the law, it is not the loss of my position in the
county, nor is it my fall in the eyes of all who have known me, which
cuts me to the heart; but it is the thought that you should come to
blush for me--you who love me and who have seldom, I hope, had reason to
do other than respect me. But if the blow falls which is forever hanging
over me, then I should wish you to read this, that you may know straight
from me how far I have been to blame. On the other hand, if all should
go well (which may kind God Almighty grant!), then if by any chance this
paper should be still undestroyed and should fall into your hands, I
conjure you, by all you hold sacred, by the memory of your dear mother,
and by the love which had been between us, to hurl it into the fire and
to never give one thought to it again.

“'If then your eye goes on to read this line, I know that I shall
already have been exposed and dragged from my home, or as is more
likely, for you know that my heart is weak, by lying with my tongue
sealed forever in death. In either case the time for suppression is
past, and every word which I tell you is the naked truth, and this I
swear as I hope for mercy.

“'My name, dear lad, is not Trevor. I was James Armitage in my younger
days, and you can understand now the shock that it was to me a few weeks
ago when your college friend addressed me in words which seemed to imply
that he had surprised my secret. As Armitage it was that I entered a
London banking-house, and as Armitage I was convicted of breaking my
country's laws, and was sentenced to transportation. Do not think very
harshly of me, laddie. It was a debt of honor, so called, which I had
to pay, and I used money which was not my own to do it, in the certainty
that I could replace it before there could be any possibility of its
being missed. But the most dreadful ill-luck pursued me. The money which
I had reckoned upon never came to hand, and a premature examination of
accounts exposed my deficit. The case might have been dealt leniently
with, but the laws were more harshly administered thirty years ago than
now, and on my twenty-third birthday I found myself chained as a felon
with thirty-seven other convicts in 'tween-decks of the bark _Gloria
Scott_, bound for Australia.

“'It was the year '55 when the Crimean war was at its height, and the
old convict ships had been largely used as transports in the Black
Sea. The government was compelled, therefore, to use smaller and less
suitable vessels for sending out their prisoners. The Gloria Scott
had been in the Chinese tea-trade, but she was an old-fashioned,
heavy-bowed, broad-beamed craft, and the new clippers had cut her
out. She was a five-hundred-ton boat; and besides her thirty-eight
jail-birds, she carried twenty-six of a crew, eighteen soldiers, a
captain, three mates, a doctor, a chaplain, and four warders. Nearly a
hundred souls were in her, all told, when we set sail from Falmouth.

“'The partitions between the cells of the convicts, instead of being of
thick oak, as is usual in convict-ships, were quite thin and frail.
The man next to me, upon the aft side, was one whom I had particularly
noticed when we were led down the quay. He was a young man with a
clear, hairless face, a long, thin nose, and rather nut-cracker jaws.
He carried his head very jauntily in the air, had a swaggering style
of walking, and was, above all else, remarkable for his extraordinary
height. I don't think any of our heads would have come up to his
shoulder, and I am sure that he could not have measured less than six
and a half feet. It was strange among so many sad and weary faces to see
one which was full of energy and resolution. The sight of it was to me
like a fire in a snow-storm. I was glad, then, to find that he was my
neighbor, and gladder still when, in the dead of the night, I heard a
whisper close to my ear, and found that he had managed to cut an opening
in the board which separated us.

“'“Hullo, chummy!” said he, “what's your name, and what are you here
for?”

“'I answered him, and asked in turn who I was talking with.

“'“I'm Jack Prendergast,” said he, “and by God! You'll learn to bless my
name before you've done with me.”

“'I remembered hearing of his case, for it was one which had made an
immense sensation throughout the country some time before my own arrest.
He was a man of good family and of great ability, but of incurably
vicious habits, who had by an ingenious system of fraud obtained huge
sums of money from the leading London merchants.

“'“Ha, ha! You remember my case!” said he proudly.

“'“Very well, indeed.”

“'“Then maybe you remember something queer about it?”

“'“What was that, then?”

“'“I'd had nearly a quarter of a million, hadn't I?”

“'“So it was said.”

“'“But none was recovered, eh?”

“'“No.”

“'“Well, where d'ye suppose the balance is?” he asked.

“'“I have no idea,” said I.

“'“Right between my finger and thumb,” he cried. “By God! I've got more
pounds to my name than you've hairs on your head. And if you've money,
my son, and know how to handle it and spread it, you can do anything.
Now, you don't think it likely that a man who could do anything is going
to wear his breeches out sitting in the stinking hold of a rat-gutted,
beetle-ridden, mouldy old coffin of a China coaster. No, sir, such
a man will look after himself and will look after his chums. You may lay
to that! You hold on to him, and you may kiss the book that he'll haul
you through.”

“'That was his style of talk, and at first I thought it meant nothing;
but after a while, when he had tested me and sworn me in with all
possible solemnity, he let me understand that there really was a plot
to gain command of the vessel. A dozen of the prisoners had hatched it
before they came aboard, Prendergast was the leader, and his money was
the motive power.

“'“I'd a partner,” said he, “a rare good man, as true as a stock to a
barrel. He's got the dibbs, he has, and where do you think he is at this
moment? Why, he's the chaplain of this ship--the chaplain, no less! He
came aboard with a black coat, and his papers right, and money enough in
his box to buy the thing right up from keel to main-truck. The crew
are his, body and soul. He could buy 'em at so much a gross with a cash
discount, and he did it before ever they signed on. He's got two of the
warders and Mereer, the second mate, and he'd get the captain himself,
if he thought him worth it.”

“'“What are we to do, then?” I asked.

“'“What do you think?” said he. “We'll make the coats of some of these
soldiers redder than ever the tailor did.”

“'“But they are armed,” said I.

“'“And so shall we be, my boy. There's a brace of pistols for every
mother's son of us, and if we can't carry this ship, with the crew at
our back, it's time we were all sent to a young misses' boarding-school.
You speak to your mate upon the left to-night, and see if he is to be
trusted.”

“'I did so, and found my other neighbor to be a young fellow in much
the same position as myself, whose crime had been forgery. His name was
Evans, but he afterwards changed it, like myself, and he is now a rich
and prosperous man in the south of England. He was ready enough to join
the conspiracy, as the only means of saving ourselves, and before we had
crossed the Bay there were only two of the prisoners who were not in the
secret. One of these was of weak mind, and we did not dare to trust him,
and the other was suffering from jaundice, and could not be of any use
to us.

“'From the beginning there was really nothing to prevent us from taking
possession of the ship. The crew were a set of ruffians, specially
picked for the job. The sham chaplain came into our cells to exhort us,
carrying a black bag, supposed to be full of tracts, and so often did
he come that by the third day we had each stowed away at the foot of our
beds a file, a brace of pistols, a pound of powder, and twenty slugs.
Two of the warders were agents of Prendergast, and the second mate was
his right-hand man. The captain, the two mates, two warders, Lieutenant
Martin, his eighteen soldiers, and the doctor were all that we had
against us. Yet, safe as it was, we determined to neglect no precaution,
and to make our attack suddenly by night. It came, however, more quickly
than we expected, and in this way.

“'One evening, about the third week after our start, the doctor had come
down to see one of the prisoners who was ill, and putting his hand down
on the bottom of his bunk he felt the outline of the pistols. If he had
been silent he might have blown the whole thing, but he was a nervous
little chap, so he gave a cry of surprise and turned so pale that the
man knew what was up in an instant and seized him. He was gagged before
he could give the alarm, and tied down upon the bed. He had unlocked
the door that led to the deck, and we were through it in a rush. The two
sentries were shot down, and so was a corporal who came running to see
what was the matter. There were two more soldiers at the door of the
state-room, and their muskets seemed not to be loaded, for they never
fired upon us, and they were shot while trying to fix their bayonets.
Then we rushed on into the captain's cabin, but as we pushed open the
door there was an explosion from within, and there he lay with his
brains smeared over the chart of the Atlantic which was pinned upon the
table, while the chaplain stood with a smoking pistol in his hand at
his elbow. The two mates had both been seized by the crew, and the whole
business seemed to be settled.

“'The state-room was next the cabin, and we flocked in there and flopped
down on the settees, all speaking together, for we were just mad with
the feeling that we were free once more. There were lockers all round,
and Wilson, the sham chaplain, knocked one of them in, and pulled out a
dozen of brown sherry. We cracked off the necks of the bottles, poured
the stuff out into tumblers, and were just tossing them off, when in an
instant without warning there came the roar of muskets in our ears, and
the saloon was so full of smoke that we could not see across the table.
When it cleared again the place was a shambles. Wilson and eight others
were wriggling on the top of each other on the floor, and the blood and
the brown sherry on that table turn me sick now when I think of it. We
were so cowed by the sight that I think we should have given the job up
if it had not been for Prendergast. He bellowed like a bull and rushed
for the door with all that were left alive at his heels. Out we ran,
and there on the poop were the lieutenant and ten of his men. The swing
skylights above the saloon table had been a bit open, and they had fired
on us through the slit. We got on them before they could load, and they
stood to it like men; but we had the upper hand of them, and in five
minutes it was all over. My God! Was there ever a slaughter-house
like that ship! Prendergast was like a raging devil, and he picked the
soldiers up as if they had been children and threw them overboard alive
or dead. There was one sergeant that was horribly wounded and yet kept
on swimming for a surprising time, until some one in mercy blew out his
brains. When the fighting was over there was no one left of our enemies
except just the warders, the mates, and the doctor.

“'It was over them that the great quarrel arose. There were many of us
who were glad enough to win back our freedom, and yet who had no wish
to have murder on our souls. It was one thing to knock the soldiers over
with their muskets in their hands, and it was another to stand by while
men were being killed in cold blood. Eight of us, five convicts and
three sailors, said that we would not see it done. But there was no
moving Prendergast and those who were with him. Our only chance of
safety lay in making a clean job of it, said he, and he would not leave
a tongue with power to wag in a witness-box. It nearly came to our
sharing the fate of the prisoners, but at last he said that if we wished
we might take a boat and go. We jumped at the offer, for we were already
sick of these bloodthirsty doings, and we saw that there would be worse
before it was done. We were given a suit of sailor togs each, a barrel
of water, two casks, one of junk and one of biscuits, and a compass.
Prendergast threw us over a chart, told us that we were shipwrecked
mariners whose ship had foundered in Lat. 15 degrees and Long 25 degrees
west, and then cut the painter and let us go.

“'And now I come to the most surprising part of my story, my dear son.
The seamen had hauled the fore-yard aback during the rising, but now as
we left them they brought it square again, and as there was a light wind
from the north and east the bark began to draw slowly away from us. Our
boat lay, rising and falling, upon the long, smooth rollers, and Evans
and I, who were the most educated of the party, were sitting in the
sheets working out our position and planning what coast we should make
for. It was a nice question, for the Cape de Verdes were about five
hundred miles to the north of us, and the African coast about seven
hundred to the east. On the whole, as the wind was coming round to the
north, we thought that Sierra Leone might be best, and turned our head
in that direction, the bark being at that time nearly hull down on our
starboard quarter. Suddenly as we looked at her we saw a dense black
cloud of smoke shoot up from her, which hung like a monstrous tree upon
the sky line. A few seconds later a roar like thunder burst upon our
ears, and as the smoke thinned away there was no sign left of the
_Gloria Scott_. In an instant we swept the boat's head round again and
pulled with all our strength for the place where the haze still trailing
over the water marked the scene of this catastrophe.

“'It was a long hour before we reached it, and at first we feared that
we had come too late to save any one. A splintered boat and a number of
crates and fragments of spars rising and falling on the waves showed us
where the vessel had foundered; but there was no sign of life, and we
had turned away in despair when we heard a cry for help, and saw at some
distance a piece of wreckage with a man lying stretched across it. When
we pulled him aboard the boat he proved to be a young seaman of the
name of Hudson, who was so burned and exhausted that he could give us no
account of what had happened until the following morning.

“'It seemed that after we had left, Prendergast and his gang had
proceeded to put to death the five remaining prisoners. The two warders
had been shot and thrown overboard, and so also had the third mate.
Prendergast then descended into the 'tween-decks and with his own hands
cut the throat of the unfortunate surgeon. There only remained the first
mate, who was a bold and active man. When he saw the convict approaching
him with the bloody knife in his hand he kicked off his bonds, which he
had somehow contrived to loosen, and rushing down the deck he plunged
into the after-hold. A dozen convicts, who descended with their pistols
in search of him, found him with a match-box in his hand seated beside
an open powder-barrel, which was one of a hundred carried on board, and
swearing that he would blow all hands up if he were in any way molested.
An instant later the explosion occurred, though Hudson thought it was
caused by the misdirected bullet of one of the convicts rather than the
mate's match. Be the cause what it may, it was the end of the _Gloria
Scott_ and of the rabble who held command of her.

“'Such, in a few words, my dear boy, is the history of this terrible
business in which I was involved. Next day we were picked up by the brig
_Hotspur_, bound for Australia, whose captain found no difficulty in
believing that we were the survivors of a passenger ship which had
foundered. The transport ship Gloria Scott was set down by the Admiralty
as being lost at sea, and no word has ever leaked out as to her true
fate. After an excellent voyage the _Hotspur_ landed us at Sydney, where
Evans and I changed our names and made our way to the diggings,
where, among the crowds who were gathered from all nations, we had no
difficulty in losing our former identities. The rest I need not relate.
We prospered, we traveled, we came back as rich colonials to England,
and we bought country estates. For more than twenty years we have
led peaceful and useful lives, and we hoped that our past was forever
buried. Imagine, then, my feelings when in the seaman who came to us I
recognized instantly the man who had been picked off the wreck. He had
tracked us down somehow, and had set himself to live upon our fears. You
will understand now how it was that I strove to keep the peace with him,
and you will in some measure sympathize with me in the fears which fill
me, now that he has gone from me to his other victim with threats upon
his tongue.'

“Underneath is written in a hand so shaky as to be hardly legible,
'Beddoes writes in cipher to say H. has told all. Sweet Lord, have mercy
on our souls!'

“That was the narrative which I read that night to young Trevor, and I
think, Watson, that under the circumstances it was a dramatic one.
The good fellow was heart-broken at it, and went out to the Terai tea
planting, where I hear that he is doing well. As to the sailor and
Beddoes, neither of them was ever heard of again after that day on which
the letter of warning was written. They both disappeared utterly and
completely. No complaint had been lodged with the police, so that
Beddoes had mistaken a threat for a deed. Hudson had been seen lurking
about, and it was believed by the police that he had done away with
Beddoes and had fled. For myself I believe that the truth was exactly
the opposite. I think that it is most probable that Beddoes, pushed to
desperation and believing himself to have been already betrayed, had
revenged himself upon Hudson, and had fled from the country with as much
money as he could lay his hands on. Those are the facts of the case,
Doctor, and if they are of any use to your collection, I am sure that
they are very heartily at your service.”




Adventure V. The Musgrave Ritual


An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock
Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest
and most methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a certain
quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in his personal habits one
of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction.
Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. The
rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural
Bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a
medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who
keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of
a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a
jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin
to give myself virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol
practice should be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in
one of his queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger
and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite
wall with a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that
neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by
it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which
had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in
the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his papers were
my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents, especially those
which were connected with his past cases, and yet it was only once in
every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange
them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs,
the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable
feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of
lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his books,
hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month after month
his papers accumulated, until every corner of the room was stacked with
bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and which
could not be put away save by their owner. One winter's night, as we
sat together by the fire, I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had
finished pasting extracts into his common-place book, he might employ
the next two hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could
not deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went
off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin
box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor and, squatting
down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see
that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red
tape into separate packages.

“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me with
mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had in this box
you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in.”

“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I have often
wished that I had notes of those cases.”

“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my biographer
had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender,
caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes, Watson,” said he.
“But there are some pretty little problems among them. Here's the record
of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant,
and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair
of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the
club-foot, and his abominable wife. And here--ah, now, this really is
something a little recherché.”

He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up a small
wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children's toys are kept in. From
within he produced a crumpled piece of paper, an old-fashioned brass
key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it, and three rusty
old disks of metal.

“Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?” he asked, smiling at my
expression.

“It is a curious collection.”

“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as
being more curious still.”

“These relics have a history then?”

“So much so that they are history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along the edge
of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and looked them over
with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“These,” said he, “are all that I have left to remind me of the
adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”

I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had never been
able to gather the details. “I should be so glad,” said I, “if you would
give me an account of it.”

“And leave the litter as it is?” he cried, mischievously. “Your tidiness
won't bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should be glad that you
should add this case to your annals, for there are points in it which
make it quite unique in the criminal records of this or, I believe,
of any other country. A collection of my trifling achievements would
certainly be incomplete which contained no account of this very singular
business.

“You may remember how the affair of the _Gloria Scott_, and my
conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I told you of, first turned
my attention in the direction of the profession which has become my
life's work. You see me now when my name has become known far and
wide, and when I am generally recognized both by the public and by the
official force as being a final court of appeal in doubtful cases.
Even when you knew me first, at the time of the affair which you have
commemorated in 'A Study in Scarlet,' I had already established a
considerable, though not a very lucrative, connection. You can hardly
realize, then, how difficult I found it at first, and how long I had to
wait before I succeeded in making any headway.

“When I first came up to London I had rooms in Montague Street, just
round the corner from the British Museum, and there I waited, filling in
my too abundant leisure time by studying all those branches of science
which might make me more efficient. Now and again cases came in my way,
principally through the introduction of old fellow-students, for during
my last years at the University there was a good deal of talk there
about myself and my methods. The third of these cases was that of the
Musgrave Ritual, and it is to the interest which was aroused by that
singular chain of events, and the large issues which proved to be at
stake, that I trace my first stride towards the position which I now
hold.

“Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as myself, and I had
some slight acquaintance with him. He was not generally popular among
the undergraduates, though it always seemed to me that what was set down
as pride was really an attempt to cover extreme natural diffidence.
In appearance he was a man of exceedingly aristocratic type, thin,
high-nosed, and large-eyed, with languid and yet courtly manners. He was
indeed a scion of one of the very oldest families in the kingdom,
though his branch was a cadet one which had separated from the northern
Musgraves some time in the sixteenth century, and had established itself
in western Sussex, where the Manor House of Hurlstone is perhaps the
oldest inhabited building in the county. Something of his birth place
seemed to cling to the man, and I never looked at his pale, keen face
or the poise of his head without associating him with gray archways and
mullioned windows and all the venerable wreckage of a feudal keep. Once
or twice we drifted into talk, and I can remember that more than once he
expressed a keen interest in my methods of observation and inference.

“For four years I had seen nothing of him until one morning he walked
into my room in Montague Street. He had changed little, was dressed like
a young man of fashion--he was always a bit of a dandy--and preserved
the same quiet, suave manner which had formerly distinguished him.

“'How has all gone with you Musgrave?' I asked, after we had cordially
shaken hands.

“'You probably heard of my poor father's death,' said he; 'he was
carried off about two years ago. Since then I have of course had the
Hurlstone estates to manage, and as I am member for my district as well,
my life has been a busy one. But I understand, Holmes, that you are
turning to practical ends those powers with which you used to amaze us?'

“'Yes,' said I, 'I have taken to living by my wits.'

“'I am delighted to hear it, for your advice at present would be
exceedingly valuable to me. We have had some very strange doings at
Hurlstone, and the police have been able to throw no light upon the
matter. It is really the most extraordinary and inexplicable business.'

“You can imagine with what eagerness I listened to him, Watson, for
the very chance for which I had been panting during all those months
of inaction seemed to have come within my reach. In my inmost heart I
believed that I could succeed where others failed, and now I had the
opportunity to test myself.

“'Pray, let me have the details,' I cried.

“Reginald Musgrave sat down opposite to me, and lit the cigarette which
I had pushed towards him.

“'You must know,' said he, 'that though I am a bachelor, I have to keep
up a considerable staff of servants at Hurlstone, for it is a rambling
old place, and takes a good deal of looking after. I preserve, too, and
in the pheasant months I usually have a house-party, so that it would
not do to be short-handed. Altogether there are eight maids, the cook,
the butler, two footmen, and a boy. The garden and the stables of course
have a separate staff.

“'Of these servants the one who had been longest in our service was
Brunton the butler. He was a young school-master out of place when he
was first taken up by my father, but he was a man of great energy and
character, and he soon became quite invaluable in the household. He was
a well-grown, handsome man, with a splendid forehead, and though he has
been with us for twenty years he cannot be more than forty now. With
his personal advantages and his extraordinary gifts--for he can speak
several languages and play nearly every musical instrument--it is
wonderful that he should have been satisfied so long in such a position,
but I suppose that he was comfortable, and lacked energy to make any
change. The butler of Hurlstone is always a thing that is remembered by
all who visit us.

“'But this paragon has one fault. He is a bit of a Don Juan, and you can
imagine that for a man like him it is not a very difficult part to play
in a quiet country district. When he was married it was all right, but
since he has been a widower we have had no end of trouble with him. A
few months ago we were in hopes that he was about to settle down again
for he became engaged to Rachel Howells, our second house-maid; but he
has thrown her over since then and taken up with Janet Tregellis, the
daughter of the head game-keeper. Rachel--who is a very good girl, but
of an excitable Welsh temperament--had a sharp touch of brain-fever,
and goes about the house now--or did until yesterday--like a black-eyed
shadow of her former self. That was our first drama at Hurlstone; but a
second one came to drive it from our minds, and it was prefaced by the
disgrace and dismissal of butler Brunton.

“'This was how it came about. I have said that the man was intelligent,
and this very intelligence has caused his ruin, for it seems to have
led to an insatiable curiosity about things which did not in the least
concern him. I had no idea of the lengths to which this would carry him,
until the merest accident opened my eyes to it.

“'I have said that the house is a rambling one. One day last week--on
Thursday night, to be more exact--I found that I could not sleep,
having foolishly taken a cup of strong café noir after my dinner. After
struggling against it until two in the morning, I felt that it was quite
hopeless, so I rose and lit the candle with the intention of continuing
a novel which I was reading. The book, however, had been left in the
billiard-room, so I pulled on my dressing-gown and started off to get
it.

“'In order to reach the billiard-room I had to descend a flight of
stairs and then to cross the head of a passage which led to the library
and the gun-room. You can imagine my surprise when, as I looked down
this corridor, I saw a glimmer of light coming from the open door of the
library. I had myself extinguished the lamp and closed the door before
coming to bed. Naturally my first thought was of burglars. The corridors
at Hurlstone have their walls largely decorated with trophies of old
weapons. From one of these I picked a battle-axe, and then, leaving my
candle behind me, I crept on tiptoe down the passage and peeped in at
the open door.

“'Brunton, the butler, was in the library. He was sitting, fully
dressed, in an easy-chair, with a slip of paper which looked like a
map upon his knee, and his forehead sunk forward upon his hand in deep
thought. I stood dumb with astonishment, watching him from the darkness.
A small taper on the edge of the table shed a feeble light which
sufficed to show me that he was fully dressed. Suddenly, as I looked,
he rose from his chair, and walking over to a bureau at the side, he
unlocked it and drew out one of the drawers. From this he took a paper,
and returning to his seat he flattened it out beside the taper on the
edge of the table, and began to study it with minute attention. My
indignation at this calm examination of our family documents overcame
me so far that I took a step forward, and Brunton, looking up, saw me
standing in the doorway. He sprang to his feet, his face turned livid
with fear, and he thrust into his breast the chart-like paper which he
had been originally studying.

“'“So!” said I. “This is how you repay the trust which we have reposed
in you. You will leave my service to-morrow.”

“'He bowed with the look of a man who is utterly crushed, and slunk past
me without a word. The taper was still on the table, and by its light
I glanced to see what the paper was which Brunton had taken from the
bureau. To my surprise it was nothing of any importance at all,
but simply a copy of the questions and answers in the singular old
observance called the Musgrave Ritual. It is a sort of ceremony peculiar
to our family, which each Musgrave for centuries past has gone through
on his coming of age--a thing of private interest, and perhaps of some
little importance to the archaeologist, like our own blazonings and
charges, but of no practical use whatever.'

“'We had better come back to the paper afterwards,' said I.

“'If you think it really necessary,' he answered, with some hesitation.
'To continue my statement, however: I relocked the bureau, using the key
which Brunton had left, and I had turned to go when I was surprised to
find that the butler had returned, and was standing before me.

“'“Mr. Musgrave, sir,” he cried, in a voice which was hoarse with
emotion, “I can't bear disgrace, sir. I've always been proud above my
station in life, and disgrace would kill me. My blood will be on your
head, sir--it will, indeed--if you drive me to despair. If you cannot
keep me after what has passed, then for God's sake let me give you
notice and leave in a month, as if of my own free will. I could stand
that, Mr. Musgrave, but not to be cast out before all the folk that I
know so well.”

“'“You don't deserve much consideration, Brunton,” I answered. “Your
conduct has been most infamous. However, as you have been a long time in
the family, I have no wish to bring public disgrace upon you. A month,
however is too long. Take yourself away in a week, and give what reason
you like for going.”

“'“Only a week, sir?” he cried, in a despairing voice. “A fortnight--say
at least a fortnight!”

“'“A week,” I repeated, “and you may consider yourself to have been very
leniently dealt with.”

“'He crept away, his face sunk upon his breast, like a broken man, while
I put out the light and returned to my room.


“'“For two days after this Brunton was most assiduous in his attention
to his duties. I made no allusion to what had passed, and waited with
some curiosity to see how he would cover his disgrace. On the third
morning, however he did not appear, as was his custom, after breakfast
to receive my instructions for the day. As I left the dining-room I
happened to meet Rachel Howells, the maid. I have told you that she had
only recently recovered from an illness, and was looking so wretchedly
pale and wan that I remonstrated with her for being at work.

“'“You should be in bed,” I said. “Come back to your duties when you are
stronger.”

“'She looked at me with so strange an expression that I began to suspect
that her brain was affected.

“'“I am strong enough, Mr. Musgrave,” said she.

“'“We will see what the doctor says,” I answered. “You must stop work
now, and when you go downstairs just say that I wish to see Brunton.”

“'“The butler is gone,” said she.

“'“Gone! Gone where?”

“'“He is gone. No one has seen him. He is not in his room. Oh, yes, he
is gone, he is gone!” She fell back against the wall with shriek after
shriek of laughter, while I, horrified at this sudden hysterical attack,
rushed to the bell to summon help. The girl was taken to her room, still
screaming and sobbing, while I made inquiries about Brunton. There was
no doubt about it that he had disappeared. His bed had not been slept
in, he had been seen by no one since he had retired to his room the
night before, and yet it was difficult to see how he could have left
the house, as both windows and doors were found to be fastened in the
morning. His clothes, his watch, and even his money were in his room,
but the black suit which he usually wore was missing. His slippers,
too, were gone, but his boots were left behind. Where then could butler
Brunton have gone in the night, and what could have become of him now?

“'Of course we searched the house from cellar to garret, but there was
no trace of him. It is, as I have said, a labyrinth of an old house,
especially the original wing, which is now practically uninhabited; but
we ransacked every room and cellar without discovering the least sign
of the missing man. It was incredible to me that he could have gone away
leaving all his property behind him, and yet where could he be? I called
in the local police, but without success. Rain had fallen on the night
before and we examined the lawn and the paths all round the house, but
in vain. Matters were in this state, when a new development quite drew
our attention away from the original mystery.

“'For two days Rachel Howells had been so ill, sometimes delirious,
sometimes hysterical, that a nurse had been employed to sit up with her
at night. On the third night after Brunton's disappearance, the nurse,
finding her patient sleeping nicely, had dropped into a nap in the
arm-chair, when she woke in the early morning to find the bed empty, the
window open, and no signs of the invalid. I was instantly aroused, and,
with the two footmen, started off at once in search of the missing girl.
It was not difficult to tell the direction which she had taken, for,
starting from under her window, we could follow her footmarks easily
across the lawn to the edge of the mere, where they vanished close to
the gravel path which leads out of the grounds. The lake there is eight
feet deep, and you can imagine our feelings when we saw that the trail
of the poor demented girl came to an end at the edge of it.

“'Of course, we had the drags at once, and set to work to recover the
remains, but no trace of the body could we find. On the other hand, we
brought to the surface an object of a most unexpected kind. It was a
linen bag which contained within it a mass of old rusted and discolored
metal and several dull-colored pieces of pebble or glass. This strange
find was all that we could get from the mere, and, although we made
every possible search and inquiry yesterday, we know nothing of the fate
either of Rachel Howells or of Richard Brunton. The county police are at
their wits' end, and I have come up to you as a last resource.'

“You can imagine, Watson, with what eagerness I listened to this
extraordinary sequence of events, and endeavored to piece them together,
and to devise some common thread upon which they might all hang. The
butler was gone. The maid was gone. The maid had loved the butler, but
had afterwards had cause to hate him. She was of Welsh blood, fiery
and passionate. She had been terribly excited immediately after his
disappearance. She had flung into the lake a bag containing some
curious contents. These were all factors which had to be taken into
consideration, and yet none of them got quite to the heart of the
matter. What was the starting-point of this chain of events? There lay
the end of this tangled line.

“'I must see that paper, Musgrave,' said I, 'which this butler of yours
thought it worth his while to consult, even at the risk of the loss of
his place.'

“'It is rather an absurd business, this ritual of ours,' he answered.
'But it has at least the saving grace of antiquity to excuse it. I have
a copy of the questions and answers here if you care to run your eye
over them.'

“He handed me the very paper which I have here, Watson, and this is the
strange catechism to which each Musgrave had to submit when he came to
man's estate. I will read you the questions and answers as they stand.

“'Whose was it?'

“'His who is gone.'

“'Who shall have it?'

“'He who will come.'

“'Where was the sun?'

“'Over the oak.'

“'Where was the shadow?'

“'Under the elm.'

“How was it stepped?'

“'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by
two, west by one and by one, and so under.'

“'What shall we give for it?'

“'All that is ours.'

“'Why should we give it?'

“'For the sake of the trust.'

“'The original has no date, but is in the spelling of the middle of the
seventeenth century,' remarked Musgrave. 'I am afraid, however, that it
can be of little help to you in solving this mystery.'

“'At least,' said I, 'it gives us another mystery, and one which is even
more interesting than the first. It may be that the solution of the one
may prove to be the solution of the other. You will excuse me, Musgrave,
if I say that your butler appears to me to have been a very clever man,
and to have had a clearer insight than ten generations of his masters.'

“'I hardly follow you,' said Musgrave. 'The paper seems to me to be of
no practical importance.'

“'But to me it seems immensely practical, and I fancy that Brunton took
the same view. He had probably seen it before that night on which you
caught him.'

“'It is very possible. We took no pains to hide it.'

“'He simply wished, I should imagine, to refresh his memory upon that
last occasion. He had, as I understand, some sort of map or chart which
he was comparing with the manuscript, and which he thrust into his
pocket when you appeared.'

“'That is true. But what could he have to do with this old family custom
of ours, and what does this rigmarole mean?'

“'I don't think that we should have much difficulty in determining
that,' said I; 'with your permission we will take the first train down
to Sussex, and go a little more deeply into the matter upon the spot.'


“The same afternoon saw us both at Hurlstone. Possibly you have seen
pictures and read descriptions of the famous old building, so I will
confine my account of it to saying that it is built in the shape of
an L, the long arm being the more modern portion, and the shorter the
ancient nucleus, from which the other had developed. Over the low,
heavily-lintelled door, in the centre of this old part, is chiseled the
date, 1607, but experts are agreed that the beams and stone-work are
really much older than this. The enormously thick walls and tiny windows
of this part had in the last century driven the family into building the
new wing, and the old one was used now as a store-house and a cellar,
when it was used at all. A splendid park with fine old timber surrounds
the house, and the lake, to which my client had referred, lay close to
the avenue, about two hundred yards from the building.

“I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there were not three
separate mysteries here, but one only, and that if I could read the
Musgrave Ritual aright I should hold in my hand the clue which would
lead me to the truth concerning both the butler Brunton and the maid
Howells. To that then I turned all my energies. Why should this servant
be so anxious to master this old formula? Evidently because he saw
something in it which had escaped all those generations of country
squires, and from which he expected some personal advantage. What was it
then, and how had it affected his fate?

“It was perfectly obvious to me, on reading the ritual, that the
measurements must refer to some spot to which the rest of the document
alluded, and that if we could find that spot, we should be in a fair way
towards finding what the secret was which the old Musgraves had thought
it necessary to embalm in so curious a fashion. There were two guides
given us to start with, an oak and an elm. As to the oak there could be
no question at all. Right in front of the house, upon the left-hand
side of the drive, there stood a patriarch among oaks, one of the most
magnificent trees that I have ever seen.

“'That was there when your ritual was drawn up,' said I, as we drove
past it.

“'It was there at the Norman Conquest in all probability,' he answered.
'It has a girth of twenty-three feet.'

“'Have you any old elms?' I asked.

“'There used to be a very old one over yonder but it was struck by
lightning ten years ago, and we cut down the stump.'

“'You can see where it used to be?'

“'Oh, yes.'

“'There are no other elms?'

“'No old ones, but plenty of beeches.'

“'I should like to see where it grew.'

“We had driven up in a dog-cart, and my client led me away at once,
without our entering the house, to the scar on the lawn where the
elm had stood. It was nearly midway between the oak and the house. My
investigation seemed to be progressing.

“'I suppose it is impossible to find out how high the elm was?' I asked.

“'I can give you it at once. It was sixty-four feet.'

“'How do you come to know it?' I asked, in surprise.

“'When my old tutor used to give me an exercise in trigonometry, it
always took the shape of measuring heights. When I was a lad I worked
out every tree and building in the estate.'

“This was an unexpected piece of luck. My data were coming more quickly
than I could have reasonably hoped.

“'Tell me,' I asked, 'did your butler ever ask you such a question?'

“Reginald Musgrave looked at me in astonishment. 'Now that you call it
to my mind,' he answered, 'Brunton did ask me about the height of the
tree some months ago, in connection with some little argument with the
groom.'

“This was excellent news, Watson, for it showed me that I was on the
right road. I looked up at the sun. It was low in the heavens, and I
calculated that in less than an hour it would lie just above the topmost
branches of the old oak. One condition mentioned in the Ritual would
then be fulfilled. And the shadow of the elm must mean the farther end
of the shadow, otherwise the trunk would have been chosen as the guide.
I had, then, to find where the far end of the shadow would fall when the
sun was just clear of the oak.”

“That must have been difficult, Holmes, when the elm was no longer
there.”

“Well, at least I knew that if Brunton could do it, I could also.
Besides, there was no real difficulty. I went with Musgrave to his study
and whittled myself this peg, to which I tied this long string with a
knot at each yard. Then I took two lengths of a fishing-rod, which came
to just six feet, and I went back with my client to where the elm had
been. The sun was just grazing the top of the oak. I fastened the rod
on end, marked out the direction of the shadow, and measured it. It was
nine feet in length.

“Of course the calculation now was a simple one. If a rod of six feet
threw a shadow of nine, a tree of sixty-four feet would throw one of
ninety-six, and the line of the one would of course be the line of the
other. I measured out the distance, which brought me almost to the
wall of the house, and I thrust a peg into the spot. You can imagine
my exultation, Watson, when within two inches of my peg I saw a conical
depression in the ground. I knew that it was the mark made by Brunton in
his measurements, and that I was still upon his trail.

“From this starting-point I proceeded to step, having first taken the
cardinal points by my pocket-compass. Ten steps with each foot took me
along parallel with the wall of the house, and again I marked my spot
with a peg. Then I carefully paced off five to the east and two to the
south. It brought me to the very threshold of the old door. Two steps
to the west meant now that I was to go two paces down the stone-flagged
passage, and this was the place indicated by the Ritual.

“Never have I felt such a cold chill of disappointment, Watson. For a
moment is seemed to me that there must be some radical mistake in my
calculations. The setting sun shone full upon the passage floor, and I
could see that the old, foot-worn gray stones with which it was paved
were firmly cemented together, and had certainly not been moved for many
a long year. Brunton had not been at work here. I tapped upon the floor,
but it sounded the same all over, and there was no sign of any crack
or crevice. But, fortunately, Musgrave, who had begun to appreciate the
meaning of my proceedings, and who was now as excited as myself, took
out his manuscript to check my calculation.

“'And under,' he cried. 'You have omitted the “and under.”'

“I had thought that it meant that we were to dig, but now, of course,
I saw at once that I was wrong. 'There is a cellar under this then?' I
cried.

“'Yes, and as old as the house. Down here, through this door.'

“We went down a winding stone stair, and my companion, striking a match,
lit a large lantern which stood on a barrel in the corner. In an instant
it was obvious that we had at last come upon the true place, and that we
had not been the only people to visit the spot recently.

“It had been used for the storage of wood, but the billets, which had
evidently been littered over the floor, were now piled at the sides, so
as to leave a clear space in the middle. In this space lay a large and
heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the centre to which a thick
shepherd's-check muffler was attached.

“'By Jove!' cried my client. 'That's Brunton's muffler. I have seen it
on him, and could swear to it. What has the villain been doing here?'

“At my suggestion a couple of the county police were summoned to be
present, and I then endeavored to raise the stone by pulling on the
cravat. I could only move it slightly, and it was with the aid of one
of the constables that I succeeded at last in carrying it to one side.
A black hole yawned beneath into which we all peered, while Musgrave,
kneeling at the side, pushed down the lantern.

“A small chamber about seven feet deep and four feet square lay open to
us. At one side of this was a squat, brass-bound wooden box, the lid of
which was hinged upwards, with this curious old-fashioned key projecting
from the lock. It was furred outside by a thick layer of dust, and damp
and worms had eaten through the wood, so that a crop of livid fungi
was growing on the inside of it. Several discs of metal, old coins
apparently, such as I hold here, were scattered over the bottom of the
box, but it contained nothing else.

“At the moment, however, we had no thought for the old chest, for our
eyes were riveted upon that which crouched beside it. It was the figure
of a man, clad in a suit of black, who squatted down upon his hams with
his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and his two arms thrown out
on each side of it. The attitude had drawn all the stagnant blood to
the face, and no man could have recognized that distorted liver-colored
countenance; but his height, his dress, and his hair were all sufficient
to show my client, when we had drawn the body up, that it was indeed his
missing butler. He had been dead some days, but there was no wound or
bruise upon his person to show how he had met his dreadful end. When
his body had been carried from the cellar we found ourselves still
confronted with a problem which was almost as formidable as that with
which we had started.

“I confess that so far, Watson, I had been disappointed in my
investigation. I had reckoned upon solving the matter when once I had
found the place referred to in the Ritual; but now I was there, and was
apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was which the family had
concealed with such elaborate precautions. It is true that I had thrown
a light upon the fate of Brunton, but now I had to ascertain how that
fate had come upon him, and what part had been played in the matter by
the woman who had disappeared. I sat down upon a keg in the corner and
thought the whole matter carefully over.

“You know my methods in such cases, Watson. I put myself in the man's
place and, having first gauged his intelligence, I try to imagine how I
should myself have proceeded under the same circumstances. In this
case the matter was simplified by Brunton's intelligence being quite
first-rate, so that it was unnecessary to make any allowance for the
personal equation, as the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew that
something valuable was concealed. He had spotted the place. He found
that the stone which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move
unaided. What would he do next? He could not get help from outside, even
if he had some one whom he could trust, without the unbarring of doors
and considerable risk of detection. It was better, if he could, to have
his helpmate inside the house. But whom could he ask? This girl had been
devoted to him. A man always finds it hard to realize that he may have
finally lost a woman's love, however badly he may have treated her. He
would try by a few attentions to make his peace with the girl Howells,
and then would engage her as his accomplice. Together they would come at
night to the cellar, and their united force would suffice to raise the
stone. So far I could follow their actions as if I had actually seen
them.

“But for two of them, and one a woman, it must have been heavy work the
raising of that stone. A burly Sussex policeman and I had found it no
light job. What would they do to assist them? Probably what I should
have done myself. I rose and examined carefully the different billets
of wood which were scattered round the floor. Almost at once I came
upon what I expected. One piece, about three feet in length, had a very
marked indentation at one end, while several were flattened at the sides
as if they had been compressed by some considerable weight. Evidently,
as they had dragged the stone up they had thrust the chunks of wood into
the chink, until at last, when the opening was large enough to crawl
through, they would hold it open by a billet placed lengthwise, which
might very well become indented at the lower end, since the whole weight
of the stone would press it down on to the edge of this other slab. So
far I was still on safe ground.

“And now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama?
Clearly, only one could fit into the hole, and that one was Brunton. The
girl must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked the box, handed up
the contents presumably--since they were not to be found--and then--and
then what happened?

“What smouldering fire of vengeance had suddenly sprung into flame in
this passionate Celtic woman's soul when she saw the man who had wronged
her--wronged her, perhaps, far more than we suspected--in her power?
Was it a chance that the wood had slipped, and that the stone had shut
Brunton into what had become his sepulchre? Had she only been guilty of
silence as to his fate? Or had some sudden blow from her hand dashed the
support away and sent the slab crashing down into its place? Be that
as it might, I seemed to see that woman's figure still clutching at her
treasure trove and flying wildly up the winding stair, with her ears
ringing perhaps with the muffled screams from behind her and with the
drumming of frenzied hands against the slab of stone which was choking
her faithless lover's life out.

“Here was the secret of her blanched face, her shaken nerves, her peals
of hysterical laughter on the next morning. But what had been in the
box? What had she done with that? Of course, it must have been the old
metal and pebbles which my client had dragged from the mere. She had
thrown them in there at the first opportunity to remove the last trace
of her crime.

“For twenty minutes I had sat motionless, thinking the matter out.
Musgrave still stood with a very pale face, swinging his lantern and
peering down into the hole.

“'These are coins of Charles the First,' said he, holding out the few
which had been in the box; 'you see we were right in fixing our date for
the Ritual.'

“'We may find something else of Charles the First,' I cried, as the
probable meaning of the first two questions of the Ritual broke suddenly
upon me. 'Let me see the contents of the bag which you fished from the
mere.'


“We ascended to his study, and he laid the debris before me. I could
understand his regarding it as of small importance when I looked at it,
for the metal was almost black and the stones lustreless and dull. I
rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however, and it glowed afterwards like
a spark in the dark hollow of my hand. The metal work was in the form
of a double ring, but it had been bent and twisted out of its original
shape.

“'You must bear in mind,' said I, 'that the royal party made head in
England even after the death of the king, and that when they at last
fled they probably left many of their most precious possessions buried
behind them, with the intention of returning for them in more peaceful
times.'

“'My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, was a prominent Cavalier and the
right-hand man of Charles the Second in his wanderings,' said my friend.

“'Ah, indeed!' I answered. 'Well now, I think that really should give us
the last link that we wanted. I must congratulate you on coming into
the possession, though in rather a tragic manner of a relic which is of
great intrinsic value, but of even greater importance as an historical
curiosity.'

“'What is it, then?' he gasped in astonishment.

“'It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the kings of England.'

“'The crown!'

“'Precisely. Consider what the Ritual says: How does it run? “Whose was
it?” “His who is gone.” That was after the execution of Charles. Then,
“Who shall have it?” “He who will come.” That was Charles the Second,
whose advent was already foreseen. There can, I think, be no doubt that
this battered and shapeless diadem once encircled the brows of the royal
Stuarts.'

“'And how came it in the pond?'

“'Ah, that is a question that will take some time to answer.' And with
that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise and of proof
which I had constructed. The twilight had closed in and the moon was
shining brightly in the sky before my narrative was finished.

“'And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he
returned?' asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen bag.

“'Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall
probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the Musgrave who
held the secret died in the interval, and by some oversight left this
guide to his descendant without explaining the meaning of it. From that
day to this it has been handed down from father to son, until at last
it came within reach of a man who tore its secret out of it and lost his
life in the venture.'


“And that's the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have the
crown down at Hurlstone--though they had some legal bother and a
considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it. I am sure
that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to show it to you. Of
the woman nothing was ever heard, and the probability is that she got
away out of England and carried herself and the memory of her crime to
some land beyond the seas.”




Adventure VI. The Reigate Puzzle


It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes
recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the spring
of '87. The whole question of the Netherland-Sumatra Company and of the
colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis are too recent in the minds of the
public, and are too intimately concerned with politics and finance to be
fitting subjects for this series of sketches. They led, however, in an
indirect fashion to a singular and complex problem which gave my friend
an opportunity of demonstrating the value of a fresh weapon among the
many with which he waged his life-long battle against crime.

On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the 14th of April that
I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes was
lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in his
sick-room, and was relieved to find that there was nothing formidable in
his symptoms. Even his iron constitution, however, had broken down
under the strain of an investigation which had extended over two months,
during which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day,
and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days
at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of his labors could not save him
from reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a time when Europe
was ringing with his name and when his room was literally ankle-deep
with congratulatory telegrams I found him a prey to the blackest
depression. Even the knowledge that he had succeeded where the police of
three countries had failed, and that he had outmanoeuvred at every point
the most accomplished swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him
from his nervous prostration.

Three days later we were back in Baker Street together; but it was
evident that my friend would be much the better for a change, and the
thought of a week of spring time in the country was full of attractions
to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had come under my
professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near Reigate in
Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him upon a visit. On
the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend would only come
with me he would be glad to extend his hospitality to him also. A little
diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment
was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom,
he fell in with my plans and a week after our return from Lyons we were
under the Colonel's roof. Hayter was a fine old soldier who had seen
much of the world, and he soon found, as I had expected, that Holmes and
he had much in common.

On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel's gun-room
after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while Hayter and I looked
over his little armory of Eastern weapons.

“By the way,” said he suddenly, “I think I'll take one of these pistols
upstairs with me in case we have an alarm.”

“An alarm!” said I.

“Yes, we've had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is one of
our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday. No great
damage done, but the fellows are still at large.”

“No clue?” asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.

“None as yet. But the affair is a petty one, one of our little country
crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr. Holmes, after
this great international affair.”

Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had
pleased him.

“Was there any feature of interest?”

“I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very little for
their pains. The whole place was turned upside down, drawers burst open,
and presses ransacked, with the result that an odd volume of Pope's
'Homer,' two plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, a small oak
barometer, and a ball of twine are all that have vanished.”

“What an extraordinary assortment!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could get.”

Holmes grunted from the sofa.

“The county police ought to make something of that,” said he; “why, it
is surely obvious that--”

But I held up a warning finger.

“You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven's sake don't get
started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation towards
the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous channels.

It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be
wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us in such a
way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took a
turn which neither of us could have anticipated. We were at breakfast
when the Colonel's butler rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of
him.

“Have you heard the news, sir?” he gasped. “At the Cunningham's sir!”

“Burglary!” cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.

“Murder!”

The Colonel whistled. “By Jove!” said he. “Who's killed, then? The J.P.
or his son?”

“Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the heart, sir,
and never spoke again.”

“Who shot him, then?”

“The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He'd just
broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met his end
in saving his master's property.”

“What time?”

“It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve.”

“Ah, then, we'll step over afterwards,” said the Colonel, coolly
settling down to his breakfast again. “It's a baddish business,” he
added when the butler had gone; “he's our leading man about here, is old
Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He'll be cut up over this, for
the man has been in his service for years and was a good servant. It's
evidently the same villains who broke into Acton's.”

“And stole that very singular collection,” said Holmes, thoughtfully.

“Precisely.”

“Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the same
at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A gang of
burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of
their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the same district within
a few days. When you spoke last night of taking precautions I remember
that it passed through my mind that this was probably the last parish
in England to which the thief or thieves would be likely to turn their
attention--which shows that I have still much to learn.”

“I fancy it's some local practitioner,” said the Colonel. “In that case,
of course, Acton's and Cunningham's are just the places he would go for,
since they are far the largest about here.”

“And richest?”

“Well, they ought to be, but they've had a lawsuit for some years which
has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old Acton has some
claim on half Cunningham's estate, and the lawyers have been at it with
both hands.”

“If it's a local villain there should not be much difficulty in running
him down,” said Holmes with a yawn. “All right, Watson, I don't intend
to meddle.”

“Inspector Forrester, sir,” said the butler, throwing open the door.

The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the room.
“Good-morning, Colonel,” said he; “I hope I don't intrude, but we hear
that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here.”

The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector bowed.

“We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes.”

“The fates are against you, Watson,” said he, laughing. “We were
chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps you
can let us have a few details.” As he leaned back in his chair in the
familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.

“We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to go on,
and there's no doubt it is the same party in each case. The man was
seen.”

“Ah!”

“Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed poor
William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the bedroom
window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage. It was
quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr. Cunningham had just got
into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown. They
both heard William the coachman calling for help, and Mr. Alec ran down
to see what was the matter. The back door was open, and as he came to
the foot of the stairs he saw two men wrestling together outside. One of
them fired a shot, the other dropped, and the murderer rushed across the
garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham, looking out of his bedroom,
saw the fellow as he gained the road, but lost sight of him at once. Mr.
Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying man, and so the villain
got clean away. Beyond the fact that he was a middle-sized man and
dressed in some dark stuff, we have no personal clue; but we are making
energetic inquiries, and if he is a stranger we shall soon find him
out.”

“What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he died?”

“Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was a
very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house with
the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course this Acton
business has put every one on their guard. The robber must have just
burst open the door--the lock has been forced--when William came upon
him.”

“Did William say anything to his mother before going out?”

“She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from her. The
shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that she was never
very bright. There is one very important circumstance, however. Look at
this!”

He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread it out
upon his knee.

“This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It appears
to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will observe that the
hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor fellow met his
fate. You see that his murderer might have torn the rest of the sheet
from him or he might have taken this fragment from the murderer. It
reads almost as though it were an appointment.”

Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a fac-simile of which is here
reproduced.

          at quarter to twelve
          learn what
          maybe

“Presuming that it is an appointment,” continued the Inspector, “it is
of course a conceivable theory that this William Kirwan--though he had
the reputation of being an honest man, may have been in league with the
thief. He may have met him there, may even have helped him to break in
the door, and then they may have fallen out between themselves.”

“This writing is of extraordinary interest,” said Holmes, who had been
examining it with intense concentration. “These are much deeper waters
than I had thought.” He sank his head upon his hands, while the Inspector
smiled at the effect which his case had had upon the famous London
specialist.

“Your last remark,” said Holmes, presently, “as to the possibility of
there being an understanding between the burglar and the servant, and
this being a note of appointment from one to the other, is an ingenious
and not entirely impossible supposition. But this writing opens up--” He
sank his head into his hands again and remained for some minutes in the
deepest thought. When he raised his face again, I was surprised to see
that his cheek was tinged with color, and his eyes as bright as before
his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old energy.

“I'll tell you what,” said he, “I should like to have a quiet little
glance into the details of this case. There is something in it which
fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me, Colonel, I will leave my
friend Watson and you, and I will step round with the Inspector to test
the truth of one or two little fancies of mine. I will be with you again
in half an hour.”

An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.

“Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside,” said he. “He
wants us all four to go up to the house together.”

“To Mr. Cunningham's?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What for?”

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I don't quite know, sir. Between
ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite got over his illness yet.
He's been behaving very queerly, and he is very much excited.”

“I don't think you need alarm yourself,” said I. “I have usually found
that there was method in his madness.”

“Some folks might say there was madness in his method,” muttered the
Inspector. “But he's all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had best go
out if you are ready.”

We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk upon his
breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

“The matter grows in interest,” said he. “Watson, your country-trip has
been a distinct success. I have had a charming morning.”

“You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand,” said the
Colonel.

“Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance
together.”

“Any success?”

“Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I'll tell you what we
did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body of this unfortunate man.
He certainly died from a revolver wound as reported.”

“Had you doubted it, then?”

“Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not wasted. We
then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son, who were able
to point out the exact spot where the murderer had broken through the
garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great interest.”

“Naturally.”

“Then we had a look at this poor fellow's mother. We could get no
information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble.”

“And what is the result of your investigations?”

“The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps our visit
now may do something to make it less obscure. I think that we are both
agreed, Inspector that the fragment of paper in the dead man's hand,
bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death written upon it, is of
extreme importance.”

“It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes.”

“It does give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who brought
William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is the rest of
that sheet of paper?”

“I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it,” said the
Inspector.

“It was torn out of the dead man's hand. Why was some one so anxious to
get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And what would he do
with it? Thrust it into his pocket, most likely, never noticing that a
corner of it had been left in the grip of the corpse. If we could get
the rest of that sheet it is obvious that we should have gone a long way
towards solving the mystery.”

“Yes, but how can we get at the criminal's pocket before we catch the
criminal?”

“Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another obvious
point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it could not have
taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have delivered his own message
by word of mouth. Who brought the note, then? Or did it come through the
post?”

“I have made inquiries,” said the Inspector. “William received a letter
by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was destroyed by him.”

“Excellent!” cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back. “You've
seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you. Well, here is the
lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will show you the scene of
the crime.”

We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived, and
walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne house, which
bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the door. Holmes and
the Inspector led us round it until we came to the side gate, which is
separated by a stretch of garden from the hedge which lines the road. A
constable was standing at the kitchen door.

“Throw the door open, officer,” said Holmes. “Now, it was on those
stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling
just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window--the second on
the left--and he saw the fellow get away just to the left of that bush.
Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside the wounded man. The ground is
very hard, you see, and there are no marks to guide us.” As he spoke two
men came down the garden path, from round the angle of the house. The
one was an elderly man, with a strong, deep-lined, heavy-eyed face; the
other a dashing young fellow, whose bright, smiling expression and showy
dress were in strange contrast with the business which had brought us
there.

“Still at it, then?” said he to Holmes. “I thought you Londoners were
never at fault. You don't seem to be so very quick, after all.”

“Ah, you must give us a little time,” said Holmes good-humoredly.

“You'll want it,” said young Alec Cunningham. “Why, I don't see that we
have any clue at all.”

“There's only one,” answered the Inspector. “We thought that if we could
only find--Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?”

My poor friend's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression.
His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony, and with a
suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon the ground. Horrified
at the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried him into the
kitchen, where he lay back in a large chair, and breathed heavily for
some minutes. Finally, with a shamefaced apology for his weakness, he
rose once more.

“Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe
illness,” he explained. “I am liable to these sudden nervous attacks.”

“Shall I send you home in my trap?” asked old Cunningham.

“Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like to
feel sure. We can very easily verify it.”

“What was it?”

“Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival of
this poor fellow William was not before, but after, the entrance of
the burglar into the house. You appear to take it for granted that,
although the door was forced, the robber never got in.”

“I fancy that is quite obvious,” said Mr. Cunningham, gravely. “Why, my
son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly have heard any
one moving about.”

“Where was he sitting?”

“I was smoking in my dressing-room.”

“Which window is that?”

“The last on the left next my father's.”

“Both of your lamps were lit, of course?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“There are some very singular points here,” said Holmes, smiling. “Is
it not extraordinary that a burglar--and a burglar who had had some
previous experience--should deliberately break into a house at a time
when he could see from the lights that two of the family were still
afoot?”

“He must have been a cool hand.”

“Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not have
been driven to ask you for an explanation,” said young Mr. Alec. “But as
to your ideas that the man had robbed the house before William tackled
him, I think it a most absurd notion. Wouldn't we have found the place
disarranged, and missed the things which he had taken?”

“It depends on what the things were,” said Holmes. “You must remember
that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very peculiar fellow, and
who appears to work on lines of his own. Look, for example, at the
queer lot of things which he took from Acton's--what was it?--a ball of
string, a letter-weight, and I don't know what other odds and ends.”

“Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes,” said old Cunningham.
“Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will most certainly be
done.”

“In the first place,” said Holmes, “I should like you to offer a
reward--coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little time
before they would agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be done
too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if you would not mind
signing it. Fifty pounds was quite enough, I thought.”

“I would willingly give five hundred,” said the J.P., taking the slip
of paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him. “This is not quite
correct, however,” he added, glancing over the document.

“I wrote it rather hurriedly.”

“You see you begin, 'Whereas, at about a quarter to one on Tuesday
morning an attempt was made,' and so on. It was at a quarter to twelve,
as a matter of fact.”

I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any
slip of the kind. It was his specialty to be accurate as to fact, but
his recent illness had shaken him, and this one little incident was
enough to show me that he was still far from being himself. He was
obviously embarrassed for an instant, while the Inspector raised his
eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst into a laugh. The old gentleman
corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper back to Holmes.

“Get it printed as soon as possible,” he said; “I think your idea is an
excellent one.”

Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away into his pocket-book.

“And now,” said he, “it really would be a good thing that we should all
go over the house together and make certain that this rather erratic
burglar did not, after all, carry anything away with him.”

Before entering, Holmes made an examination of the door which had been
forced. It was evident that a chisel or strong knife had been thrust
in, and the lock forced back with it. We could see the marks in the wood
where it had been pushed in.

“You don't use bars, then?” he asked.

“We have never found it necessary.”

“You don't keep a dog?”

“Yes, but he is chained on the other side of the house.”

“When do the servants go to bed?”

“About ten.”

“I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour.”

“Yes.”

“It is singular that on this particular night he should have been up.
Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to show us
over the house, Mr. Cunningham.”

A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching away from it, led
by a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the house. It came
out upon the landing opposite to a second more ornamental stair which
came up from the front hall. Out of this landing opened the drawing-room
and several bedrooms, including those of Mr. Cunningham and his son.
Holmes walked slowly, taking keen note of the architecture of the house.
I could tell from his expression that he was on a hot scent, and yet
I could not in the least imagine in what direction his inferences were
leading him.

“My good sir,” said Mr. Cunningham with some impatience, “this is surely
very unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the stairs, and my
son's is the one beyond it. I leave it to your judgment whether it was
possible for the thief to have come up here without disturbing us.”

“You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy,” said the son
with a rather malicious smile.

“Still, I must ask you to humor me a little further. I should like, for
example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms command the front.
This, I understand is your son's room”--he pushed open the door--“and
that, I presume, is the dressing-room in which he sat smoking when the
alarm was given. Where does the window of that look out to?” He stepped
across the bedroom, pushed open the door, and glanced round the other
chamber.

“I hope that you are satisfied now?” said Mr. Cunningham, tartly.

“Thank you, I think I have seen all that I wished.”

“Then if it is really necessary we can go into my room.”

“If it is not too much trouble.”

The J. P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into his own chamber,
which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As we moved across
it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell back until he and I were
the last of the group. Near the foot of the bed stood a dish of oranges
and a carafe of water. As we passed it Holmes, to my unutterable
astonishment, leaned over in front of me and deliberately knocked the
whole thing over. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces and the fruit
rolled about into every corner of the room.

“You've done it now, Watson,” said he, coolly. “A pretty mess you've
made of the carpet.”

I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit,
understanding for some reason my companion desired me to take the blame
upon myself. The others did the same, and set the table on its legs
again.

“Hullo!” cried the Inspector, “where's he got to?”

Holmes had disappeared.

“Wait here an instant,” said young Alec Cunningham. “The fellow is off
his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he has got
to!”

They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and me
staring at each other.

“'Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Master Alec,” said the
official. “It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to me
that--”

His words were cut short by a sudden scream of “Help! Help! Murder!”
 With a thrill I recognized the voice of that of my friend. I rushed
madly from the room on to the landing. The cries, which had sunk down
into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the room which we had
first visited. I dashed in, and on into the dressing-room beyond. The
two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock
Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the
elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the three
of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his feet,
very pale and evidently greatly exhausted.

“Arrest these men, Inspector,” he gasped.

“On what charge?”

“That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan.”

The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. “Oh, come now, Mr.
Holmes,” said he at last, “I'm sure you don't really mean to--”

“Tut, man, look at their faces!” cried Holmes, curtly.

Never certainly have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon human
countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed with a heavy, sullen
expression upon his strongly-marked face. The son, on the other hand,
had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style which had characterized him,
and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed in his dark eyes
and distorted his handsome features. The Inspector said nothing, but,
stepping to the door, he blew his whistle. Two of his constables came at
the call.

“I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham,” said he. “I trust that this may
all prove to be an absurd mistake, but you can see that--Ah, would you?
Drop it!” He struck out with his hand, and a revolver which the younger
man was in the act of cocking clattered down upon the floor.

“Keep that,” said Holmes, quietly putting his foot upon it; “you will
find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really wanted.” He held
up a little crumpled piece of paper.

“The remainder of the sheet!” cried the Inspector.

“Precisely.”

“And where was it?”

“Where I was sure it must be. I'll make the whole matter clear to you
presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return now, and
I will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The Inspector and I
must have a word with the prisoners, but you will certainly see me back
at luncheon time.”


Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o'clock he
rejoined us in the Colonel's smoking-room. He was accompanied by a
little elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr. Acton
whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.

“I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small matter
to you,” said Holmes, “for it is natural that he should take a keen
interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you must
regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrel as I am.”

“On the contrary,” answered the Colonel, warmly, “I consider it the
greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your methods of
working. I confess that they quite surpass my expectations, and that I
am utterly unable to account for your result. I have not yet seen the
vestige of a clue.”

“I am afraid that my explanation may disillusion you but it has always
been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my friend Watson
or from any one who might take an intelligent interest in them. But,
first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about which I had in
the dressing-room, I think that I shall help myself to a dash of your
brandy, Colonel. My strength had been rather tried of late.”

“I trust that you had no more of those nervous attacks.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. “We will come to that in its turn,”
 said he. “I will lay an account of the case before you in its due order,
showing you the various points which guided me in my decision. Pray
interrupt me if there is any inference which is not perfectly clear to
you.

“It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able
to recognize, out of a number of facts, which are incidental and which
vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated instead of
being concentrated. Now, in this case there was not the slightest doubt
in my mind from the first that the key of the whole matter must be
looked for in the scrap of paper in the dead man's hand.

“Before going into this, I would draw your attention to the fact that,
if Alec Cunningham's narrative was correct, and if the assailant, after
shooting William Kirwan, had instantly fled, then it obviously could not
be he who tore the paper from the dead man's hand. But if it was not he,
it must have been Alec Cunningham himself, for by the time that the old
man had descended several servants were upon the scene. The point is a
simple one, but the Inspector had overlooked it because he had started
with the supposition that these county magnates had had nothing to do
with the matter. Now, I make a point of never having any prejudices,
and of following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so, in the
very first stage of the investigation, I found myself looking a little
askance at the part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.

“And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper which
the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to me that it
formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is. Do you not now
observe something very suggestive about it?”

“It has a very irregular look,” said the Colonel.

“My dear sir,” cried Holmes, “there cannot be the least doubt in the
world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate words.
When I draw your attention to the strong t's of 'at' and 'to', and ask
you to compare them with the weak ones of 'quarter' and 'twelve,' you
will instantly recognize the fact. A very brief analysis of these
four words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence that the
'learn' and the 'maybe' are written in the stronger hand, and the 'what'
in the weaker.”

“By Jove, it's as clear as day!” cried the Colonel. “Why on earth should
two men write a letter in such a fashion?”

“Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who distrusted
the other was determined that, whatever was done, each should have an
equal hand in it. Now, of the two men, it is clear that the one who
wrote the 'at' and 'to' was the ringleader.”

“How do you get at that?”

“We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as compared
with the other. But we have more assured reasons than that for supposing
it. If you examine this scrap with attention you will come to the
conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote all his words
first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These blanks were not
always sufficient, and you can see that the second man had a squeeze
to fit his 'quarter' in between the 'at' and the 'to,' showing that the
latter were already written. The man who wrote all his words first is
undoubtedly the man who planned the affair.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton.

“But very superficial,” said Holmes. “We come now, however, to a point
which is of importance. You may not be aware that the deduction of a
man's age from his writing is one which been has brought to considerable
accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can place a man in his true
decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases, because ill-health
and physical weakness reproduce the signs of old age, even when the
invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the bold, strong hand of
the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance of the other, which
still retains its legibility although the t's have begun to lose their
crossing, we can say that the one was a young man and the other was
advanced in years without being positively decrepit.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton again.

“There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of greater
interest. There is something in common between these hands. They belong
to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most obvious to you in the
Greek e's, but to me there are many small points which indicate the same
thing. I have no doubt at all that a family mannerism can be traced in
these two specimens of writing. I am only, of course, giving you
the leading results now of my examination of the paper. There were
twenty-three other deductions which would be of more interest to experts
than to you. They all tend to deepen the impression upon my mind that
the Cunninghams, father and son, had written this letter.

“Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into the
details of the crime, and to see how far they would help us. I went up
to the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was to be seen. The
wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to determine with absolute
confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance of something over
four yards. There was no powder-blackening on the clothes. Evidently,
therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men were
struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed
as to the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point,
however, as it happens, there is a broadish ditch, moist at the bottom.
As there were no indications of bootmarks about this ditch, I was
absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had again lied, but that
there had never been any unknown man upon the scene at all.

“And now I have to consider the motive of this singular crime. To get
at this, I endeavored first of all to solve the reason of the original
burglary at Mr. Acton's. I understood, from something which the Colonel
told us, that a lawsuit had been going on between you, Mr. Acton, and
the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to me that they had
broken into your library with the intention of getting at some document
which might be of importance in the case.”

“Precisely so,” said Mr. Acton. “There can be no possible doubt as to
their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half of their present
estate, and if they could have found a single paper--which, fortunately,
was in the strong-box of my solicitors--they would undoubtedly have
crippled our case.”

“There you are,” said Holmes, smiling. “It was a dangerous, reckless
attempt, in which I seem to trace the influence of young Alec. Having
found nothing they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to be
an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried off whatever they could
lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough, but there was much that
was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get the missing part
of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of the dead man's
hand, and almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of
his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question
was whether it was still there. It was worth an effort to find out, and
for that object we all went up to the house.

“The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside the
kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance that they
should not be reminded of the existence of this paper, otherwise they
would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector was about to
tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by the luckiest
chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of fit and so changed the
conversation.

“Good heavens!” cried the Colonel, laughing, “do you mean to say all our
sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?”

“Speaking professionally, it was admirably done,” cried I, looking in
amazement at this man who was forever confounding me with some new phase
of his astuteness.

“It is an art which is often useful,” said he. “When I recovered I
managed, by a device which had perhaps some little merit of ingenuity,
to get old Cunningham to write the word 'twelve,' so that I might
compare it with the 'twelve' upon the paper.”

“Oh, what an ass I have been!” I exclaimed.

“I could see that you were commiserating me over my weakness,” said
Holmes, laughing. “I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic pain which
I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together, and having entered
the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up behind the door, I
contrived, by upsetting a table, to engage their attention for the
moment, and slipped back to examine the pockets. I had hardly got the
paper, however--which was, as I had expected, in one of them--when the
two Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily believe, have murdered
me then and there but for your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel
that young man's grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my
wrist round in the effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that
I must know all about it, you see, and the sudden change from absolute
security to complete despair made them perfectly desperate.

“I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive of
the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was a perfect demon,
ready to blow out his own or anybody else's brains if he could have got
to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case against him was so
strong he lost all heart and made a clean breast of everything. It seems
that William had secretly followed his two masters on the night when
they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and having thus got them into
his power, proceeded, under threats of exposure, to levy blackmail upon
them. Mr. Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games of that
sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part to see in the
burglary scare which was convulsing the country side an opportunity of
plausibly getting rid of the man whom he feared. William was decoyed up
and shot, and had they only got the whole of the note and paid a little
more attention to detail in the accessories, it is very possible that
suspicion might never have been aroused.”

“And the note?” I asked.

Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us.

     If you will only come round at quarter to twelve
     to the east gate you will learn what
     will very much surprise you and maybe [sic]
     be of the greatest service to you and also
     to Annie Morrison. But say nothing to anyone
     upon the matter.


“It is very much the sort of thing that I expected,” said he. “Of
course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been between Alec
Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The results shows that
the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that you cannot fail to be
delighted with the traces of heredity shown in the p's and in the tails
of the g's. The absence of the i-dots in the old man's writing is also
most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest in the country has
been a distinct success, and I shall certainly return much invigorated
to Baker Street to-morrow.”




Adventure VII. The Crooked Man


One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I was seated by my own
hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel, for my day's work
had been an exhausting one. My wife had already gone upstairs, and the
sound of the locking of the hall door some time before told me that the
servants had also retired. I had risen from my seat and was knocking out
the ashes of my pipe when I suddenly heard the clang of the bell.

I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. This could not be
a visitor at so late an hour. A patient, evidently, and possibly an
all-night sitting. With a wry face I went out into the hall and opened
the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock Holmes who stood upon my
step.

“Ah, Watson,” said he, “I hoped that I might not be too late to catch
you.”

“My dear fellow, pray come in.”

“You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum! You
still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days then! There's no
mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat. It's easy to tell that you
have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson. You'll never pass as
a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep that habit of carrying your
handkerchief in your sleeve. Could you put me up to-night?”

“With pleasure.”

“You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see that you
have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand proclaims as much.”

“I shall be delighted if you will stay.”

“Thank you. I'll fill the vacant peg then. Sorry to see that you've had
the British workman in the house. He's a token of evil. Not the drains,
I hope?”

“No, the gas.”

“Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum
just where the light strikes it. No, thank you, I had some supper at
Waterloo, but I'll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure.”

I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite to me and smoked
for some time in silence. I was well aware that nothing but business
of importance would have brought him to me at such an hour, so I waited
patiently until he should come round to it.

“I see that you are professionally rather busy just now,” said he,
glancing very keenly across at me.

“Yes, I've had a busy day,” I answered. “It may seem very foolish in
your eyes,” I added, “but really I don't know how you deduced it.”

Holmes chuckled to himself.

“I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson,” said he.
“When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is a long one you
use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots, although used, are by
no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at present busy enough to
justify the hansom.”

“Excellent!” I cried.

“Elementary,” said he. “It is one of those instances where the reasoner
can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his neighbor, because
the latter has missed the one little point which is the basis of the
deduction. The same may be said, my dear fellow, for the effect of
some of these little sketches of yours, which is entirely meretricious,
depending as it does upon your retaining in your own hands some factors
in the problem which are never imparted to the reader. Now, at present
I am in the position of these same readers, for I hold in this hand
several threads of one of the strangest cases which ever perplexed a
man's brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are needful to complete
my theory. But I'll have them, Watson, I'll have them!” His eyes kindled
and a slight flush sprang into his thin cheeks. For an instant only.
When I glanced again his face had resumed that red-Indian composure
which had made so many regard him as a machine rather than a man.

“The problem presents features of interest,” said he. “I may even say
exceptional features of interest. I have already looked into the matter,
and have come, as I think, within sight of my solution. If you could
accompany me in that last step you might be of considerable service to
me.”

“I should be delighted.”

“Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?”

“I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice.”

“Very good. I want to start by the 11.10 from Waterloo.”

“That would give me time.”

“Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of what has
happened, and of what remains to be done.”

“I was sleepy before you came. I am quite wakeful now.”

“I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting
anything vital to the case. It is conceivable that you may even have
read some account of the matter. It is the supposed murder of Colonel
Barclay, of the Royal Munsters, at Aldershot, which I am investigating.”

“I have heard nothing of it.”

“It has not excited much attention yet, except locally. The facts are
only two days old. Briefly they are these:

“The Royal Munsters is, as you know, one of the most famous Irish
regiments in the British army. It did wonders both in the Crimea and the
Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself upon every possible
occasion. It was commanded up to Monday night by James Barclay,
a gallant veteran, who started as a full private, was raised to
commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of the Mutiny, and so
lived to command the regiment in which he had once carried a musket.

“Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a sergeant, and
his wife, whose maiden name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the daughter of a
former color-sergeant in the same corps. There was, therefore, as can
be imagined, some little social friction when the young couple (for
they were still young) found themselves in their new surroundings. They
appear, however, to have quickly adapted themselves, and Mrs. Barclay
has always, I understand, been as popular with the ladies of the
regiment as her husband was with his brother officers. I may add that
she was a woman of great beauty, and that even now, when she has been
married for upwards of thirty years, she is still of a striking and
queenly appearance.

“Colonel Barclay's family life appears to have been a uniformly happy
one. Major Murphy, to whom I owe most of my facts, assures me that he
has never heard of any misunderstanding between the pair. On the whole,
he thinks that Barclay's devotion to his wife was greater than his
wife's to Barclay. He was acutely uneasy if he were absent from her for
a day. She, on the other hand, though devoted and faithful, was less
obtrusively affectionate. But they were regarded in the regiment as
the very model of a middle-aged couple. There was absolutely nothing in
their mutual relations to prepare people for the tragedy which was to
follow.

“Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some singular traits in his
character. He was a dashing, jovial old soldier in his usual mood,
but there were occasions on which he seemed to show himself capable
of considerable violence and vindictiveness. This side of his nature,
however, appears never to have been turned towards his wife. Another
fact, which had struck Major Murphy and three out of five of the other
officers with whom I conversed, was the singular sort of depression
which came upon him at times. As the major expressed it, the smile had
often been struck from his mouth, as if by some invisible hand, when he
has been joining the gayeties and chaff of the mess-table. For days on
end, when the mood was on him, he has been sunk in the deepest gloom.
This and a certain tinge of superstition were the only unusual traits
in his character which his brother officers had observed. The latter
peculiarity took the form of a dislike to being left alone, especially
after dark. This puerile feature in a nature which was conspicuously
manly had often given rise to comment and conjecture.

“The first battalion of the Royal Munsters (which is the old 117th) has
been stationed at Aldershot for some years. The married officers live
out of barracks, and the Colonel has during all this time occupied a
villa called Lachine, about half a mile from the north camp. The house
stands in its own grounds, but the west side of it is not more than
thirty yards from the high-road. A coachman and two maids form the
staff of servants. These with their master and mistress were the sole
occupants of Lachine, for the Barclays had no children, nor was it usual
for them to have resident visitors.

“Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on the evening of
last Monday.”

“Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman Catholic Church,
and had interested herself very much in the establishment of the Guild
of St. George, which was formed in connection with the Watt Street
Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor with cast-off clothing.
A meeting of the Guild had been held that evening at eight, and Mrs.
Barclay had hurried over her dinner in order to be present at it. When
leaving the house she was heard by the coachman to make some commonplace
remark to her husband, and to assure him that she would be back before
very long. She then called for Miss Morrison, a young lady who lives
in the next villa, and the two went off together to their meeting. It
lasted forty minutes, and at a quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned
home, having left Miss Morrison at her door as she passed.

“There is a room which is used as a morning-room at Lachine. This faces
the road and opens by a large glass folding-door on to the lawn. The
lawn is thirty yards across, and is only divided from the highway by
a low wall with an iron rail above it. It was into this room that Mrs.
Barclay went upon her return. The blinds were not down, for the room was
seldom used in the evening, but Mrs. Barclay herself lit the lamp and
then rang the bell, asking Jane Stewart, the house-maid, to bring her
a cup of tea, which was quite contrary to her usual habits. The Colonel
had been sitting in the dining-room, but hearing that his wife had
returned he joined her in the morning-room. The coachman saw him cross
the hall and enter it. He was never seen again alive.

“The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the end of ten
minutes; but the maid, as she approached the door, was surprised to
hear the voices of her master and mistress in furious altercation. She
knocked without receiving any answer, and even turned the handle, but
only to find that the door was locked upon the inside. Naturally enough
she ran down to tell the cook, and the two women with the coachman came
up into the hall and listened to the dispute which was still raging.
They all agreed that only two voices were to be heard, those of Barclay
and of his wife. Barclay's remarks were subdued and abrupt, so that none
of them were audible to the listeners. The lady's, on the other hand,
were most bitter, and when she raised her voice could be plainly heard.
'You coward!' she repeated over and over again. 'What can be done now?
What can be done now? Give me back my life. I will never so much as
breathe the same air with you again! You coward! You coward!' Those were
scraps of her conversation, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man's
voice, with a crash, and a piercing scream from the woman. Convinced
that some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door and
strove to force it, while scream after scream issued from within. He was
unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids were too distracted
with fear to be of any assistance to him. A sudden thought struck him,
however, and he ran through the hall door and round to the lawn upon
which the long French windows open. One side of the window was open,
which I understand was quite usual in the summer-time, and he passed
without difficulty into the room. His mistress had ceased to scream and
was stretched insensible upon a couch, while with his feet tilted over
the side of an arm-chair, and his head upon the ground near the corner
of the fender, was lying the unfortunate soldier stone dead in a pool of
his own blood.

“Naturally, the coachman's first thought, on finding that he could do
nothing for his master, was to open the door. But here an unexpected and
singular difficulty presented itself. The key was not in the inner side
of the door, nor could he find it anywhere in the room. He went out
again, therefore, through the window, and having obtained the help of
a policeman and of a medical man, he returned. The lady, against whom
naturally the strongest suspicion rested, was removed to her room, still
in a state of insensibility. The Colonel's body was then placed upon the
sofa, and a careful examination made of the scene of the tragedy.

“The injury from which the unfortunate veteran was suffering was found
to be a jagged cut some two inches long at the back part of his head,
which had evidently been caused by a violent blow from a blunt weapon.
Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon may have been. Upon the
floor, close to the body, was lying a singular club of hard carved wood
with a bone handle. The Colonel possessed a varied collection of weapons
brought from the different countries in which he had fought, and it
is conjectured by the police that his club was among his trophies. The
servants deny having seen it before, but among the numerous curiosities
in the house it is possible that it may have been overlooked. Nothing
else of importance was discovered in the room by the police, save the
inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs. Barclay's person nor upon that
of the victim nor in any part of the room was the missing key to
be found. The door had eventually to be opened by a locksmith from
Aldershot.

“That was the state of things, Watson, when upon the Tuesday morning I,
at the request of Major Murphy, went down to Aldershot to supplement
the efforts of the police. I think that you will acknowledge that the
problem was already one of interest, but my observations soon made me
realize that it was in truth much more extraordinary than would at first
sight appear.

“Before examining the room I cross-questioned the servants, but only
succeeded in eliciting the facts which I have already stated. One other
detail of interest was remembered by Jane Stewart, the housemaid. You
will remember that on hearing the sound of the quarrel she descended and
returned with the other servants. On that first occasion, when she was
alone, she says that the voices of her master and mistress were sunk
so low that she could hear hardly anything, and judged by their tones
rather than their words that they had fallen out. On my pressing her,
however, she remembered that she heard the word David uttered twice by
the lady. The point is of the utmost importance as guiding us towards
the reason of the sudden quarrel. The Colonel's name, you remember, was
James.

“There was one thing in the case which had made the deepest impression
both upon the servants and the police. This was the contortion of the
Colonel's face. It had set, according to their account, into the most
dreadful expression of fear and horror which a human countenance is
capable of assuming. More than one person fainted at the mere sight
of him, so terrible was the effect. It was quite certain that he had
foreseen his fate, and that it had caused him the utmost horror. This,
of course, fitted in well enough with the police theory, if the Colonel
could have seen his wife making a murderous attack upon him. Nor was
the fact of the wound being on the back of his head a fatal objection to
this, as he might have turned to avoid the blow. No information could
be got from the lady herself, who was temporarily insane from an acute
attack of brain-fever.

“From the police I learned that Miss Morrison, who you remember went out
that evening with Mrs. Barclay, denied having any knowledge of what it
was which had caused the ill-humor in which her companion had returned.

“Having gathered these facts, Watson, I smoked several pipes over them,
trying to separate those which were crucial from others which were
merely incidental. There could be no question that the most distinctive
and suggestive point in the case was the singular disappearance of the
door-key. A most careful search had failed to discover it in the room.
Therefore it must have been taken from it. But neither the Colonel
nor the Colonel's wife could have taken it. That was perfectly clear.
Therefore a third person must have entered the room. And that third
person could only have come in through the window. It seemed to me that
a careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly reveal
some traces of this mysterious individual. You know my methods, Watson.
There was not one of them which I did not apply to the inquiry. And it
ended by my discovering traces, but very different ones from those which
I had expected. There had been a man in the room, and he had crossed
the lawn coming from the road. I was able to obtain five very clear
impressions of his foot-marks: one in the roadway itself, at the point
where he had climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint
ones upon the stained boards near the window where he had entered.
He had apparently rushed across the lawn, for his toe-marks were much
deeper than his heels. But it was not the man who surprised me. It was
his companion.”

“His companion!”

Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out of his pocket and
carefully unfolded it upon his knee.

“What do you make of that?” he asked.

The paper was covered with the tracings of the foot-marks of some small
animal. It had five well-marked foot-pads, an indication of long nails,
and the whole print might be nearly as large as a dessert-spoon.

“It's a dog,” said I.

“Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain? I found distinct
traces that this creature had done so.”

“A monkey, then?”

“But it is not the print of a monkey.”

“What can it be, then?”

“Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any creature that we are familiar
with. I have tried to reconstruct it from the measurements. Here are
four prints where the beast has been standing motionless. You see that
it is no less than fifteen inches from fore-foot to hind. Add to that
the length of neck and head, and you get a creature not much less than
two feet long--probably more if there is any tail. But now observe this
other measurement. The animal has been moving, and we have the length
of its stride. In each case it is only about three inches. You have an
indication, you see, of a long body with very short legs attached to it.
It has not been considerate enough to leave any of its hair behind it.
But its general shape must be what I have indicated, and it can run up a
curtain, and it is carnivorous.”

“How do you deduce that?”

“Because it ran up the curtain. A canary's cage was hanging in the
window, and its aim seems to have been to get at the bird.”

“Then what was the beast?”

“Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a long way towards solving
the case. On the whole, it was probably some creature of the weasel and
stoat tribe--and yet it is larger than any of these that I have seen.”

“But what had it to do with the crime?”

“That, also, is still obscure. But we have learned a good deal, you
perceive. We know that a man stood in the road looking at the quarrel
between the Barclays--the blinds were up and the room lighted. We know,
also, that he ran across the lawn, entered the room, accompanied by a
strange animal, and that he either struck the Colonel or, as is equally
possible, that the Colonel fell down from sheer fright at the sight of
him, and cut his head on the corner of the fender. Finally, we have the
curious fact that the intruder carried away the key with him when he
left.”

“Your discoveries seem to have left the business more obscure that it
was before,” said I.

“Quite so. They undoubtedly showed that the affair was much deeper than
was at first conjectured. I thought the matter over, and I came to
the conclusion that I must approach the case from another aspect. But
really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I might just as well tell you
all this on our way to Aldershot to-morrow.”

“Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop.”

“It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the house at half-past
seven she was on good terms with her husband. She was never, as I think
I have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but she was heard by the
coachman chatting with the Colonel in a friendly fashion. Now, it was
equally certain that, immediately on her return, she had gone to the
room in which she was least likely to see her husband, had flown to tea
as an agitated woman will, and finally, on his coming in to her, had
broken into violent recriminations. Therefore something had occurred
between seven-thirty and nine o'clock which had completely altered her
feelings towards him. But Miss Morrison had been with her during the
whole of that hour and a half. It was absolutely certain, therefore, in
spite of her denial, that she must know something of the matter.

“My first conjecture was, that possibly there had been some passages
between this young lady and the old soldier, which the former had now
confessed to the wife. That would account for the angry return, and
also for the girl's denial that anything had occurred. Nor would it be
entirely incompatible with most of the words overheard. But there was the
reference to David, and there was the known affection of the Colonel for
his wife, to weigh against it, to say nothing of the tragic intrusion
of this other man, which might, of course, be entirely disconnected with
what had gone before. It was not easy to pick one's steps, but, on the
whole, I was inclined to dismiss the idea that there had been anything
between the Colonel and Miss Morrison, but more than ever convinced that
the young lady held the clue as to what it was which had turned Mrs.
Barclay to hatred of her husband. I took the obvious course, therefore,
of calling upon Miss M., of explaining to her that I was perfectly
certain that she held the facts in her possession, and of assuring her
that her friend, Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the dock upon a
capital charge unless the matter were cleared up.

“Miss Morrison is a little ethereal slip of a girl, with timid eyes
and blond hair, but I found her by no means wanting in shrewdness and
common-sense. She sat thinking for some time after I had spoken, and
then, turning to me with a brisk air of resolution, she broke into a
remarkable statement which I will condense for your benefit.

“'I promised my friend that I would say nothing of the matter, and a
promise is a promise,' said she; 'but if I can really help her when
so serious a charge is laid against her, and when her own mouth, poor
darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am absolved from my
promise. I will tell you exactly what happened upon Monday evening.

“'We were returning from the Watt Street Mission about a quarter to nine
o'clock. On our way we had to pass through Hudson Street, which is
a very quiet thoroughfare. There is only one lamp in it, upon the
left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a man coming
towards us with his back very bent, and something like a box slung over
one of his shoulders. He appeared to be deformed, for he carried his
head low and walked with his knees bent. We were passing him when he
raised his face to look at us in the circle of light thrown by the lamp,
and as he did so he stopped and screamed out in a dreadful voice, “My
God, it's Nancy!” Mrs. Barclay turned as white as death, and would have
fallen down had the dreadful-looking creature not caught hold of her. I
was going to call for the police, but she, to my surprise, spoke quite
civilly to the fellow.

“'“I thought you had been dead this thirty years, Henry,” said she, in a
shaking voice.

“'“So I have,” said he, and it was awful to hear the tones that he said
it in. He had a very dark, fearsome face, and a gleam in his eyes that
comes back to me in my dreams. His hair and whiskers were shot with
gray, and his face was all crinkled and puckered like a withered apple.

“'“Just walk on a little way, dear,” said Mrs. Barclay; “I want to have
a word with this man. There is nothing to be afraid of.” She tried to
speak boldly, but she was still deadly pale and could hardly get her
words out for the trembling of her lips.

“'I did as she asked me, and they talked together for a few minutes.
Then she came down the street with her eyes blazing, and I saw the
crippled wretch standing by the lamp-post and shaking his clenched fists
in the air as if he were mad with rage. She never said a word until we
were at the door here, when she took me by the hand and begged me to
tell no one what had happened.

“'“It's an old acquaintance of mine who has come down in the world,”
 said she. When I promised her I would say nothing she kissed me, and I
have never seen her since. I have told you now the whole truth, and if
I withheld it from the police it is because I did not realize then the
danger in which my dear friend stood. I know that it can only be to her
advantage that everything should be known.'

“There was her statement, Watson, and to me, as you can imagine, it was
like a light on a dark night. Everything which had been disconnected
before began at once to assume its true place, and I had a shadowy
presentiment of the whole sequence of events. My next step obviously was
to find the man who had produced such a remarkable impression upon Mrs.
Barclay. If he were still in Aldershot it should not be a very difficult
matter. There are not such a very great number of civilians, and a
deformed man was sure to have attracted attention. I spent a day in the
search, and by evening--this very evening, Watson--I had run him down.
The man's name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same
street in which the ladies met him. He has only been five days in the
place. In the character of a registration-agent I had a most interesting
gossip with his landlady. The man is by trade a conjurer and performer,
going round the canteens after nightfall, and giving a little
entertainment at each. He carries some creature about with him in that
box; about which the landlady seemed to be in considerable trepidation,
for she had never seen an animal like it. He uses it in some of his
tricks according to her account. So much the woman was able to tell me,
and also that it was a wonder the man lived, seeing how twisted he was,
and that he spoke in a strange tongue sometimes, and that for the last
two nights she had heard him groaning and weeping in his bedroom. He
was all right, as far as money went, but in his deposit he had given her
what looked like a bad florin. She showed it to me, Watson, and it was
an Indian rupee.

“So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand and why it is I
want you. It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted from this
man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the quarrel between
husband and wife through the window, that he rushed in, and that
the creature which he carried in his box got loose. That is all very
certain. But he is the only person in this world who can tell us exactly
what happened in that room.”

“And you intend to ask him?”

“Most certainly--but in the presence of a witness.”

“And I am the witness?”

“If you will be so good. If he can clear the matter up, well and good.
If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a warrant.”

“But how do you know he'll be there when we return?”

“You may be sure that I took some precautions. I have one of my Baker
Street boys mounting guard over him who would stick to him like a burr,
go where he might. We shall find him in Hudson Street to-morrow, Watson,
and meanwhile I should be the criminal myself if I kept you out of bed
any longer.”

It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of the tragedy, and,
under my companion's guidance, we made our way at once to Hudson Street.
In spite of his capacity for concealing his emotions, I could easily see
that Holmes was in a state of suppressed excitement, while I was myself
tingling with that half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which
I invariably experienced when I associated myself with him in his
investigations.

“This is the street,” said he, as we turned into a short thoroughfare
lined with plain two-storied brick houses. “Ah, here is Simpson to
report.”

“He's in all right, Mr. Holmes,” cried a small street Arab, running up
to us.

“Good, Simpson!” said Holmes, patting him on the head. “Come along,
Watson. This is the house.” He sent in his card with a message that he
had come on important business, and a moment later we were face to face
with the man whom we had come to see. In spite of the warm weather he
was crouching over a fire, and the little room was like an oven. The
man sat all twisted and huddled in his chair in a way which gave an
indescribable impression of deformity; but the face which he turned
towards us, though worn and swarthy, must at some time have been
remarkable for its beauty. He looked suspiciously at us now out of
yellow-shot, bilious eyes, and, without speaking or rising, he waved
towards two chairs.

“Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe,” said Holmes, affably. “I've
come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay's death.”

“What should I know about that?”

“That's what I want to ascertain. You know, I suppose, that unless the
matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who is an old friend of yours, will
in all probability be tried for murder.”

The man gave a violent start.

“I don't know who you are,” he cried, “nor how you come to know what you
do know, but will you swear that this is true that you tell me?”

“Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her senses to arrest
her.”

“My God! Are you in the police yourself?”

“No.”

“What business is it of yours, then?”

“It's every man's business to see justice done.”

“You can take my word that she is innocent.”

“Then you are guilty.”

“No, I am not.”

“Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?”

“It was a just providence that killed him. But, mind you this, that if
I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to do, he would have
had no more than his due from my hands. If his own guilty conscience had
not struck him down it is likely enough that I might have had his blood
upon my soul. You want me to tell the story. Well, I don't know why I
shouldn't, for there's no cause for me to be ashamed of it.

“It was in this way, sir. You see me now with my back like a camel and
my ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal Henry Wood was the
smartest man in the 117th foot. We were in India then, in cantonments,
at a place we'll call Bhurtee. Barclay, who died the other day, was
sergeant in the same company as myself, and the belle of the regiment,
ay, and the finest girl that ever had the breath of life between her
lips, was Nancy Devoy, the daughter of the color-sergeant. There were
two men that loved her, and one that she loved, and you'll smile when
you look at this poor thing huddled before the fire, and hear me say
that it was for my good looks that she loved me.

“Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon her marrying
Barclay. I was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and he had had an
education, and was already marked for the sword-belt. But the girl held
true to me, and it seemed that I would have had her when the Mutiny
broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.

“We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with half a battery of
artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a lot of civilians and women-folk.
There were ten thousand rebels round us, and they were as keen as a set
of terriers round a rat-cage. About the second week of it our water gave
out, and it was a question whether we could communicate with General
Neill's column, which was moving up country. It was our only chance, for
we could not hope to fight our way out with all the women and children,
so I volunteered to go out and to warn General Neill of our danger. My
offer was accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant Barclay, who was
supposed to know the ground better than any other man, and who drew up
a route by which I might get through the rebel lines. At ten o'clock the
same night I started off upon my journey. There were a thousand lives to
save, but it was of only one that I was thinking when I dropped over the
wall that night.

“My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we hoped would screen
me from the enemy's sentries; but as I crept round the corner of it
I walked right into six of them, who were crouching down in the dark
waiting for me. In an instant I was stunned with a blow and bound hand
and foot. But the real blow was to my heart and not to my head, for as
I came to and listened to as much as I could understand of their talk,
I heard enough to tell me that my comrade, the very man who had arranged
the way that I was to take, had betrayed me by means of a native servant
into the hands of the enemy.

“Well, there's no need for me to dwell on that part of it. You know now
what James Barclay was capable of. Bhurtee was relieved by Neill next
day, but the rebels took me away with them in their retreat, and it was
many a long year before ever I saw a white face again. I was tortured
and tried to get away, and was captured and tortured again. You can see
for yourselves the state in which I was left. Some of them that fled
into Nepaul took me with them, and then afterwards I was up past
Darjeeling. The hill-folk up there murdered the rebels who had me, and
I became their slave for a time until I escaped; but instead of going
south I had to go north, until I found myself among the Afghans. There
I wandered about for many a year, and at last came back to the Punjab,
where I lived mostly among the natives and picked up a living by the
conjuring tricks that I had learned. What use was it for me, a wretched
cripple, to go back to England or to make myself known to my old
comrades? Even my wish for revenge would not make me do that. I had
rather that Nancy and my old pals should think of Harry Wood as having
died with a straight back, than see him living and crawling with a stick
like a chimpanzee. They never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that
they never should. I heard that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he
was rising rapidly in the regiment, but even that did not make me speak.

“But when one gets old one has a longing for home. For years I've been
dreaming of the bright green fields and the hedges of England. At last I
determined to see them before I died. I saved enough to bring me across,
and then I came here where the soldiers are, for I know their ways and
how to amuse them and so earn enough to keep me.”

“Your narrative is most interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I have
already heard of your meeting with Mrs. Barclay, and your mutual
recognition. You then, as I understand, followed her home and saw
through the window an altercation between her husband and her, in which
she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth. Your own feelings
overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and broke in upon them.”

“I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I have never seen a man
look before, and over he went with his head on the fender. But he was
dead before he fell. I read death on his face as plain as I can read
that text over the fire. The bare sight of me was like a bullet through
his guilty heart.”

“And then?”

“Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the door from her hand,
intending to unlock it and get help. But as I was doing it it seemed to
me better to leave it alone and get away, for the thing might look black
against me, and any way my secret would be out if I were taken. In my
haste I thrust the key into my pocket, and dropped my stick while I was
chasing Teddy, who had run up the curtain. When I got him into his box,
from which he had slipped, I was off as fast as I could run.”

“Who's Teddy?” asked Holmes.

The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in
the corner. In an instant out there slipped a beautiful reddish-brown
creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat, a long, thin nose,
and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I saw in an animal's head.

“It's a mongoose,” I cried.

“Well, some call them that, and some call them ichneumon,” said the
man. “Snake-catcher is what I call them, and Teddy is amazing quick on
cobras. I have one here without the fangs, and Teddy catches it every
night to please the folk in the canteen.

“Any other point, sir?”

“Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs. Barclay should prove to
be in serious trouble.”

“In that case, of course, I'd come forward.”

“But if not, there is no object in raking up this scandal against a
dead man, foully as he has acted. You have at least the satisfaction
of knowing that for thirty years of his life his conscience bitterly
reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah, there goes Major Murphy on the
other side of the street. Good-by, Wood. I want to learn if anything has
happened since yesterday.”

We were in time to overtake the major before he reached the corner.

“Ah, Holmes,” he said: “I suppose you have heard that all this fuss has
come to nothing?”

“What then?”

“The inquest is just over. The medical evidence showed conclusively
that death was due to apoplexy. You see it was quite a simple case after
all.”

“Oh, remarkably superficial,” said Holmes, smiling. “Come, Watson, I
don't think we shall be wanted in Aldershot any more.”

“There's one thing,” said I, as we walked down to the station. “If the
husband's name was James, and the other was Henry, what was this talk
about David?”

“That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole story had
I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of depicting. It was
evidently a term of reproach.”

“Of reproach?”

“Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know, and on one occasion
in the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay. You remember the small
affair of Uriah and Bathsheba? My biblical knowledge is a trifle rusty,
I fear, but you will find the story in the first or second of Samuel.”




Adventure VIII. The Resident Patient


In glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of Memoirs with which I
have endeavored to illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of my
friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty which I
have experienced in picking out examples which shall in every way answer
my purpose. For in those cases in which Holmes has performed some tour
de force of analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the value of his
peculiar methods of investigation, the facts themselves have often been
so slight or so commonplace that I could not feel justified in laying
them before the public. On the other hand, it has frequently happened
that he has been concerned in some research where the facts have been of
the most remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share which he
has himself taken in determining their causes has been less pronounced
than I, as his biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have
chronicled under the heading of “A Study in Scarlet,” and that other
later one connected with the loss of the Gloria Scott, may serve as
examples of this Scylla and Charybdis which are forever threatening the
historian. It may be that in the business of which I am now about to
write the part which my friend played is not sufficiently accentuated;
and yet the whole train of circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot
bring myself to omit it entirely from this series.

It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our blinds were half-drawn,
and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter
which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term of
service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold, and
a thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But the paper was uninteresting.
Parliament had risen. Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the
glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank
account had caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion,
neither the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to
him. He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with
his filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to
every little rumor or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of
Nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was
when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track down his
brother of the country.

Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation, I had tossed
aside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair, I fell into a
brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts.

“You are right, Watson,” said he. “It does seem a very preposterous way
of settling a dispute.”

“Most preposterous!” I exclaimed, and then, suddenly realizing how
he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and
stared at him in blank amazement.

“What is this, Holmes?” I cried. “This is beyond anything which I could
have imagined.”

He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

“You remember,” said he, “that some little time ago, when I read you the
passage in one of Poe's sketches, in which a close reasoner follows the
unspoken thought of his companion, you were inclined to treat the
matter as a mere tour de force of the author. On my remarking that I
was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing you expressed
incredulity.”

“Oh, no!”

“Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with your
eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon a train
of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it
off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I had been in
rapport with you.”

But I was still far from satisfied. “In the example which you read to
me,” said I, “the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of the
man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap
of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been seated
quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?”

“You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as the
means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful
servants.”

“Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
features?”

“Your features, and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself
recall how your reverie commenced?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the
action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with
a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your
newly-framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in
your face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead
very far. Your eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward
Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. You then glanced up at
the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking
that if the portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and
correspond with Gordon's picture over there.”

“You have followed me wonderfully!” I exclaimed.

“So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts went
back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying
the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but
you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were
recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that you
could not do this without thinking of the mission which he undertook
on behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I remember
you expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which he was
received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about
it that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that
also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the picture,
I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War, and when
I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your hands
clinched, I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry
which was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But then,
again, your face grew sadder; you shook your head. You were dwelling
upon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your hand stole
towards your own old wound, and a smile quivered on your lips,
which showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of settling
international questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point
I agreed with you that it was preposterous, and was glad to find that
all my deductions had been correct.”

“Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have explained it, I confess
that I am as amazed as before.”

“It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not
have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some incredulity
the other day. But the evening has brought a breeze with it. What do you
say to a ramble through London?”

I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For
three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changing
kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and the
Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen observance of detail
and subtle power of inference held me amused and enthralled. It was ten
o'clock before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham was waiting at
our door.

“Hum! A doctor's--general practitioner, I perceive,” said Holmes. “Not
been long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come to consult
us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!”

I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to be able to follow
his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the various
medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in the lamplight
inside the brougham had given him the data for his swift deduction.
The light in our window above showed that this late visit was indeed
intended for us. With some curiosity as to what could have sent a
brother medico to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into our
sanctum.

A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by the
fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than three or four
and thirty, but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a life
which has sapped his strength and robbed him of his youth. His manner
was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin
white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that of an
artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and sombre--a black
frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of color about his necktie.

“Good-evening, doctor,” said Holmes, cheerily. “I am glad to see that
you have only been waiting a very few minutes.”

“You spoke to my coachman, then?”

“No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me. Pray resume your
seat and let me know how I can serve you.”

“My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan,” said our visitor, “and I live at
403 Brook Street.”

“Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions?” I
asked.

His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work was known
to me.

“I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead,” said
he. “My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of its sale. You
are yourself, I presume, a medical man?”

“A retired army surgeon.”

“My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to make it
an absolute specialty, but, of course, a man must take what he can get
at first. This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
and I quite appreciate how valuable your time is. The fact is that a
very singular train of events has occurred recently at my house in Brook
Street, and to-night they came to such a head that I felt it was quite
impossible for me to wait another hour before asking for your advice and
assistance.”

Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. “You are very welcome
to both,” said he. “Pray let me have a detailed account of what the
circumstances are which have disturbed you.”

“One or two of them are so trivial,” said Dr. Trevelyan, “that really
I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so inexplicable,
and the recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate, that I shall
lay it all before you, and you shall judge what is essential and what is
not.

“I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own college
career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am sure that you
will not think that I am unduly singing my own praises if I say that my
student career was considered by my professors to be a very promising
one. After I had graduated I continued to devote myself to research,
occupying a minor position in King's College Hospital, and I was
fortunate enough to excite considerable interest by my research into the
pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce Pinkerton prize and
medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to which your friend has
just alluded. I should not go too far if I were to say that there was a
general impression at that time that a distinguished career lay before
me.

“But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital. As you
will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is compelled to
start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all
of which entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses. Besides this
preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to keep himself for some years,
and to hire a presentable carriage and horse. To do this was quite
beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy I might in ten
years' time save enough to enable me to put up my plate. Suddenly,
however, an unexpected incident opened up quite a new prospect to me.

“This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington, who was a
complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one morning, and plunged
into business in an instant.

“'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a career
and won a great prize lately?' said he.

“I bowed.

“'Answer me frankly,' he continued, 'for you will find it to your
interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a successful
man. Have you the tact?'

“I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question.

“'I trust that I have my share,' I said.

“'Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?'

“'Really, sir!' I cried.

“'Quite right! That's all right! But I was bound to ask. With all these
qualities, why are you not in practice?'

“I shrugged my shoulders.

“'Come, come!' said he, in his bustling way. 'It's the old story. More
in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say if I were to
start you in Brook Street?'

“I stared at him in astonishment.

“'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried. 'I'll be perfectly
frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me very well. I have a
few thousands to invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them in you.'

“'But why?' I gasped.

“'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and safer than most.'

“'What am I to do, then?'

“'I'll tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids, and run
the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out your chair in
the consulting-room. I'll let you have pocket-money and everything. Then
you hand over to me three quarters of what you earn, and you keep the
other quarter for yourself.'

“This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man
Blessington approached me. I won't weary you with the account of how
we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the house next
Lady-day, and starting in practice on very much the same conditions as
he had suggested. He came himself to live with me in the character of a
resident patient. His heart was weak, it appears, and he needed constant
medical supervision. He turned the two best rooms of the first floor
into a sitting-room and bedroom for himself. He was a man of singular
habits, shunning company and very seldom going out. His life was
irregular, but in one respect he was regularity itself. Every evening,
at the same hour, he walked into the consulting-room, examined the
books, put down five and three-pence for every guinea that I had earned,
and carried the rest off to the strong-box in his own room.

“I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret his
speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good cases and the
reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to the
front, and during the last few years I have made him a rich man.

“So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with Mr.
Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has occurred to
bring me here to-night.

“Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed to me,
a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary which, he
said, had been committed in the West End, and he appeared, I remember,
to be quite unnecessarily excited about it, declaring that a day should
not pass before we should add stronger bolts to our windows and doors.
For a week he continued to be in a peculiar state of restlessness,
peering continually out of the windows, and ceasing to take the short
walk which had usually been the prelude to his dinner. From his manner
it struck me that he was in mortal dread of something or somebody, but
when I questioned him upon the point he became so offensive that I was
compelled to drop the subject. Gradually, as time passed, his fears
appeared to die away, and he had renewed his former habits, when a fresh
event reduced him to the pitiable state of prostration in which he now
lies.

“What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which I now
read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.

“'A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,' it runs, 'would
be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr. Percy
Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic attacks, on
which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority. He proposes to
call at about quarter past six to-morrow evening, if Dr. Trevelyan will
make it convenient to be at home.'

“This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty in the
study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may believe,
then, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the appointed hour, the
page showed in the patient.

“He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and commonplace--by no means the
conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more struck by
the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man, surprisingly
handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and chest of a
Hercules. He had his hand under the other's arm as they entered, and
helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would hardly have
expected from his appearance.

“'You will excuse my coming in, doctor,' said he to me, speaking English
with a slight lisp. 'This is my father, and his health is a matter of
the most overwhelming importance to me.'

“I was touched by this filial anxiety. 'You would, perhaps, care to
remain during the consultation?' said I.

“'Not for the world,' he cried with a gesture of horror. 'It is more
painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father in one of
these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should never survive
it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With your
permission, I will remain in the waiting-room while you go into my
father's case.'

“To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The patient
and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I took
exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and his
answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his limited
acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat writing,
he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and on my turning
towards him I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt upright in his
chair, staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was again
in the grip of his mysterious malady.

“My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and horror.
My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction. I made
notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity of his
muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly abnormal
in any of these conditions, which harmonized with my former experiences.
I had obtained good results in such cases by the inhalation of nitrite
of amyl, and the present seemed an admirable opportunity of testing
its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my laboratory, so leaving my
patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it. There was some little
delay in finding it--five minutes, let us say--and then I returned.
Imagine my amazement to find the room empty and the patient gone.

“Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The son had
gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page who
admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits downstairs,
and runs up to show patients out when I ring the consulting-room bell.
He had heard nothing, and the affair remained a complete mystery. Mr.
Blessington came in from his walk shortly afterwards, but I did not say
anything to him upon the subject, for, to tell the truth, I have got in
the way of late of holding as little communication with him as possible.

“Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the Russian
and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the very same hour
this evening, they both came marching into my consulting-room, just as
they had done before.

“'I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt departure
yesterday, doctor,' said my patient.

“'I confess that I was very much surprised at it,' said I.

“'Well, the fact is,' he remarked, 'that when I recover from these
attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone before. I
woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my way out into
the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent.'

“'And I,' said the son, 'seeing my father pass the door of the
waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an
end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realize the
true state of affairs.'

“'Well,' said I, laughing, 'there is no harm done except that you
puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the
waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which was
brought to so abrupt an ending.'

“'For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman's symptoms with
him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon the arm
of his son.

“I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of the
day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and passed upstairs.
An instant later I heard him running down, and he burst into my
consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.

“'Who has been in my room?' he cried.

“'No one,' said I.

“'It's a lie! He yelled. 'Come up and look!'

“I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half out of
his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he pointed to several
footprints upon the light carpet.

“'D'you mean to say those are mine?' he cried.

“They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have made,
and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this afternoon, as you
know, and my patients were the only people who called. It must have been
the case, then, that the man in the waiting-room had, for some unknown
reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended to the room of my
resident patient. Nothing had been touched or taken, but there were the
footprints to prove that the intrusion was an undoubted fact.

“Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should have
thought possible, though of course it was enough to disturb anybody's
peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an arm-chair, and I could
hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion that I should
come round to you, and of course I at once saw the propriety of it,
for certainly the incident is a very singular one, though he appears to
completely overrate its importance. If you would only come back with me
in my brougham, you would at least be able to soothe him, though I
can hardly hope that you will be able to explain this remarkable
occurrence.”

Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an intentness
which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His face was as
impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily over his eyes,
and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe to emphasize each
curious episode in the doctor's tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes
sprang up without a word, handed me my hat, picked his own from the
table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the door. Within a quarter of an
hour we had been dropped at the door of the physician's residence
in Brook Street, one of those sombre, flat-faced houses which one
associates with a West-End practice. A small page admitted us, and we
began at once to ascend the broad, well-carpeted stair.

But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light at
the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a reedy,
quivering voice.

“I have a pistol,” it cried. “I give you my word that I'll fire if you
come any nearer.”

“This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington,” cried Dr. Trevelyan.

“Oh, then it is you, doctor,” said the voice, with a great heave of
relief. “But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to be?”

We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.

“Yes, yes, it's all right,” said the voice at last. “You can come up,
and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you.”

He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a
singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice, testified
to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had apparently at some time
been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his face in loose pouches,
like the cheeks of a blood-hound. He was of a sickly color, and his
thin, sandy hair seemed to bristle up with the intensity of his emotion.
In his hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his pocket as we
advanced.

“Good-evening, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am sure I am very much obliged
to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice more than I do.
I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most unwarrantable
intrusion into my rooms.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Who are these two men Mr. Blessington, and why
do they wish to molest you?”

“Well, well,” said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion, “of
course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to answer that,
Mr. Holmes.”

“Do you mean that you don't know?”

“Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in here.”

He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably
furnished.

“You see that,” said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of his
bed. “I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes--never made but
one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I don't
believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes. Between
ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can understand what
it means to me when unknown people force themselves into my rooms.”

Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his head.

“I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me,” said he.

“But I have told you everything.”

Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. “Good-night, Dr.
Trevelyan,” said he.

“And no advice for me?” cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.

“My advice to you, sir, is to speak the truth.”

A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had
crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before I
could get a word from my companion.

“Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand, Watson,” he said at
last. “It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it.”

“I can make little of it,” I confessed.

“Well, it is quite evident that there are two men--more, perhaps, but
at least two--who are determined for some reason to get at this fellow
Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on the first and on
the second occasion that young man penetrated to Blessington's room,
while his confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor from
interfering.”

“And the catalepsy?”

“A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint as
much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to imitate. I have
done it myself.”

“And then?”

“By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their reason
for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was obviously to
insure that there should be no other patient in the waiting-room. It
just happened, however, that this hour coincided with Blessington's
constitutional, which seems to show that they were not very well
acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they had been merely
after plunder they would at least have made some attempt to search for
it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it is his own skin that he
is frightened for. It is inconceivable that this fellow could have made
two such vindictive enemies as these appear to be without knowing of it.
I hold it, therefore, to be certain that he does know who these men are,
and that for reasons of his own he suppresses it. It is just possible
that to-morrow may find him in a more communicative mood.”

“Is there not one alternative,” I suggested, “grotesquely improbable,
no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole story of the
cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyan's, who
has, for his own purposes, been in Blessington's rooms?”

I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this brilliant
departure of mine.

“My dear fellow,” said he, “it was one of the first solutions which
occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the doctor's tale.
This young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet which made it quite
superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had made in the room.
When I tell you that his shoes were square-toed instead of being pointed
like Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third longer than the
doctor's, you will acknowledge that there can be no doubt as to his
individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I shall be surprised if
we do not hear something further from Brook Street in the morning.”


Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic
fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of
daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown.

“There's a brougham waiting for us, Watson,” said he.

“What's the matter, then?”

“The Brook Street business.”

“Any fresh news?”

“Tragic, but ambiguous,” said he, pulling up the blind. “Look at this--a
sheet from a note-book, with 'For God's sake come at once--P. T.,'
scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor, was hard put to
it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for it's an urgent
call.”

In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician's house. He
came running out to meet us with a face of horror.

“Oh, such a business!” he cried, with his hands to his temples.

“What then?”

“Blessington has committed suicide!”

Holmes whistled.

“Yes, he hanged himself during the night.”

We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was evidently
his waiting-room.

“I really hardly know what I am doing,” he cried. “The police are
already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully.”

“When did you find it out?”

“He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When the maid
entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was hanging in the
middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which the heavy
lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off from the top of the very box
that he showed us yesterday.”

Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

“With your permission,” said he at last, “I should like to go upstairs
and look into the matter.”

We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door. I
have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this man Blessington
conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was exaggerated and intensified
until he was scarce human in his appearance. The neck was drawn out
like a plucked chicken's, making the rest of him seem the more obese and
unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in his long night-dress, and
his swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath it.
Beside him stood a smart-looking police-inspector, who was taking notes
in a pocket-book.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” said he, heartily, as my friend entered, “I am
delighted to see you.”

“Good-morning, Lanner,” answered Holmes; “you won't think me an
intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to this
affair?”

“Yes, I heard something of them.”

“Have you formed any opinion?”

“As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses by
fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There's his impression
deep enough. It's about five in the morning, you know, that suicides are
most common. That would be about his time for hanging himself. It seems
to have been a very deliberate affair.”

“I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by the
rigidity of the muscles,” said I.

“Noticed anything peculiar about the room?” asked Holmes.

“Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand. Seems to
have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four cigar-ends that
I picked out of the fireplace.”

“Hum!” said Holmes, “have you got his cigar-holder?”

“No, I have seen none.”

“His cigar-case, then?”

“Yes, it was in his coat-pocket.”

Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.

“Oh, this is an Havana, and these others are cigars of the peculiar sort
which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies. They
are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner for their length
than any other brand.” He picked up the four ends and examined them with
his pocket-lens.

“Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without,” said he.
“Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two have had the ends
bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is no suicide, Mr. Lanner.
It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded murder.”

“Impossible!” cried the inspector.

“And why?”

“Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging
him?”

“That is what we have to find out.”

“How could they get in?”

“Through the front door.”

“It was barred in the morning.”

“Then it was barred after them.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to give you
some further information about it.”

He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in his
methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the inside, and
inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs the mantelpiece,
the dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined, until at last he
professed himself satisfied, and with my aid and that of the inspector
cut down the wretched object and laid it reverently under a sheet.

“How about this rope?” he asked.

“It is cut off this,” said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil from
under the bed. “He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always kept this
beside him, so that he might escape by the window in case the stairs
were burning.”

“That must have saved them trouble,” said Holmes, thoughtfully. “Yes,
the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised if by the
afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as well. I will take
this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the mantelpiece, as it
may help me in my inquiries.”

“But you have told us nothing!” cried the doctor.

“Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events,” said Holmes.
“There were three of them in it: the young man, the old man, and a
third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first two, I need hardly
remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian count and his son,
so we can give a very full description of them. They were admitted by
a confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a word of advice,
Inspector, it would be to arrest the page, who, as I understand, has
only recently come into your service, Doctor.”

“The young imp cannot be found,” said Dr. Trevelyan; “the maid and the
cook have just been searching for him.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“He has played a not unimportant part in this drama,” said he. “The
three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the
elder man first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in the
rear--”

“My dear Holmes!” I ejaculated.

“Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the
footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last night.
They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of which they
found to be locked. With the help of a wire, however, they forced round
the key. Even without the lens you will perceive, by the scratches on
this ward, where the pressure was applied.

“On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to gag Mr.
Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been so paralyzed
with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These walls are thick,
and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time to utter one, was
unheard.

“Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of some
sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a judicial
proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that
these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that wicker chair; it
was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger man sat over yonder; he
knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The third fellow paced
up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I
cannot be absolutely certain.

“Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The matter
was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with them
some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows. That
screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive, for fixing it up.
Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved themselves the trouble.
Having finished their work they made off, and the door was barred behind
them by their confederate.”

We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of the
night's doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle and minute
that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we could scarcely follow
him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away on the instant to make
inquiries about the page, while Holmes and I returned to Baker Street
for breakfast.

“I'll be back by three,” said he, when we had finished our meal. “Both
the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour, and I hope
by that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which the case may
still present.”


Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter to
four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression as he
entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him.

“Any news, Inspector?”

“We have got the boy, sir.”

“Excellent, and I have got the men.”

“You have got them!” we cried, all three.

“Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called Blessington
is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his
assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat.”

“The Worthingdon bank gang,” cried the inspector.

“Precisely,” said Holmes.

“Then Blessington must have been Sutton.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes.

“Why, that makes it as clear as crystal,” said the inspector.

But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

“You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business,” said
Holmes. “Five men were in it--these four and a fifth called Cartwright.
Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got away with seven
thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five arrested, but the
evidence against them was by no means conclusive. This Blessington or
Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned informer. On his evidence
Cartwright was hanged and the other three got fifteen years apiece. When
they got out the other day, which was some years before their full term,
they set themselves, as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to
avenge the death of their comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at
him and failed; a third time, you see, it came off. Is there anything
further which I can explain, Dr. Trevelyan?”

“I think you have made it all remarkably clear,” said the doctor. “No
doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when he had seen of
their release in the newspapers.”

“Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind.”

“But why could he not tell you this?”

“Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old
associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as
long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not bring
himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was still living
under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt, Inspector, that
you will see that, though that shield may fail to guard, the sword of
justice is still there to avenge.”


Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the Resident
Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night nothing has
been seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised
at Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of the ill-fated
steamer Norah Creina, which was lost some years ago with all hands
upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The
proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence, and the
Brook Street Mystery, as it was called, has never until now been fully
dealt with in any public print.




Adventure IX. The Greek Interpreter


During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes I had
never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to his own early
life. This reticence upon his part had increased the somewhat inhuman
effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I found myself
regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as
deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in intelligence. His
aversion to women and his disinclination to form new friendships were
both typical of his unemotional character, but not more so than his
complete suppression of every reference to his own people. I had come to
believe that he was an orphan with no relatives living, but one day, to
my very great surprise, he began to talk to me about his brother.

It was after tea on a summer evening, and the conversation, which had
roamed in a desultory, spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to the causes
of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came round at last
to the question of atavism and hereditary aptitudes. The point under
discussion was, how far any singular gift in an individual was due to
his ancestry and how far to his own early training.

“In your own case,” said I, “from all that you have told me, it seems
obvious that your faculty of observation and your peculiar facility for
deduction are due to your own systematic training.”

“To some extent,” he answered, thoughtfully. “My ancestors were country
squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is natural to
their class. But, none the less, my turn that way is in my veins, and
may have come with my grandmother, who was the sister of Vernet, the
French artist. Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.”

“But how do you know that it is hereditary?”

“Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than I do.”

This was news to me indeed. If there were another man with such singular
powers in England, how was it that neither police nor public had heard
of him? I put the question, with a hint that it was my companion's
modesty which made him acknowledge his brother as his superior. Holmes
laughed at my suggestion.

“My dear Watson,” said he, “I cannot agree with those who rank modesty
among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen exactly as
they are, and to underestimate one's self is as much a departure from
truth as to exaggerate one's own powers. When I say, therefore, that
Mycroft has better powers of observation than I, you may take it that I
am speaking the exact and literal truth.”

“Is he your junior?”

“Seven years my senior.”

“How comes it that he is unknown?”

“Oh, he is very well known in his own circle.”

“Where, then?”

“Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example.”

I had never heard of the institution, and my face must have proclaimed
as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled out his watch.

“The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of
the queerest men. He's always there from quarter to five to twenty to
eight. It's six now, so if you care for a stroll this beautiful evening
I shall be very happy to introduce you to two curiosities.”

Five minutes later we were in the street, walking towards Regent's
Circus.

“You wonder,” said my companion, “why it is that Mycroft does not use
his powers for detective work. He is incapable of it.”

“But I thought you said--”

“I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction. If the
art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an arm-chair, my
brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived. But he has
no ambition and no energy. He will not even go out of his way to verify
his own solutions, and would rather be considered wrong than take the
trouble to prove himself right. Again and again I have taken a problem
to him, and have received an explanation which has afterwards proved to
be the correct one. And yet he was absolutely incapable of working out
the practical points which must be gone into before a case could be laid
before a judge or jury.”

“It is not his profession, then?”

“By no means. What is to me a means of livelihood is to him the merest
hobby of a dilettante. He has an extraordinary faculty for figures, and
audits the books in some of the government departments. Mycroft lodges
in Pall Mall, and he walks round the corner into Whitehall every morning
and back every evening. From year's end to year's end he takes no other
exercise, and is seen nowhere else, except only in the Diogenes Club,
which is just opposite his rooms.”

“I cannot recall the name.”

“Very likely not. There are many men in London, you know, who, some from
shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their
fellows. Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest
periodicals. It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club
was started, and it now contains the most unsociable and unclubable men
in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any
other one. Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is, under any
circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to the notice of
the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion. My brother was one
of the founders, and I have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere.”

We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and were walking down it from the
St. James's end. Sherlock Holmes stopped at a door some little distance
from the Carlton, and, cautioning me not to speak, he led the way into
the hall. Through the glass paneling I caught a glimpse of a large and
luxurious room, in which a considerable number of men were sitting about
and reading papers, each in his own little nook. Holmes showed me into a
small chamber which looked out into Pall Mall, and then, leaving me for
a minute, he came back with a companion whom I knew could only be his
brother.

Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. His body
was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive, had preserved
something of the sharpness of expression which was so remarkable in that
of his brother. His eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery gray,
seemed to always retain that far-away, introspective look which I had
only observed in Sherlock's when he was exerting his full powers.

“I am glad to meet you, sir,” said he, putting out a broad, fat hand
like the flipper of a seal. “I hear of Sherlock everywhere since you
became his chronicler. By the way, Sherlock, I expected to see you round
last week, to consult me over that Manor House case. I thought you might
be a little out of your depth.”

“No, I solved it,” said my friend, smiling.

“It was Adams, of course.”

“Yes, it was Adams.”

“I was sure of it from the first.” The two sat down together in the
bow-window of the club. “To any one who wishes to study mankind this is
the spot,” said Mycroft. “Look at the magnificent types! Look at these
two men who are coming towards us, for example.”

“The billiard-marker and the other?”

“Precisely. What do you make of the other?”

The two men had stopped opposite the window. Some chalk marks over the
waistcoat pocket were the only signs of billiards which I could see
in one of them. The other was a very small, dark fellow, with his hat
pushed back and several packages under his arm.

“An old soldier, I perceive,” said Sherlock.

“And very recently discharged,” remarked the brother.

“Served in India, I see.”

“And a non-commissioned officer.”

“Royal Artillery, I fancy,” said Sherlock.

“And a widower.”

“But with a child.”

“Children, my dear boy, children.”

“Come,” said I, laughing, “this is a little too much.”

“Surely,” answered Holmes, “it is not hard to say that a man with that
bearing, expression of authority, and sunbaked skin, is a soldier, is
more than a private, and is not long from India.”

“That he has not left the service long is shown by his still wearing his
ammunition boots, as they are called,” observed Mycroft.

“He had not the cavalry stride, yet he wore his hat on one side, as
is shown by the lighter skin of that side of his brow. His weight is
against his being a sapper. He is in the artillery.”

“Then, of course, his complete mourning shows that he has lost some one
very dear. The fact that he is doing his own shopping looks as though
it were his wife. He has been buying things for children, you perceive.
There is a rattle, which shows that one of them is very young. The wife
probably died in childbed. The fact that he has a picture-book under his
arm shows that there is another child to be thought of.”

I began to understand what my friend meant when he said that his brother
possessed even keener faculties that he did himself. He glanced across
at me and smiled. Mycroft took snuff from a tortoise-shell box, and
brushed away the wandering grains from his coat front with a large, red
silk handkerchief.

“By the way, Sherlock,” said he, “I have had something quite after your
own heart--a most singular problem--submitted to my judgment. I really
had not the energy to follow it up save in a very incomplete fashion,
but it gave me a basis for some pleasing speculation. If you would care
to hear the facts--”

“My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted.”

The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocket-book, and,
ringing the bell, he handed it to the waiter.

“I have asked Mr. Melas to step across,” said he. “He lodges on the
floor above me, and I have some slight acquaintance with him, which led
him to come to me in his perplexity. Mr. Melas is a Greek by extraction,
as I understand, and he is a remarkable linguist. He earns his living
partly as interpreter in the law courts and partly by acting as guide to
any wealthy Orientals who may visit the Northumberland Avenue hotels. I
think I will leave him to tell his very remarkable experience in his own
fashion.”

A few minutes later we were joined by a short, stout man whose olive
face and coal-black hair proclaimed his Southern origin, though his
speech was that of an educated Englishman. He shook hands eagerly
with Sherlock Holmes, and his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure when he
understood that the specialist was anxious to hear his story.

“I do not believe that the police credit me--on my word, I do not,” said
he in a wailing voice. “Just because they have never heard of it before,
they think that such a thing cannot be. But I know that I shall never
be easy in my mind until I know what has become of my poor man with the
sticking-plaster upon his face.”

“I am all attention,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“This is Wednesday evening,” said Mr. Melas. “Well then, it was Monday
night--only two days ago, you understand--that all this happened. I am
an interpreter, as perhaps my neighbor there has told you. I interpret
all languages--or nearly all--but as I am a Greek by birth and with a
Grecian name, it is with that particular tongue that I am principally
associated. For many years I have been the chief Greek interpreter in
London, and my name is very well known in the hotels.

“It happens not unfrequently that I am sent for at strange hours by
foreigners who get into difficulties, or by travelers who arrive late
and wish my services. I was not surprised, therefore, on Monday night
when a Mr. Latimer, a very fashionably dressed young man, came up to my
rooms and asked me to accompany him in a cab which was waiting at the
door. A Greek friend had come to see him upon business, he said, and
as he could speak nothing but his own tongue, the services of an
interpreter were indispensable. He gave me to understand that his house
was some little distance off, in Kensington, and he seemed to be in a
great hurry, bustling me rapidly into the cab when we had descended to
the street.

“I say into the cab, but I soon became doubtful as to whether it was not
a carriage in which I found myself. It was certainly more roomy than
the ordinary four-wheeled disgrace to London, and the fittings, though
frayed, were of rich quality. Mr. Latimer seated himself opposite to me
and we started off through Charing Cross and up the Shaftesbury Avenue.
We had come out upon Oxford Street and I had ventured some remark as to
this being a roundabout way to Kensington, when my words were arrested
by the extraordinary conduct of my companion.

“He began by drawing a most formidable-looking bludgeon loaded with lead
from his pocket, and switching it backward and forward several times,
as if to test its weight and strength. Then he placed it without a word
upon the seat beside him. Having done this, he drew up the windows on
each side, and I found to my astonishment that they were covered with
paper so as to prevent my seeing through them.

“'I am sorry to cut off your view, Mr. Melas,' said he. 'The fact is
that I have no intention that you should see what the place is to which
we are driving. It might possibly be inconvenient to me if you could
find your way there again.'

“As you can imagine, I was utterly taken aback by such an address. My
companion was a powerful, broad-shouldered young fellow, and, apart from
the weapon, I should not have had the slightest chance in a struggle
with him.

“'This is very extraordinary conduct, Mr. Latimer,' I stammered. 'You
must be aware that what you are doing is quite illegal.'

“'It is somewhat of a liberty, no doubt,' said he, 'but we'll make it
up to you. I must warn you, however, Mr. Melas, that if at any time
to-night you attempt to raise an alarm or do anything which is against
my interests, you will find it a very serious thing. I beg you to
remember that no one knows where you are, and that, whether you are in
this carriage or in my house, you are equally in my power.'

“His words were quiet, but he had a rasping way of saying them which
was very menacing. I sat in silence wondering what on earth could be
his reason for kidnapping me in this extraordinary fashion. Whatever it
might be, it was perfectly clear that there was no possible use in my
resisting, and that I could only wait to see what might befall.

“For nearly two hours we drove without my having the least clue as to
where we were going. Sometimes the rattle of the stones told of a paved
causeway, and at others our smooth, silent course suggested asphalt;
but, save by this variation in sound, there was nothing at all which
could in the remotest way help me to form a guess as to where we were.
The paper over each window was impenetrable to light, and a blue curtain
was drawn across the glass work in front. It was a quarter-past seven
when we left Pall Mall, and my watch showed me that it was ten minutes
to nine when we at last came to a standstill. My companion let down
the window, and I caught a glimpse of a low, arched doorway with a lamp
burning above it. As I was hurried from the carriage it swung open, and
I found myself inside the house, with a vague impression of a lawn
and trees on each side of me as I entered. Whether these were private
grounds, however, or bona-fide country was more than I could possibly
venture to say.

“There was a colored gas-lamp inside which was turned so low that I
could see little save that the hall was of some size and hung with
pictures. In the dim light I could make out that the person who had
opened the door was a small, mean-looking, middle-aged man with rounded
shoulders. As he turned towards us the glint of the light showed me that
he was wearing glasses.

“'Is this Mr. Melas, Harold?' said he.

“'Yes.'

“'Well done, well done! No ill-will, Mr. Melas, I hope, but we could not
get on without you. If you deal fair with us you'll not regret it,
but if you try any tricks, God help you!' He spoke in a nervous, jerky
fashion, and with little giggling laughs in between, but somehow he
impressed me with fear more than the other.

“'What do you want with me?' I asked.

“'Only to ask a few questions of a Greek gentleman who is visiting us,
and to let us have the answers. But say no more than you are told to
say, or--' here came the nervous giggle again--'you had better never
have been born.'

“As he spoke he opened a door and showed the way into a room which
appeared to be very richly furnished, but again the only light was
afforded by a single lamp half-turned down. The chamber was certainly
large, and the way in which my feet sank into the carpet as I stepped
across it told me of its richness. I caught glimpses of velvet chairs, a
high white marble mantel-piece, and what seemed to be a suit of Japanese
armor at one side of it. There was a chair just under the lamp, and the
elderly man motioned that I should sit in it. The younger had left
us, but he suddenly returned through another door, leading with him
a gentleman clad in some sort of loose dressing-gown who moved slowly
towards us. As he came into the circle of dim light which enables me to
see him more clearly I was thrilled with horror at his appearance. He
was deadly pale and terribly emaciated, with the protruding, brilliant
eyes of a man whose spirit was greater than his strength. But what
shocked me more than any signs of physical weakness was that his face
was grotesquely criss-crossed with sticking-plaster, and that one large
pad of it was fastened over his mouth.

“'Have you the slate, Harold?' cried the older man, as this strange
being fell rather than sat down into a chair. 'Are his hands loose? Now,
then, give him the pencil. You are to ask the questions, Mr. Melas, and
he will write the answers. Ask him first of all whether he is prepared
to sign the papers?'

“The man's eyes flashed fire.

“'Never!' he wrote in Greek upon the slate.

“'On no condition?' I asked, at the bidding of our tyrant.

“'Only if I see her married in my presence by a Greek priest whom I
know.'

“The man giggled in his venomous way.

“'You know what awaits you, then?'

“'I care nothing for myself.'

“These are samples of the questions and answers which made up our
strange half-spoken, half-written conversation. Again and again I had to
ask him whether he would give in and sign the documents. Again and again
I had the same indignant reply. But soon a happy thought came to me. I
took to adding on little sentences of my own to each question, innocent
ones at first, to test whether either of our companions knew anything
of the matter, and then, as I found that they showed no signs I played a
more dangerous game. Our conversation ran something like this:

“'You can do no good by this obstinacy. Who are you?'

“'I care not. I am a stranger in London.'

“'Your fate will be upon your own head. How long have you been here?'

“'Let it be so. Three weeks.'

“'The property can never be yours. What ails you?'

“'It shall not go to villains. They are starving me.'

“'You shall go free if you sign. What house is this?'

“'I will never sign. I do not know.'

“'You are not doing her any service. What is your name?'

“'Let me hear her say so. Kratides.'

“'You shall see her if you sign. Where are you from?'

“'Then I shall never see her. Athens.'

“Another five minutes, Mr. Holmes, and I should have wormed out the
whole story under their very noses. My very next question might have
cleared the matter up, but at that instant the door opened and a woman
stepped into the room. I could not see her clearly enough to know more
than that she was tall and graceful, with black hair, and clad in some
sort of loose white gown.

“'Harold,' said she, speaking English with a broken accent. 'I could not
stay away longer. It is so lonely up there with only--Oh, my God, it is
Paul!'

“These last words were in Greek, and at the same instant the man with
a convulsive effort tore the plaster from his lips, and screaming out
'Sophy! Sophy!' rushed into the woman's arms. Their embrace was but for
an instant, however, for the younger man seized the woman and pushed
her out of the room, while the elder easily overpowered his emaciated
victim, and dragged him away through the other door. For a moment I was
left alone in the room, and I sprang to my feet with some vague idea
that I might in some way get a clue to what this house was in which I
found myself. Fortunately, however, I took no steps, for looking up I
saw that the older man was standing in the door-way with his eyes fixed
upon me.

“'That will do, Mr. Melas,' said he. 'You perceive that we have taken
you into our confidence over some very private business. We should not
have troubled you, only that our friend who speaks Greek and who began
these negotiations has been forced to return to the East. It was
quite necessary for us to find some one to take his place, and we were
fortunate in hearing of your powers.'

“I bowed.

“'There are five sovereigns here,' said he, walking up to me, 'which
will, I hope, be a sufficient fee. But remember,' he added, tapping me
lightly on the chest and giggling, 'if you speak to a human soul about
this--one human soul, mind--well, may God have mercy upon your soul!”

“I cannot tell you the loathing and horror with which this
insignificant-looking man inspired me. I could see him better now as the
lamp-light shone upon him. His features were peaky and sallow, and his
little pointed beard was thready and ill-nourished. He pushed his face
forward as he spoke and his lips and eyelids were continually twitching
like a man with St. Vitus's dance. I could not help thinking that his
strange, catchy little laugh was also a symptom of some nervous malady.
The terror of his face lay in his eyes, however, steel gray, and
glistening coldly with a malignant, inexorable cruelty in their depths.

“'We shall know if you speak of this,' said he. 'We have our own means
of information. Now you will find the carriage waiting, and my friend
will see you on your way.'

“I was hurried through the hall and into the vehicle, again obtaining
that momentary glimpse of trees and a garden. Mr. Latimer followed
closely at my heels, and took his place opposite to me without a word.
In silence we again drove for an interminable distance with the windows
raised, until at last, just after midnight, the carriage pulled up.

“'You will get down here, Mr. Melas,' said my companion. 'I am sorry
to leave you so far from your house, but there is no alternative. Any
attempt upon your part to follow the carriage can only end in injury to
yourself.'

“He opened the door as he spoke, and I had hardly time to spring out
when the coachman lashed the horse and the carriage rattled away. I
looked around me in astonishment. I was on some sort of a heathy common
mottled over with dark clumps of furze-bushes. Far away stretched a
line of houses, with a light here and there in the upper windows. On the
other side I saw the red signal-lamps of a railway.

“The carriage which had brought me was already out of sight. I stood
gazing round and wondering where on earth I might be, when I saw some
one coming towards me in the darkness. As he came up to me I made out
that he was a railway porter.

“'Can you tell me what place this is?' I asked.

“'Wandsworth Common,' said he.

“'Can I get a train into town?'

“'If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junction,' said he, 'you'll
just be in time for the last to Victoria.'

“So that was the end of my adventure, Mr. Holmes. I do not know where I
was, nor whom I spoke with, nor anything save what I have told you. But
I know that there is foul play going on, and I want to help that unhappy
man if I can. I told the whole story to Mr. Mycroft Holmes next morning,
and subsequently to the police.”

We all sat in silence for some little time after listening to this
extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock looked across at his brother.

“Any steps?” he asked.

Mycroft picked up the Daily News, which was lying on the side-table.

“'Anybody supplying any information to the whereabouts of a Greek
gentleman named Paul Kratides, from Athens, who is unable to speak
English, will be rewarded. A similar reward paid to any one giving
information about a Greek lady whose first name is Sophy. X 2473.' That
was in all the dailies. No answer.”

“How about the Greek Legation?”

“I have inquired. They know nothing.”

“A wire to the head of the Athens police, then?”

“Sherlock has all the energy of the family,” said Mycroft, turning to
me. “Well, you take the case up by all means, and let me know if you do
any good.”

“Certainly,” answered my friend, rising from his chair. “I'll let you
know, and Mr. Melas also. In the meantime, Mr. Melas, I should certainly
be on my guard, if I were you, for of course they must know through
these advertisements that you have betrayed them.”

As we walked home together, Holmes stopped at a telegraph office and
sent off several wires.

“You see, Watson,” he remarked, “our evening has been by no means
wasted. Some of my most interesting cases have come to me in this way
through Mycroft. The problem which we have just listened to, although
it can admit of but one explanation, has still some distinguishing
features.”

“You have hopes of solving it?”

“Well, knowing as much as we do, it will be singular indeed if we fail
to discover the rest. You must yourself have formed some theory which
will explain the facts to which we have listened.”

“In a vague way, yes.”

“What was your idea, then?”

“It seemed to me to be obvious that this Greek girl had been carried off
by the young Englishman named Harold Latimer.”

“Carried off from where?”

“Athens, perhaps.”

Sherlock Holmes shook his head. “This young man could not talk a word of
Greek. The lady could talk English fairly well. Inference--that she had
been in England some little time, but he had not been in Greece.”

“Well, then, we will presume that she had come on a visit to England,
and that this Harold had persuaded her to fly with him.”

“That is more probable.”

“Then the brother--for that, I fancy, must be the relationship--comes
over from Greece to interfere. He imprudently puts himself into the
power of the young man and his older associate. They seize him and use
violence towards him in order to make him sign some papers to make over
the girl's fortune--of which he may be trustee--to them. This he refuses
to do. In order to negotiate with him they have to get an interpreter,
and they pitch upon this Mr. Melas, having used some other one before.
The girl is not told of the arrival of her brother, and finds it out by
the merest accident.”

“Excellent, Watson!” cried Holmes. “I really fancy that you are not far
from the truth. You see that we hold all the cards, and we have only to
fear some sudden act of violence on their part. If they give us time we
must have them.”

“But how can we find where this house lies?”

“Well, if our conjecture is correct and the girl's name is or was Sophy
Kratides, we should have no difficulty in tracing her. That must be our
main hope, for the brother is, of course, a complete stranger. It is
clear that some time has elapsed since this Harold established these
relations with the girl--some weeks, at any rate--since the brother in
Greece has had time to hear of it and come across. If they have been
living in the same place during this time, it is probable that we shall
have some answer to Mycroft's advertisement.”

We had reached our house in Baker Street while we had been talking.
Holmes ascended the stair first, and as he opened the door of our room
he gave a start of surprise. Looking over his shoulder, I was equally
astonished. His brother Mycroft was sitting smoking in the arm-chair.

“Come in, Sherlock! Come in, sir,” said he blandly, smiling at our
surprised faces. “You don't expect such energy from me, do you,
Sherlock? But somehow this case attracts me.”

“How did you get here?”

“I passed you in a hansom.”

“There has been some new development?”

“I had an answer to my advertisement.”

“Ah!”

“Yes, it came within a few minutes of your leaving.”

“And to what effect?”

Mycroft Holmes took out a sheet of paper.

“Here it is,” said he, “written with a J pen on royal cream paper by a
middle-aged man with a weak constitution. 'Sir,' he says, 'in answer to
your advertisement of to-day's date, I beg to inform you that I know the
young lady in question very well. If you should care to call upon me I
could give you some particulars as to her painful history. She is living
at present at The Myrtles, Beckenham. Yours faithfully, J. Davenport.'

“He writes from Lower Brixton,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Do you not think
that we might drive to him now, Sherlock, and learn these particulars?”

“My dear Mycroft, the brother's life is more valuable than the sister's
story. I think we should call at Scotland Yard for Inspector Gregson,
and go straight out to Beckenham. We know that a man is being done to
death, and every hour may be vital.”

“Better pick up Mr. Melas on our way,” I suggested. “We may need an
interpreter.”

“Excellent,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Send the boy for a four-wheeler, and
we shall be off at once.” He opened the table-drawer as he spoke, and I
noticed that he slipped his revolver into his pocket. “Yes,” said he, in
answer to my glance; “I should say from what we have heard, that we are
dealing with a particularly dangerous gang.”

It was almost dark before we found ourselves in Pall Mall, at the rooms
of Mr. Melas. A gentleman had just called for him, and he was gone.

“Can you tell me where?” asked Mycroft Holmes.

“I don't know, sir,” answered the woman who had opened the door; “I only
know that he drove away with the gentleman in a carriage.”

“Did the gentleman give a name?”

“No, sir.”

“He wasn't a tall, handsome, dark young man?”

“Oh, no, sir. He was a little gentleman, with glasses, thin in the face,
but very pleasant in his ways, for he was laughing all the time that he
was talking.”

“Come along!” cried Sherlock Holmes, abruptly. “This grows serious,”
 he observed, as we drove to Scotland Yard. “These men have got hold of
Melas again. He is a man of no physical courage, as they are well
aware from their experience the other night. This villain was able to
terrorize him the instant that he got into his presence. No doubt
they want his professional services, but, having used him, they may be
inclined to punish him for what they will regard as his treachery.”

Our hope was that, by taking train, we might get to Beckenham as soon
or sooner than the carriage. On reaching Scotland Yard, however, it was
more than an hour before we could get Inspector Gregson and comply with
the legal formalities which would enable us to enter the house. It was a
quarter to ten before we reached London Bridge, and half past before the
four of us alighted on the Beckenham platform. A drive of half a mile
brought us to The Myrtles--a large, dark house standing back from the
road in its own grounds. Here we dismissed our cab, and made our way up
the drive together.

“The windows are all dark,” remarked the inspector. “The house seems
deserted.”

“Our birds are flown and the nest empty,” said Holmes.

“Why do you say so?”

“A carriage heavily loaded with luggage has passed out during the last
hour.”

The inspector laughed. “I saw the wheel-tracks in the light of the
gate-lamp, but where does the luggage come in?”

“You may have observed the same wheel-tracks going the other way. But
the outward-bound ones were very much deeper--so much so that we can
say for a certainty that there was a very considerable weight on the
carriage.”

“You get a trifle beyond me there,” said the inspector, shrugging his
shoulder. “It will not be an easy door to force, but we will try if we
cannot make some one hear us.”

He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled at the bell, but without
any success. Holmes had slipped away, but he came back in a few minutes.

“I have a window open,” said he.

“It is a mercy that you are on the side of the force, and not against
it, Mr. Holmes,” remarked the inspector, as he noted the clever way in
which my friend had forced back the catch. “Well, I think that under the
circumstances we may enter without an invitation.”

One after the other we made our way into a large apartment, which was
evidently that in which Mr. Melas had found himself. The inspector
had lit his lantern, and by its light we could see the two doors, the
curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail as he had described
them. On the table lay two glasses, and empty brandy-bottle, and the
remains of a meal.

“What is that?” asked Holmes, suddenly.

We all stood still and listened. A low moaning sound was coming from
somewhere over our heads. Holmes rushed to the door and out into the
hall. The dismal noise came from upstairs. He dashed up, the inspector
and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroft followed as quickly as his
great bulk would permit.

Three doors faced up upon the second floor, and it was from the central
of these that the sinister sounds were issuing, sinking sometimes into a
dull mumble and rising again into a shrill whine. It was locked, but the
key had been left on the outside. Holmes flung open the door and rushed
in, but he was out again in an instant, with his hand to his throat.

“It's charcoal,” he cried. “Give it time. It will clear.”

Peering in, we could see that the only light in the room came from a
dull blue flame which flickered from a small brass tripod in the centre.
It threw a livid, unnatural circle upon the floor, while in the shadows
beyond we saw the vague loom of two figures which crouched against the
wall. From the open door there reeked a horrible poisonous exhalation
which set us gasping and coughing. Holmes rushed to the top of the
stairs to draw in the fresh air, and then, dashing into the room, he
threw up the window and hurled the brazen tripod out into the garden.

“We can enter in a minute,” he gasped, darting out again. “Where is a
candle? I doubt if we could strike a match in that atmosphere. Hold the
light at the door and we shall get them out, Mycroft, now!”

With a rush we got to the poisoned men and dragged them out into the
well-lit hall. Both of them were blue-lipped and insensible, with
swollen, congested faces and protruding eyes. Indeed, so distorted were
their features that, save for his black beard and stout figure, we might
have failed to recognize in one of them the Greek interpreter who had
parted from us only a few hours before at the Diogenes Club. His hands
and feet were securely strapped together, and he bore over one eye
the marks of a violent blow. The other, who was secured in a similar
fashion, was a tall man in the last stage of emaciation, with several
strips of sticking-plaster arranged in a grotesque pattern over his
face. He had ceased to moan as we laid him down, and a glance showed
me that for him at least our aid had come too late. Mr. Melas, however,
still lived, and in less than an hour, with the aid of ammonia and
brandy I had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes, and of
knowing that my hand had drawn him back from that dark valley in which
all paths meet.

It was a simple story which he had to tell, and one which did but
confirm our own deductions. His visitor, on entering his rooms, had
drawn a life-preserver from his sleeve, and had so impressed him with
the fear of instant and inevitable death that he had kidnapped him for
the second time. Indeed, it was almost mesmeric, the effect which this
giggling ruffian had produced upon the unfortunate linguist, for he
could not speak of him save with trembling hands and a blanched cheek.
He had been taken swiftly to Beckenham, and had acted as interpreter in
a second interview, even more dramatic than the first, in which the two
Englishmen had menaced their prisoner with instant death if he did not
comply with their demands. Finally, finding him proof against every
threat, they had hurled him back into his prison, and after
reproaching Melas with his treachery, which appeared from the newspaper
advertisement, they had stunned him with a blow from a stick, and he
remembered nothing more until he found us bending over him.

And this was the singular case of the Grecian Interpreter, the
explanation of which is still involved in some mystery. We were able
to find out, by communicating with the gentleman who had answered the
advertisement, that the unfortunate young lady came of a wealthy Grecian
family, and that she had been on a visit to some friends in England.
While there she had met a young man named Harold Latimer, who had
acquired an ascendancy over her and had eventually persuaded her to fly
with him. Her friends, shocked at the event, had contented themselves
with informing her brother at Athens, and had then washed their hands
of the matter. The brother, on his arrival in England, had imprudently
placed himself in the power of Latimer and of his associate, whose name
was Wilson Kemp--a man of the foulest antecedents. These two, finding
that through his ignorance of the language he was helpless in their
hands, had kept him a prisoner, and had endeavored by cruelty and
starvation to make him sign away his own and his sister's property. They
had kept him in the house without the girl's knowledge, and the plaster
over the face had been for the purpose of making recognition difficult
in case she should ever catch a glimpse of him. Her feminine perception,
however, had instantly seen through the disguise when, on the occasion
of the interpreter's visit, she had seen him for the first time. The
poor girl, however, was herself a prisoner, for there was no one about
the house except the man who acted as coachman, and his wife, both of
whom were tools of the conspirators. Finding that their secret was out,
and that their prisoner was not to be coerced, the two villains with the
girl had fled away at a few hours' notice from the furnished house which
they had hired, having first, as they thought, taken vengeance both upon
the man who had defied and the one who had betrayed them.

Months afterwards a curious newspaper cutting reached us from
Buda-Pesth. It told how two Englishmen who had been traveling with a
woman had met with a tragic end. They had each been stabbed, it seems,
and the Hungarian police were of opinion that they had quarreled and had
inflicted mortal injuries upon each other. Holmes, however, is, I fancy,
of a different way of thinking, and holds to this day that, if one could
find the Grecian girl, one might learn how the wrongs of herself and her
brother came to be avenged.




Adventure X. The Naval Treaty


The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made memorable
by three cases of interest, in which I had the privilege of being
associated with Sherlock Holmes and of studying his methods. I find them
recorded in my notes under the headings of “The Adventure of the Second
Stain,” “The Adventure of the Naval Treaty,” and “The Adventure of the
Tired Captain.” The first of these, however, deals with interest of such
importance and implicates so many of the first families in the kingdom
that for many years it will be impossible to make it public. No case,
however, in which Holmes was engaged has ever illustrated the value
of his analytical methods so clearly or has impressed those who were
associated with him so deeply. I still retain an almost verbatim report
of the interview in which he demonstrated the true facts of the case
to Monsieur Dubugue of the Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the
well-known specialist of Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies
upon what proved to be side-issues. The new century will have come,
however, before the story can be safely told. Meanwhile I pass on to
the second on my list, which promised also at one time to be of national
importance, and was marked by several incidents which give it a quite
unique character.

During my school-days I had been intimately associated with a lad named
Percy Phelps, who was of much the same age as myself, though he was two
classes ahead of me. He was a very brilliant boy, and carried away every
prize which the school had to offer, finished his exploits by winning
a scholarship which sent him on to continue his triumphant career at
Cambridge. He was, I remember, extremely well connected, and even when
we were all little boys together we knew that his mother's brother
was Lord Holdhurst, the great conservative politician. This gaudy
relationship did him little good at school. On the contrary, it seemed
rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him about the playground and hit
him over the shins with a wicket. But it was another thing when he
came out into the world. I heard vaguely that his abilities and the
influences which he commanded had won him a good position at the Foreign
Office, and then he passed completely out of my mind until the following
letter recalled his existence:


Briarbrae, Woking. My dear Watson,--I have no doubt that you can
remember “Tadpole” Phelps, who was in the fifth form when you were in
the third. It is possible even that you may have heard that through my
uncle's influence I obtained a good appointment at the Foreign Office,
and that I was in a situation of trust and honor until a horrible
misfortune came suddenly to blast my career.

There is no use writing of the details of that dreadful event. In the
event of your acceding to my request it is probable that I shall have
to narrate them to you. I have only just recovered from nine weeks of
brain-fever, and am still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you could
bring your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to have his
opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me that nothing more
can be done. Do try to bring him down, and as soon as possible. Every
minute seems an hour while I live in this state of horrible suspense.
Assure him that if I have not asked his advice sooner it was not because
I did not appreciate his talents, but because I have been off my head
ever since the blow fell. Now I am clear again, though I dare not think
of it too much for fear of a relapse. I am still so weak that I have to
write, as you see, by dictating. Do try to bring him.

Your old school-fellow,

Percy Phelps.


There was something that touched me as I read this letter, something
pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So moved was I
that even had it been a difficult matter I should have tried it, but
of course I knew well that Holmes loved his art, so that he was ever
as ready to bring his aid as his client could be to receive it. My wife
agreed with me that not a moment should be lost in laying the matter
before him, and so within an hour of breakfast-time I found myself back
once more in the old rooms in Baker Street.

Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his dressing-gown, and
working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved retort
was boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner, and the
distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre measure. My friend
hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing that his investigation
must be of importance, seated myself in an arm-chair and waited. He
dipped into this bottle or that, drawing out a few drops of each with
his glass pipette, and finally brought a test-tube containing a solution
over to the table. In his right hand he held a slip of litmus-paper.

“You come at a crisis, Watson,” said he. “If this paper remains blue,
all is well. If it turns red, it means a man's life.” He dipped it into
the test-tube and it flushed at once into a dull, dirty crimson. “Hum!
I thought as much!” he cried. “I will be at your service in an instant,
Watson. You will find tobacco in the Persian slipper.” He turned to his
desk and scribbled off several telegrams, which were handed over to the
page-boy. Then he threw himself down into the chair opposite, and drew
up his knees until his fingers clasped round his long, thin shins.

“A very commonplace little murder,” said he. “You've got something
better, I fancy. You are the stormy petrel of crime, Watson. What is
it?”

I handed him the letter, which he read with the most concentrated
attention.

“It does not tell us very much, does it?” he remarked, as he handed it
back to me.

“Hardly anything.”

“And yet the writing is of interest.”

“But the writing is not his own.”

“Precisely. It is a woman's.”

“A man's surely,” I cried.

“No, a woman's, and a woman of rare character. You see, at the
commencement of an investigation it is something to know that your
client is in close contact with some one who, for good or evil, has an
exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened in the case. If you
are ready we will start at once for Woking, and see this diplomatist who
is in such evil case, and the lady to whom he dictates his letters.”

We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at Waterloo, and in
a little under an hour we found ourselves among the fir-woods and
the heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a large detached house
standing in extensive grounds within a few minutes' walk of the station.
On sending in our cards we were shown into an elegantly appointed
drawing-room, where we were joined in a few minutes by a rather stout
man who received us with much hospitality. His age may have been nearer
forty than thirty, but his cheeks were so ruddy and his eyes so merry
that he still conveyed the impression of a plump and mischievous boy.

“I am so glad that you have come,” said he, shaking our hands with
effusion. “Percy has been inquiring for you all morning. Ah, poor old
chap, he clings to any straw! His father and his mother asked me to see
you, for the mere mention of the subject is very painful to them.”

“We have had no details yet,” observed Holmes. “I perceive that you are
not yourself a member of the family.”

Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, glancing down, he began to
laugh.

“Of course you saw the J H monogram on my locket,” said he. “For a
moment I thought you had done something clever. Joseph Harrison is my
name, and as Percy is to marry my sister Annie I shall at least be a
relation by marriage. You will find my sister in his room, for she has
nursed him hand-and-foot this two months back. Perhaps we'd better go in
at once, for I know how impatient he is.”

The chamber in which we were shown was on the same floor as the
drawing-room. It was furnished partly as a sitting and partly as a
bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every nook and corner. A
young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa near the open
window, through which came the rich scent of the garden and the balmy
summer air. A woman was sitting beside him, who rose as we entered.

“Shall I leave, Percy?” she asked.

He clutched her hand to detain her. “How are you, Watson?” said he,
cordially. “I should never have known you under that moustache, and I
dare say you would not be prepared to swear to me. This I presume is
your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. The stout young
man had left us, but his sister still remained with her hand in that of
the invalid. She was a striking-looking woman, a little short and
thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive complexion, large, dark,
Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black hair. Her rich tints made the
white face of her companion the more worn and haggard by the contrast.

“I won't waste your time,” said he, raising himself upon the sofa.
“I'll plunge into the matter without further preamble. I was a happy
and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of being married, when a
sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all my prospects in life.

“I was, as Watson may have told you, in the Foreign Office, and
through the influences of my uncle, Lord Holdhurst, I rose rapidly to
a responsible position. When my uncle became foreign minister in this
administration he gave me several missions of trust, and as I always
brought them to a successful conclusion, he came at last to have the
utmost confidence in my ability and tact.

“Nearly ten weeks ago--to be more accurate, on the 23d of May--he called
me into his private room, and, after complimenting me on the good work
which I had done, he informed me that he had a new commission of trust
for me to execute.

“'This,' said he, taking a gray roll of paper from his bureau, 'is the
original of that secret treaty between England and Italy of which, I
regret to say, some rumors have already got into the public press. It is
of enormous importance that nothing further should leak out. The French
or the Russian embassy would pay an immense sum to learn the contents
of these papers. They should not leave my bureau were it not that it
is absolutely necessary to have them copied. You have a desk in your
office?”

“'Yes, sir.'

“'Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I shall give directions
that you may remain behind when the others go, so that you may copy
it at your leisure without fear of being overlooked. When you have
finished, relock both the original and the draft in the desk, and hand
them over to me personally to-morrow morning.'

“I took the papers and--”

“Excuse me an instant,” said Holmes. “Were you alone during this
conversation?”

“Absolutely.”

“In a large room?”

“Thirty feet each way.”

“In the centre?”

“Yes, about it.”

“And speaking low?”

“My uncle's voice is always remarkably low. I hardly spoke at all.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes; “pray go on.”

“I did exactly what he indicated, and waited until the other clerks had
departed. One of them in my room, Charles Gorot, had some arrears
of work to make up, so I left him there and went out to dine. When I
returned he was gone. I was anxious to hurry my work, for I knew that
Joseph--the Mr. Harrison whom you saw just now--was in town, and that he
would travel down to Woking by the eleven-o'clock train, and I wanted if
possible to catch it.

“When I came to examine the treaty I saw at once that it was of such
importance that my uncle had been guilty of no exaggeration in what
he had said. Without going into details, I may say that it defined the
position of Great Britain towards the Triple Alliance, and fore-shadowed
the policy which this country would pursue in the event of the
French fleet gaining a complete ascendancy over that of Italy in the
Mediterranean. The questions treated in it were purely naval. At the end
were the signatures of the high dignitaries who had signed it. I glanced
my eyes over it, and then settled down to my task of copying.

“It was a long document, written in the French language, and containing
twenty-six separate articles. I copied as quickly as I could, but at
nine o'clock I had only done nine articles, and it seemed hopeless for
me to attempt to catch my train. I was feeling drowsy and stupid, partly
from my dinner and also from the effects of a long day's work. A cup of
coffee would clear my brain. A commissionnaire remains all night in a
little lodge at the foot of the stairs, and is in the habit of making
coffee at his spirit-lamp for any of the officials who may be working
over time. I rang the bell, therefore, to summon him.

“To my surprise, it was a woman who answered the summons, a large,
coarse-faced, elderly woman, in an apron. She explained that she was the
commissionnaire's wife, who did the charing, and I gave her the order
for the coffee.

“I wrote two more articles and then, feeling more drowsy than ever, I
rose and walked up and down the room to stretch my legs. My coffee had
not yet come, and I wondered what the cause of the delay could be.
Opening the door, I started down the corridor to find out. There was a
straight passage, dimly lighted, which led from the room in which I
had been working, and was the only exit from it. It ended in a curving
staircase, with the commissionnaire's lodge in the passage at the
bottom. Half way down this staircase is a small landing, with another
passage running into it at right angles. This second one leads by means
of a second small stair to a side door, used by servants, and also as
a short cut by clerks when coming from Charles Street. Here is a rough
chart of the place.”

“Thank you. I think that I quite follow you,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“It is of the utmost importance that you should notice this point.
I went down the stairs and into the hall, where I found the
commissionnaire fast asleep in his box, with the kettle boiling
furiously upon the spirit-lamp. I took off the kettle and blew out the
lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor. Then I put out my hand
and was about to shake the man, who was still sleeping soundly, when a
bell over his head rang loudly, and he woke with a start.

“'Mr. Phelps, sir!' said he, looking at me in bewilderment.

“'I came down to see if my coffee was ready.'

“'I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir.' He looked at me and
then up at the still quivering bell with an ever-growing astonishment
upon his face.

“'If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell?' he asked.

“'The bell!' I cried. 'What bell is it?'

“'It's the bell of the room you were working in.'

“A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Some one, then, was in that
room where my precious treaty lay upon the table. I ran frantically up
the stair and along the passage. There was no one in the corridors, Mr.
Holmes. There was no one in the room. All was exactly as I left it, save
only that the papers which had been committed to my care had been taken
from the desk on which they lay. The copy was there, and the original
was gone.”

Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his hands. I could see that the
problem was entirely to his heart. “Pray, what did you do then?” he
murmured.

“I recognized in an instant that the thief must have come up the stairs
from the side door. Of course I must have met him if he had come the
other way.”

“You were satisfied that he could not have been concealed in the room
all the time, or in the corridor which you have just described as dimly
lighted?”

“It is absolutely impossible. A rat could not conceal himself either in
the room or the corridor. There is no cover at all.”

“Thank you. Pray proceed.”

“The commissionnaire, seeing by my pale face that something was to be
feared, had followed me upstairs. Now we both rushed along the corridor
and down the steep steps which led to Charles Street. The door at the
bottom was closed, but unlocked. We flung it open and rushed out. I can
distinctly remember that as we did so there came three chimes from a
neighboring clock. It was quarter to ten.”

“That is of enormous importance,” said Holmes, making a note upon his
shirt-cuff.

“The night was very dark, and a thin, warm rain was falling. There was
no one in Charles Street, but a great traffic was going on, as usual, in
Whitehall, at the extremity. We rushed along the pavement, bare-headed
as we were, and at the far corner we found a policeman standing.

“'A robbery has been committed,' I gasped. 'A document of immense value
has been stolen from the Foreign Office. Has any one passed this way?'

“'I have been standing here for a quarter of an hour, sir,' said he;
'only one person has passed during that time--a woman, tall and elderly,
with a Paisley shawl.'

“'Ah, that is only my wife,' cried the commissionnaire; 'has no one else
passed?'

“'No one.'

“'Then it must be the other way that the thief took,' cried the fellow,
tugging at my sleeve.

“'But I was not satisfied, and the attempts which he made to draw me
away increased my suspicions.

“'Which way did the woman go?' I cried.

“'I don't know, sir. I noticed her pass, but I had no special reason for
watching her. She seemed to be in a hurry.'

“'How long ago was it?'

“'Oh, not very many minutes.'

“'Within the last five?'

“'Well, it could not be more than five.'

“'You're only wasting your time, sir, and every minute now is of
importance,' cried the commissionnaire; 'take my word for it that my old
woman has nothing to do with it, and come down to the other end of the
street. Well, if you won't, I will.' And with that he rushed off in the
other direction.

“But I was after him in an instant and caught him by the sleeve.

“'Where do you live?' said I.

“'16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,' he answered. 'But don't let yourself be drawn
away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps. Come to the other end of the street
and let us see if we can hear of anything.'

“Nothing was to be lost by following his advice. With the policeman we
both hurried down, but only to find the street full of traffic, many
people coming and going, but all only too eager to get to a place of
safety upon so wet a night. There was no lounger who could tell us who
had passed.

“Then we returned to the office, and searched the stairs and the passage
without result. The corridor which led to the room was laid down with
a kind of creamy linoleum which shows an impression very easily. We
examined it very carefully, but found no outline of any footmark.”

“Had it been raining all evening?”

“Since about seven.”

“How is it, then, that the woman who came into the room about nine left
no traces with her muddy boots?”

“I am glad you raised the point. It occurred to me at the time.
The charwomen are in the habit of taking off their boots at the
commissionnaire's office, and putting on list slippers.”

“That is very clear. There were no marks, then, though the night was a
wet one? The chain of events is certainly one of extraordinary interest.
What did you do next?

“We examined the room also. There is no possibility of a secret door,
and the windows are quite thirty feet from the ground. Both of them
were fastened on the inside. The carpet prevents any possibility of a
trap-door, and the ceiling is of the ordinary whitewashed kind. I will
pledge my life that whoever stole my papers could only have come through
the door.”

“How about the fireplace?”

“They use none. There is a stove. The bell-rope hangs from the wire just
to the right of my desk. Whoever rang it must have come right up to the
desk to do it. But why should any criminal wish to ring the bell? It is
a most insoluble mystery.”

“Certainly the incident was unusual. What were your next steps? You
examined the room, I presume, to see if the intruder had left any
traces--any cigar-end or dropped glove or hairpin or other trifle?”

“There was nothing of the sort.”

“No smell?”

“Well, we never thought of that.”

“Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth a great deal to us in such
an investigation.”

“I never smoke myself, so I think I should have observed it if there had
been any smell of tobacco. There was absolutely no clue of any kind. The
only tangible fact was that the commissionnaire's wife--Mrs. Tangey was
the name--had hurried out of the place. He could give no explanation
save that it was about the time when the woman always went home. The
policeman and I agreed that our best plan would be to seize the woman
before she could get rid of the papers, presuming that she had them.

“The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this time, and Mr. Forbes, the
detective, came round at once and took up the case with a great deal of
energy. We hired a hansom, and in half an hour we were at the address
which had been given to us. A young woman opened the door, who proved to
be Mrs. Tangey's eldest daughter. Her mother had not come back yet, and
we were shown into the front room to wait.

“About ten minutes later a knock came at the door, and here we made the
one serious mistake for which I blame myself. Instead of opening the
door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do so. We heard her say, 'Mother,
there are two men in the house waiting to see you,' and an instant
afterwards we heard the patter of feet rushing down the passage. Forbes
flung open the door, and we both ran into the back room or kitchen, but
the woman had got there before us. She stared at us with defiant
eyes, and then, suddenly recognizing me, an expression of absolute
astonishment came over her face.

“'Why, if it isn't Mr. Phelps, of the office!' she cried.

“'Come, come, who did you think we were when you ran away from us?'
asked my companion.

“'I thought you were the brokers,' said she, 'we have had some trouble
with a tradesman.'

“'That's not quite good enough,' answered Forbes. 'We have reason to
believe that you have taken a paper of importance from the Foreign
Office, and that you ran in here to dispose of it. You must come back
with us to Scotland Yard to be searched.'

“It was in vain that she protested and resisted. A four-wheeler was
brought, and we all three drove back in it. We had first made an
examination of the kitchen, and especially of the kitchen fire, to see
whether she might have made away with the papers during the instant that
she was alone. There were no signs, however, of any ashes or scraps.
When we reached Scotland Yard she was handed over at once to the female
searcher. I waited in an agony of suspense until she came back with her
report. There were no signs of the papers.

“Then for the first time the horror of my situation came in its full
force. Hitherto I had been acting, and action had numbed thought. I had
been so confident of regaining the treaty at once that I had not dared
to think of what would be the consequence if I failed to do so. But
now there was nothing more to be done, and I had leisure to realize
my position. It was horrible. Watson there would tell you that I was a
nervous, sensitive boy at school. It is my nature. I thought of my uncle
and of his colleagues in the Cabinet, of the shame which I had brought
upon him, upon myself, upon every one connected with me. What though I
was the victim of an extraordinary accident? No allowance is made
for accidents where diplomatic interests are at stake. I was ruined,
shamefully, hopelessly ruined. I don't know what I did. I fancy I must
have made a scene. I have a dim recollection of a group of officials who
crowded round me, endeavoring to soothe me. One of them drove down with
me to Waterloo, and saw me into the Woking train. I believe that he
would have come all the way had it not been that Dr. Ferrier, who lives
near me, was going down by that very train. The doctor most kindly took
charge of me, and it was well he did so, for I had a fit in the station,
and before we reached home I was practically a raving maniac.

“You can imagine the state of things here when they were roused from
their beds by the doctor's ringing and found me in this condition. Poor
Annie here and my mother were broken-hearted. Dr. Ferrier had just heard
enough from the detective at the station to be able to give an idea of
what had happened, and his story did not mend matters. It was evident to
all that I was in for a long illness, so Joseph was bundled out of this
cheery bedroom, and it was turned into a sick-room for me. Here I have
lain, Mr. Holmes, for over nine weeks, unconscious, and raving with
brain-fever. If it had not been for Miss Harrison here and for the
doctor's care I should not be speaking to you now. She has nursed me by
day and a hired nurse has looked after me by night, for in my mad fits
I was capable of anything. Slowly my reason has cleared, but it is only
during the last three days that my memory has quite returned. Sometimes
I wish that it never had. The first thing that I did was to wire to
Mr. Forbes, who had the case in hand. He came out, and assures me that,
though everything has been done, no trace of a clue has been discovered.
The commissionnaire and his wife have been examined in every way without
any light being thrown upon the matter. The suspicions of the police
then rested upon young Gorot, who, as you may remember, stayed over time
in the office that night. His remaining behind and his French name were
really the only two points which could suggest suspicion; but, as a
matter of fact, I did not begin work until he had gone, and his people
are of Huguenot extraction, but as English in sympathy and tradition as
you and I are. Nothing was found to implicate him in any way, and there
the matter dropped. I turn to you, Mr. Holmes, as absolutely my last
hope. If you fail me, then my honor as well as my position are forever
forfeited.”

The invalid sank back upon his cushions, tired out by this long recital,
while his nurse poured him out a glass of some stimulating medicine.
Holmes sat silently, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, in
an attitude which might seem listless to a stranger, but which I knew
betokened the most intense self-absorption.

“You statement has been so explicit,” said he at last, “that you have
really left me very few questions to ask. There is one of the very
utmost importance, however. Did you tell any one that you had this
special task to perform?”

“No one.”

“Not Miss Harrison here, for example?”

“No. I had not been back to Woking between getting the order and
executing the commission.”

“And none of your people had by chance been to see you?”

“None.”

“Did any of them know their way about in the office?”

“Oh, yes, all of them had been shown over it.”

“Still, of course, if you said nothing to any one about the treaty these
inquiries are irrelevant.”

“I said nothing.”

“Do you know anything of the commissionnaire?”

“Nothing except that he is an old soldier.”

“What regiment?”

“Oh, I have heard--Coldstream Guards.”

“Thank you. I have no doubt I can get details from Forbes. The
authorities are excellent at amassing facts, though they do not always
use them to advantage. What a lovely thing a rose is!”

He walked past the couch to the open window, and held up the drooping
stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at the dainty blend of crimson and
green. It was a new phase of his character to me, for I had never before
seen him show any keen interest in natural objects.

“There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion,”
 said he, leaning with his back against the shutters. “It can be built
up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the
goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other
things, our powers our desires, our food, are all really necessary for
our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its
smell and its color are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it.
It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have
much to hope from the flowers.”

Percy Phelps and his nurse looked at Holmes during this demonstration
with surprise and a good deal of disappointment written upon their
faces. He had fallen into a reverie, with the moss-rose between his
fingers. It had lasted some minutes before the young lady broke in upon
it.

“Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr. Holmes?” she
asked, with a touch of asperity in her voice.

“Oh, the mystery!” he answered, coming back with a start to the
realities of life. “Well, it would be absurd to deny that the case is
a very abstruse and complicated one, but I can promise you that I will
look into the matter and let you know any points which may strike me.”

“Do you see any clue?”

“You have furnished me with seven, but, of course, I must test them
before I can pronounce upon their value.”

“You suspect some one?”

“I suspect myself.”

“What!”

“Of coming to conclusions too rapidly.”

“Then go to London and test your conclusions.”

“Your advice is very excellent, Miss Harrison,” said Holmes, rising. “I
think, Watson, we cannot do better. Do not allow yourself to indulge in
false hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair is a very tangled one.”

“I shall be in a fever until I see you again,” cried the diplomatist.

“Well, I'll come out by the same train to-morrow, though it's more than
likely that my report will be a negative one.”

“God bless you for promising to come,” cried our client. “It gives me
fresh life to know that something is being done. By the way, I have had
a letter from Lord Holdhurst.”

“Ha! What did he say?”

“He was cold, but not harsh. I dare say my severe illness prevented
him from being that. He repeated that the matter was of the utmost
importance, and added that no steps would be taken about my future--by
which he means, of course, my dismissal--until my health was restored
and I had an opportunity of repairing my misfortune.”

“Well, that was reasonable and considerate,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson,
for we have a good day's work before us in town.”

Mr. Joseph Harrison drove us down to the station, and we were soon
whirling up in a Portsmouth train. Holmes was sunk in profound thought,
and hardly opened his mouth until we had passed Clapham Junction.

“It's a very cheery thing to come into London by any of these lines
which run high, and allow you to look down upon the houses like this.”

I thought he was joking, for the view was sordid enough, but he soon
explained himself.

“Look at those big, isolated clumps of building rising up above the
slates, like brick islands in a lead-colored sea.”

“The board-schools.”

“Light-houses, my boy! Beacons of the future! Capsules with hundreds of
bright little seeds in each, out of which will spring the wise, better
England of the future. I suppose that man Phelps does not drink?”

“I should not think so.”

“Nor should I, but we are bound to take every possibility into account.
The poor devil has certainly got himself into very deep water, and it's
a question whether we shall ever be able to get him ashore. What did you
think of Miss Harrison?”

“A girl of strong character.”

“Yes, but she is a good sort, or I am mistaken. She and her brother are
the only children of an iron-master somewhere up Northumberland way. He
got engaged to her when traveling last winter, and she came down to
be introduced to his people, with her brother as escort. Then came
the smash, and she stayed on to nurse her lover, while brother Joseph,
finding himself pretty snug, stayed on too. I've been making a few
independent inquiries, you see. But to-day must be a day of inquiries.”

“My practice--” I began.

“Oh, if you find your own cases more interesting than mine--” said
Holmes, with some asperity.

“I was going to say that my practice could get along very well for a day
or two, since it is the slackest time in the year.”

“Excellent,” said he, recovering his good-humor. “Then we'll look into
this matter together. I think that we should begin by seeing Forbes.
He can probably tell us all the details we want until we know from what
side the case is to be approached.”

“You said you had a clue?”

“Well, we have several, but we can only test their value by further
inquiry. The most difficult crime to track is the one which is
purposeless. Now this is not purposeless. Who is it who profits by it?
There is the French ambassador, there is the Russian, there is whoever
might sell it to either of these, and there is Lord Holdhurst.”

“Lord Holdhurst!”

“Well, it is just conceivable that a statesman might find himself in
a position where he was not sorry to have such a document accidentally
destroyed.”

“Not a statesman with the honorable record of Lord Holdhurst?”

“It is a possibility and we cannot afford to disregard it. We shall see
the noble lord to-day and find out if he can tell us anything. Meanwhile
I have already set inquiries on foot.”

“Already?”

“Yes, I sent wires from Woking station to every evening paper in London.
This advertisement will appear in each of them.”

He handed over a sheet torn from a note-book. On it was scribbled in
pencil: “L10 reward. The number of the cab which dropped a fare at or
about the door of the Foreign Office in Charles Street at quarter to ten
in the evening of May 23d. Apply 221 B, Baker Street.”

“You are confident that the thief came in a cab?”

“If not, there is no harm done. But if Mr. Phelps is correct in stating
that there is no hiding-place either in the room or the corridors, then
the person must have come from outside. If he came from outside on so
wet a night, and yet left no trace of damp upon the linoleum, which
was examined within a few minutes of his passing, then it is exceeding
probable that he came in a cab. Yes, I think that we may safely deduce a
cab.”

“It sounds plausible.”

“That is one of the clues of which I spoke. It may lead us to something.
And then, of course, there is the bell--which is the most distinctive
feature of the case. Why should the bell ring? Was it the thief who did
it out of bravado? Or was it some one who was with the thief who did it
in order to prevent the crime? Or was it an accident? Or was it--?” He
sank back into the state of intense and silent thought from which he
had emerged; but it seemed to me, accustomed as I was to his every mood,
that some new possibility had dawned suddenly upon him.

It was twenty past three when we reached our terminus, and after a hasty
luncheon at the buffet we pushed on at once to Scotland Yard. Holmes
had already wired to Forbes, and we found him waiting to receive us--a
small, foxy man with a sharp but by no means amiable expression. He
was decidedly frigid in his manner to us, especially when he heard the
errand upon which we had come.

“I've heard of your methods before now, Mr. Holmes,” said he, tartly.
“You are ready enough to use all the information that the police can lay
at your disposal, and then you try to finish the case yourself and bring
discredit on them.”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “out of my last fifty-three cases my
name has only appeared in four, and the police have had all the credit
in forty-nine. I don't blame you for not knowing this, for you are young
and inexperienced, but if you wish to get on in your new duties you will
work with me and not against me.”

“I'd be very glad of a hint or two,” said the detective, changing his
manner. “I've certainly had no credit from the case so far.”

“What steps have you taken?”

“Tangey, the commissionnaire, has been shadowed. He left the Guards with
a good character and we can find nothing against him. His wife is a bad
lot, though. I fancy she knows more about this than appears.”

“Have you shadowed her?”

“We have set one of our women on to her. Mrs. Tangey drinks, and our
woman has been with her twice when she was well on, but she could get
nothing out of her.”

“I understand that they have had brokers in the house?”

“Yes, but they were paid off.”

“Where did the money come from?”

“That was all right. His pension was due. They have not shown any sign
of being in funds.”

“What explanation did she give of having answered the bell when Mr.
Phelps rang for the coffee?”

“She said that her husband was very tired and she wished to relieve him.”

“Well, certainly that would agree with his being found a little later
asleep in his chair. There is nothing against them then but the woman's
character. Did you ask her why she hurried away that night? Her haste
attracted the attention of the police constable.”

“She was later than usual and wanted to get home.”

“Did you point out to her that you and Mr. Phelps, who started at least
twenty minutes after her, got home before her?”

“She explains that by the difference between a 'bus and a hansom.”

“Did she make it clear why, on reaching her house, she ran into the back
kitchen?”

“Because she had the money there with which to pay off the brokers.”

“She has at least an answer for everything. Did you ask her whether in
leaving she met any one or saw any one loitering about Charles Street?”

“She saw no one but the constable.”

“Well, you seem to have cross-examined her pretty thoroughly. What else
have you done?”

“The clerk Gorot has been shadowed all these nine weeks, but without
result. We can show nothing against him.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, we have nothing else to go upon--no evidence of any kind.”

“Have you formed a theory about how that bell rang?”

“Well, I must confess that it beats me. It was a cool hand, whoever it
was, to go and give the alarm like that.”

“Yes, it was a queer thing to do. Many thanks to you for what you have
told me. If I can put the man into your hands you shall hear from me.
Come along, Watson.”

“Where are we going to now?” I asked, as we left the office.

“We are now going to interview Lord Holdhurst, the cabinet minister and
future premier of England.”

We were fortunate in finding that Lord Holdhurst was still in his
chambers in Downing Street, and on Holmes sending in his card we were
instantly shown up. The statesman received us with that old-fashioned
courtesy for which he is remarkable, and seated us on the two luxuriant
lounges on either side of the fireplace. Standing on the rug between us,
with his slight, tall figure, his sharp features, thoughtful face, and
curling hair prematurely tinged with gray, he seemed to represent that
not too common type, a nobleman who is in truth noble.

“Your name is very familiar to me, Mr. Holmes,” said he, smiling. “And,
of course, I cannot pretend to be ignorant of the object of your visit.
There has only been one occurrence in these offices which could call for
your attention. In whose interest are you acting, may I ask?”

“In that of Mr. Percy Phelps,” answered Holmes.

“Ah, my unfortunate nephew! You can understand that our kinship makes
it the more impossible for me to screen him in any way. I fear that the
incident must have a very prejudicial effect upon his career.”

“But if the document is found?”

“Ah, that, of course, would be different.”

“I had one or two questions which I wished to ask you, Lord Holdhurst.”

“I shall be happy to give you any information in my power.”

“Was it in this room that you gave your instructions as to the copying
of the document?”

“It was.”

“Then you could hardly have been overheard?”

“It is out of the question.”

“Did you ever mention to any one that it was your intention to give any
one the treaty to be copied?”

“Never.”

“You are certain of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, since you never said so, and Mr. Phelps never said so, and nobody
else knew anything of the matter, then the thief's presence in the room
was purely accidental. He saw his chance and he took it.”

The statesman smiled. “You take me out of my province there,” said he.

Holmes considered for a moment. “There is another very important
point which I wish to discuss with you,” said he. “You feared, as I
understand, that very grave results might follow from the details of
this treaty becoming known.”

A shadow passed over the expressive face of the statesman. “Very grave
results indeed.”

“And have they occurred?”

“Not yet.”

“If the treaty had reached, let us say, the French or Russian Foreign
Office, you would expect to hear of it?”

“I should,” said Lord Holdhurst, with a wry face.

“Since nearly ten weeks have elapsed, then, and nothing has been heard,
it is not unfair to suppose that for some reason the treaty has not
reached them.”

Lord Holdhurst shrugged his shoulders.

“We can hardly suppose, Mr. Holmes, that the thief took the treaty in
order to frame it and hang it up.”

“Perhaps he is waiting for a better price.”

“If he waits a little longer he will get no price at all. The treaty
will cease to be secret in a few months.”

“That is most important,” said Holmes. “Of course, it is a possible
supposition that the thief has had a sudden illness--”

“An attack of brain-fever, for example?” asked the statesman, flashing a
swift glance at him.

“I did not say so,” said Holmes, imperturbably. “And now, Lord
Holdhurst, we have already taken up too much of your valuable time, and
we shall wish you good-day.”

“Every success to your investigation, be the criminal who it may,”
 answered the nobleman, as he bowed us out the door.

“He's a fine fellow,” said Holmes, as we came out into Whitehall. “But
he has a struggle to keep up his position. He is far from rich and has
many calls. You noticed, of course, that his boots had been resoled.
Now, Watson, I won't detain you from your legitimate work any longer.
I shall do nothing more to-day, unless I have an answer to my cab
advertisement. But I should be extremely obliged to you if you would
come down with me to Woking to-morrow, by the same train which we took
yesterday.”


I met him accordingly next morning and we traveled down to Woking
together. He had had no answer to his advertisement, he said, and no
fresh light had been thrown upon the case. He had, when he so willed
it, the utter immobility of countenance of a red Indian, and I could
not gather from his appearance whether he was satisfied or not with
the position of the case. His conversation, I remember, was about the
Bertillon system of measurements, and he expressed his enthusiastic
admiration of the French savant.

We found our client still under the charge of his devoted nurse, but
looking considerably better than before. He rose from the sofa and
greeted us without difficulty when we entered.

“Any news?” he asked, eagerly.

“My report, as I expected, is a negative one,” said Holmes. “I have seen
Forbes, and I have seen your uncle, and I have set one or two trains of
inquiry upon foot which may lead to something.”

“You have not lost heart, then?”

“By no means.”

“God bless you for saying that!” cried Miss Harrison. “If we keep our
courage and our patience the truth must come out.”

“We have more to tell you than you have for us,” said Phelps, reseating
himself upon the couch.

“I hoped you might have something.”

“Yes, we have had an adventure during the night, and one which might
have proved to be a serious one.” His expression grew very grave as he
spoke, and a look of something akin to fear sprang up in his eyes. “Do
you know,” said he, “that I begin to believe that I am the unconscious
centre of some monstrous conspiracy, and that my life is aimed at as
well as my honor?”

“Ah!” cried Holmes.

“It sounds incredible, for I have not, as far as I know, an enemy in
the world. Yet from last night's experience I can come to no other
conclusion.”

“Pray let me hear it.”

“You must know that last night was the very first night that I have ever
slept without a nurse in the room. I was so much better that I thought
I could dispense with one. I had a night-light burning, however. Well,
about two in the morning I had sunk into a light sleep when I was
suddenly aroused by a slight noise. It was like the sound which a mouse
makes when it is gnawing a plank, and I lay listening to it for some
time under the impression that it must come from that cause. Then it
grew louder, and suddenly there came from the window a sharp metallic
snick. I sat up in amazement. There could be no doubt what the sounds
were now. The first ones had been caused by some one forcing an
instrument through the slit between the sashes, and the second by the
catch being pressed back.

“There was a pause then for about ten minutes, as if the person were
waiting to see whether the noise had awakened me. Then I heard a gentle
creaking as the window was very slowly opened. I could stand it no
longer, for my nerves are not what they used to be. I sprang out of bed
and flung open the shutters. A man was crouching at the window. I could
see little of him, for he was gone like a flash. He was wrapped in some
sort of cloak which came across the lower part of his face. One thing
only I am sure of, and that is that he had some weapon in his hand. It
looked to me like a long knife. I distinctly saw the gleam of it as he
turned to run.”

“This is most interesting,” said Holmes. “Pray what did you do then?”

“I should have followed him through the open window if I had been
stronger. As it was, I rang the bell and roused the house. It took me
some little time, for the bell rings in the kitchen and the servants all
sleep upstairs. I shouted, however, and that brought Joseph down, and he
roused the others. Joseph and the groom found marks on the bed outside
the window, but the weather has been so dry lately that they found it
hopeless to follow the trail across the grass. There's a place, however,
on the wooden fence which skirts the road which shows signs, they tell
me, as if some one had got over, and had snapped the top of the rail in
doing so. I have said nothing to the local police yet, for I thought I
had best have your opinion first.”

This tale of our client's appeared to have an extraordinary effect upon
Sherlock Holmes. He rose from his chair and paced about the room in
uncontrollable excitement.

“Misfortunes never come single,” said Phelps, smiling, though it was
evident that his adventure had somewhat shaken him.

“You have certainly had your share,” said Holmes. “Do you think you
could walk round the house with me?”

“Oh, yes, I should like a little sunshine. Joseph will come, too.”

“And I also,” said Miss Harrison.

“I am afraid not,” said Holmes, shaking his head. “I think I must ask
you to remain sitting exactly where you are.”

The young lady resumed her seat with an air of displeasure. Her brother,
however, had joined us and we set off all four together. We passed round
the lawn to the outside of the young diplomatist's window. There were,
as he had said, marks upon the bed, but they were hopelessly blurred and
vague. Holmes stopped over them for an instant, and then rose shrugging
his shoulders.

“I don't think any one could make much of this,” said he. “Let us go
round the house and see why this particular room was chosen by the
burglar. I should have thought those larger windows of the drawing-room
and dining-room would have had more attractions for him.”

“They are more visible from the road,” suggested Mr. Joseph Harrison.

“Ah, yes, of course. There is a door here which he might have attempted.
What is it for?”

“It is the side entrance for trades-people. Of course it is locked at
night.”

“Have you ever had an alarm like this before?”

“Never,” said our client.

“Do you keep plate in the house, or anything to attract burglars?”

“Nothing of value.”

Holmes strolled round the house with his hands in his pockets and a
negligent air which was unusual with him.

“By the way,” said he to Joseph Harrison, “you found some place, I
understand, where the fellow scaled the fence. Let us have a look at
that!”

The plump young man led us to a spot where the top of one of the wooden
rails had been cracked. A small fragment of the wood was hanging down.
Holmes pulled it off and examined it critically.

“Do you think that was done last night? It looks rather old, does it
not?”

“Well, possibly so.”

“There are no marks of any one jumping down upon the other side. No, I
fancy we shall get no help here. Let us go back to the bedroom and talk
the matter over.”

Percy Phelps was walking very slowly, leaning upon the arm of his future
brother-in-law. Holmes walked swiftly across the lawn, and we were at
the open window of the bedroom long before the others came up.

“Miss Harrison,” said Holmes, speaking with the utmost intensity of
manner, “you must stay where you are all day. Let nothing prevent you
from staying where you are all day. It is of the utmost importance.”

“Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Holmes,” said the girl in astonishment.

“When you go to bed lock the door of this room on the outside and keep
the key. Promise to do this.”

“But Percy?”

“He will come to London with us.”

“And am I to remain here?”

“It is for his sake. You can serve him. Quick! Promise!”

She gave a quick nod of assent just as the other two came up.

“Why do you sit moping there, Annie?” cried her brother. “Come out into
the sunshine!”

“No, thank you, Joseph. I have a slight headache and this room is
deliciously cool and soothing.”

“What do you propose now, Mr. Holmes?” asked our client.

“Well, in investigating this minor affair we must not lose sight of our
main inquiry. It would be a very great help to me if you would come up
to London with us.”

“At once?”

“Well, as soon as you conveniently can. Say in an hour.”

“I feel quite strong enough, if I can really be of any help.”

“The greatest possible.”

“Perhaps you would like me to stay there to-night?”

“I was just going to propose it.”

“Then, if my friend of the night comes to revisit me, he will find the
bird flown. We are all in your hands, Mr. Holmes, and you must tell us
exactly what you would like done. Perhaps you would prefer that Joseph
came with us so as to look after me?”

“Oh, no; my friend Watson is a medical man, you know, and he'll look
after you. We'll have our lunch here, if you will permit us, and then we
shall all three set off for town together.”

It was arranged as he suggested, though Miss Harrison excused herself
from leaving the bedroom, in accordance with Holmes's suggestion. What
the object of my friend's manoeuvres was I could not conceive, unless it
were to keep the lady away from Phelps, who, rejoiced by his
returning health and by the prospect of action, lunched with us in the
dining-room. Holmes had a still more startling surprise for us, however,
for, after accompanying us down to the station and seeing us into
our carriage, he calmly announced that he had no intention of leaving
Woking.

“There are one or two small points which I should desire to clear up
before I go,” said he. “Your absence, Mr. Phelps, will in some ways
rather assist me. Watson, when you reach London you would oblige me by
driving at once to Baker Street with our friend here, and remaining
with him until I see you again. It is fortunate that you are old
school-fellows, as you must have much to talk over. Mr. Phelps can
have the spare bedroom to-night, and I will be with you in time for
breakfast, for there is a train which will take me into Waterloo at
eight.”

“But how about our investigation in London?” asked Phelps, ruefully.

“We can do that to-morrow. I think that just at present I can be of more
immediate use here.”

“You might tell them at Briarbrae that I hope to be back to-morrow
night,” cried Phelps, as we began to move from the platform.

“I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae,” answered Holmes, and waved
his hand to us cheerily as we shot out from the station.

Phelps and I talked it over on our journey, but neither of us could
devise a satisfactory reason for this new development.

“I suppose he wants to find out some clue as to the burglary last night,
if a burglar it was. For myself, I don't believe it was an ordinary
thief.”

“What is your own idea, then?”

“Upon my word, you may put it down to my weak nerves or not, but I
believe there is some deep political intrigue going on around me, and
that for some reason that passes my understanding my life is aimed at
by the conspirators. It sounds high-flown and absurd, but consider the
facts! Why should a thief try to break in at a bedroom window, where
there could be no hope of any plunder, and why should he come with a
long knife in his hand?”

“You are sure it was not a house-breaker's jimmy?”

“Oh, no, it was a knife. I saw the flash of the blade quite distinctly.”

“But why on earth should you be pursued with such animosity?”

“Ah, that is the question.”

“Well, if Holmes takes the same view, that would account for his action,
would it not? Presuming that your theory is correct, if he can lay his
hands upon the man who threatened you last night he will have gone a
long way towards finding who took the naval treaty. It is absurd to
suppose that you have two enemies, one of whom robs you, while the other
threatens your life.”

“But Holmes said that he was not going to Briarbrae.”

“I have known him for some time,” said I, “but I never knew him do
anything yet without a very good reason,” and with that our conversation
drifted off on to other topics.

But it was a weary day for me. Phelps was still weak after his long
illness, and his misfortune made him querulous and nervous. In vain
I endeavored to interest him in Afghanistan, in India, in social
questions, in anything which might take his mind out of the groove.
He would always come back to his lost treaty, wondering, guessing,
speculating, as to what Holmes was doing, what steps Lord Holdhurst was
taking, what news we should have in the morning. As the evening wore on
his excitement became quite painful.

“You have implicit faith in Holmes?” he asked.

“I have seen him do some remarkable things.”

“But he never brought light into anything quite so dark as this?”

“Oh, yes; I have known him solve questions which presented fewer clues
than yours.”

“But not where such large interests are at stake?”

“I don't know that. To my certain knowledge he has acted on behalf of
three of the reigning houses of Europe in very vital matters.”

“But you know him well, Watson. He is such an inscrutable fellow that I
never quite know what to make of him. Do you think he is hopeful? Do you
think he expects to make a success of it?”

“He has said nothing.”

“That is a bad sign.”

“On the contrary, I have noticed that when he is off the trail he
generally says so. It is when he is on a scent and is not quite
absolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he is most taciturn.
Now, my dear fellow, we can't help matters by making ourselves nervous
about them, so let me implore you to go to bed and so be fresh for
whatever may await us to-morrow.”

I was able at last to persuade my companion to take my advice, though I
knew from his excited manner that there was not much hope of sleep for
him. Indeed, his mood was infectious, for I lay tossing half the night
myself, brooding over this strange problem, and inventing a hundred
theories, each of which was more impossible than the last. Why had
Holmes remained at Woking? Why had he asked Miss Harrison to remain
in the sick-room all day? Why had he been so careful not to inform the
people at Briarbrae that he intended to remain near them? I cudgelled
my brains until I fell asleep in the endeavor to find some explanation
which would cover all these facts.

It was seven o'clock when I awoke, and I set off at once for Phelps's
room, to find him haggard and spent after a sleepless night. His first
question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.

“He'll be here when he promised,” said I, “and not an instant sooner or
later.”

And my words were true, for shortly after eight a hansom dashed up to
the door and our friend got out of it. Standing in the window we saw
that his left hand was swathed in a bandage and that his face was very
grim and pale. He entered the house, but it was some little time before
he came upstairs.

“He looks like a beaten man,” cried Phelps.

I was forced to confess that he was right. “After all,” said I, “the
clue of the matter lies probably here in town.”

Phelps gave a groan.

“I don't know how it is,” said he, “but I had hoped for so much from his
return. But surely his hand was not tied up like that yesterday. What
can be the matter?”

“You are not wounded, Holmes?” I asked, as my friend entered the room.

“Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness,” he answered,
nodding his good-mornings to us. “This case of yours, Mr. Phelps, is
certainly one of the darkest which I have ever investigated.”

“I feared that you would find it beyond you.”

“It has been a most remarkable experience.”

“That bandage tells of adventures,” said I. “Won't you tell us what has
happened?”

“After breakfast, my dear Watson. Remember that I have breathed thirty
miles of Surrey air this morning. I suppose that there has been no
answer from my cabman advertisement? Well, well, we cannot expect to
score every time.”

The table was all laid, and just as I was about to ring Mrs. Hudson
entered with the tea and coffee. A few minutes later she brought in
three covers, and we all drew up to the table, Holmes ravenous, I
curious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of depression.

“Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion,” said Holmes, uncovering a dish
of curried chicken. “Her cuisine is a little limited, but she has
as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotch-woman. What have you here,
Watson?”

“Ham and eggs,” I answered.

“Good! What are you going to take, Mr. Phelps--curried fowl or eggs, or
will you help yourself?”

“Thank you. I can eat nothing,” said Phelps.

“Oh, come! Try the dish before you.”

“Thank you, I would really rather not.”

“Well, then,” said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, “I suppose that
you have no objection to helping me?”

Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he uttered a scream, and sat
there staring with a face as white as the plate upon which he looked.
Across the centre of it was lying a little cylinder of blue-gray paper.
He caught it up, devoured it with his eyes, and then danced madly about
the room, pressing it to his bosom and shrieking out in his delight.
Then he fell back into an arm-chair so limp and exhausted with his own
emotions that we had to pour brandy down his throat to keep him from
fainting.

“There! there!” said Holmes, soothing, patting him upon the shoulder.
“It was too bad to spring it on you like this, but Watson here will tell
you that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic.”

Phelps seized his hand and kissed it. “God bless you!” he cried. “You
have saved my honor.”

“Well, my own was at stake, you know,” said Holmes. “I assure you it is
just as hateful to me to fail in a case as it can be to you to blunder
over a commission.”

Phelps thrust away the precious document into the innermost pocket of
his coat.

“I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast any further, and yet I
am dying to know how you got it and where it was.”

Sherlock Holmes swallowed a cup of coffee, and turned his attention to
the ham and eggs. Then he rose, lit his pipe, and settled himself down
into his chair.

“I'll tell you what I did first, and how I came to do it afterwards,”
 said he. “After leaving you at the station I went for a charming walk
through some admirable Surrey scenery to a pretty little village called
Ripley, where I had my tea at an inn, and took the precaution of filling
my flask and of putting a paper of sandwiches in my pocket. There I
remained until evening, when I set off for Woking again, and found
myself in the high-road outside Briarbrae just after sunset.

“Well, I waited until the road was clear--it is never a very frequented
one at any time, I fancy--and then I clambered over the fence into the
grounds.”

“Surely the gate was open!” ejaculated Phelps.

“Yes, but I have a peculiar taste in these matters. I chose the place
where the three fir-trees stand, and behind their screen I got over
without the least chance of any one in the house being able to see me.
I crouched down among the bushes on the other side, and crawled from one
to the other--witness the disreputable state of my trouser knees--until
I had reached the clump of rhododendrons just opposite to your bedroom
window. There I squatted down and awaited developments.

“The blind was not down in your room, and I could see Miss Harrison
sitting there reading by the table. It was quarter-past ten when she
closed her book, fastened the shutters, and retired.

“I heard her shut the door, and felt quite sure that she had turned the
key in the lock.”

“The key!” ejaculated Phelps.

“Yes; I had given Miss Harrison instructions to lock the door on the
outside and take the key with her when she went to bed. She carried out
every one of my injunctions to the letter, and certainly without her
cooperation you would not have that paper in your coat-pocket. She
departed then and the lights went out, and I was left squatting in the
rhododendron-bush.

“The night was fine, but still it was a very weary vigil. Of course it
has the sort of excitement about it that the sportsman feels when he
lies beside the water-course and waits for the big game. It was very
long, though--almost as long, Watson, as when you and I waited in that
deadly room when we looked into the little problem of the Speckled Band.
There was a church-clock down at Woking which struck the quarters, and I
thought more than once that it had stopped. At last however about two
in the morning, I suddenly heard the gentle sound of a bolt being pushed
back and the creaking of a key. A moment later the servants' door was
opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison stepped out into the moonlight.”

“Joseph!” ejaculated Phelps.

“He was bare-headed, but he had a black coat thrown over his shoulder so
that he could conceal his face in an instant if there were any alarm. He
walked on tiptoe under the shadow of the wall, and when he reached the
window he worked a long-bladed knife through the sash and pushed back
the catch. Then he flung open the window, and putting his knife through
the crack in the shutters, he thrust the bar up and swung them open.

“From where I lay I had a perfect view of the inside of the room and of
every one of his movements. He lit the two candles which stood upon the
mantelpiece, and then he proceeded to turn back the corner of the carpet
in the neighborhood of the door. Presently he stopped and picked out a
square piece of board, such as is usually left to enable plumbers to get
at the joints of the gas-pipes. This one covered, as a matter of
fact, the T joint which gives off the pipe which supplies the kitchen
underneath. Out of this hiding-place he drew that little cylinder
of paper, pushed down the board, rearranged the carpet, blew out the
candles, and walked straight into my arms as I stood waiting for him
outside the window.

“Well, he has rather more viciousness than I gave him credit for, has
Master Joseph. He flew at me with his knife, and I had to grasp him
twice, and got a cut over the knuckles, before I had the upper hand of
him. He looked murder out of the only eye he could see with when we had
finished, but he listened to reason and gave up the papers. Having
got them I let my man go, but I wired full particulars to Forbes this
morning. If he is quick enough to catch his bird, well and good. But
if, as I shrewdly suspect, he finds the nest empty before he gets there,
why, all the better for the government. I fancy that Lord Holdhurst for
one, and Mr. Percy Phelps for another, would very much rather that the
affair never got as far as a police-court.

“My God!” gasped our client. “Do you tell me that during these long ten
weeks of agony the stolen papers were within the very room with me all
the time?”

“So it was.”

“And Joseph! Joseph a villain and a thief!”

“Hum! I am afraid Joseph's character is a rather deeper and more
dangerous one than one might judge from his appearance. From what I
have heard from him this morning, I gather that he has lost heavily in
dabbling with stocks, and that he is ready to do anything on earth to
better his fortunes. Being an absolutely selfish man, when a chance
presented itself he did not allow either his sister's happiness or your
reputation to hold his hand.”

Percy Phelps sank back in his chair. “My head whirls,” said he. “Your
words have dazed me.”

“The principal difficulty in your case,” remarked Holmes, in his
didactic fashion, “lay in the fact of there being too much evidence.
What was vital was overlaid and hidden by what was irrelevant. Of all
the facts which were presented to us we had to pick just those which we
deemed to be essential, and then piece them together in their order, so
as to reconstruct this very remarkable chain of events. I had already
begun to suspect Joseph, from the fact that you had intended to travel
home with him that night, and that therefore it was a likely enough
thing that he should call for you, knowing the Foreign Office well, upon
his way. When I heard that some one had been so anxious to get into the
bedroom, in which no one but Joseph could have concealed anything--you
told us in your narrative how you had turned Joseph out when you arrived
with the doctor--my suspicions all changed to certainties, especially as
the attempt was made on the first night upon which the nurse was absent,
showing that the intruder was well acquainted with the ways of the
house.”

“How blind I have been!”

“The facts of the case, as far as I have worked them out, are these:
this Joseph Harrison entered the office through the Charles Street door,
and knowing his way he walked straight into your room the instant after
you left it. Finding no one there he promptly rang the bell, and at
the instant that he did so his eyes caught the paper upon the table.
A glance showed him that chance had put in his way a State document of
immense value, and in an instant he had thrust it into his pocket and
was gone. A few minutes elapsed, as you remember, before the sleepy
commissionnaire drew your attention to the bell, and those were just
enough to give the thief time to make his escape.

“He made his way to Woking by the first train, and having examined his
booty and assured himself that it really was of immense value, he
had concealed it in what he thought was a very safe place, with the
intention of taking it out again in a day or two, and carrying it to the
French embassy, or wherever he thought that a long price was to be
had. Then came your sudden return. He, without a moment's warning, was
bundled out of his room, and from that time onward there were always at
least two of you there to prevent him from regaining his treasure. The
situation to him must have been a maddening one. But at last he thought
he saw his chance. He tried to steal in, but was baffled by your
wakefulness. You remember that you did not take your usual draught that
night.”

“I remember.”

“I fancy that he had taken steps to make that draught efficacious,
and that he quite relied upon your being unconscious. Of course, I
understood that he would repeat the attempt whenever it could be done
with safety. Your leaving the room gave him the chance he wanted. I kept
Miss Harrison in it all day so that he might not anticipate us. Then,
having given him the idea that the coast was clear, I kept guard as
I have described. I already knew that the papers were probably in the
room, but I had no desire to rip up all the planking and skirting in
search of them. I let him take them, therefore, from the hiding-place,
and so saved myself an infinity of trouble. Is there any other point
which I can make clear?”

“Why did he try the window on the first occasion,” I asked, “when he
might have entered by the door?”

“In reaching the door he would have to pass seven bedrooms. On the other
hand, he could get out on to the lawn with ease. Anything else?”

“You do not think,” asked Phelps, “that he had any murderous intention?
The knife was only meant as a tool.”

“It may be so,” answered Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “I can only
say for certain that Mr. Joseph Harrison is a gentleman to whose mercy I
should be extremely unwilling to trust.”




Adventure XI. The Final Problem


It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last
words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished. In an incoherent and, as I deeply
feel, an entirely inadequate fashion, I have endeavored to give some
account of my strange experiences in his company from the chance which
first brought us together at the period of the “Study in Scarlet,” up
to the time of his interference in the matter of the “Naval Treaty”--an
interference which had the unquestionable effect of preventing a serious
international complication. It was my intention to have stopped there,
and to have said nothing of that event which has created a void in my
life which the lapse of two years has done little to fill. My hand
has been forced, however, by the recent letters in which Colonel James
Moriarty defends the memory of his brother, and I have no choice but to
lay the facts before the public exactly as they occurred. I alone know
the absolute truth of the matter, and I am satisfied that the time has
come when no good purpose is to be served by its suppression. As far as
I know, there have been only three accounts in the public press: that
in the Journal de Geneve on May 6th, 1891, the Reuter's despatch in the
English papers on May 7th, and finally the recent letter to which I have
alluded. Of these the first and second were extremely condensed, while
the last is, as I shall now show, an absolute perversion of the facts.
It lies with me to tell for the first time what really took place
between Professor Moriarty and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

It may be remembered that after my marriage, and my subsequent start in
private practice, the very intimate relations which had existed between
Holmes and myself became to some extent modified. He still came to me
from time to time when he desired a companion in his investigation, but
these occasions grew more and more seldom, until I find that in the year
1890 there were only three cases of which I retain any record. During
the winter of that year and the early spring of 1891, I saw in the
papers that he had been engaged by the French government upon a matter
of supreme importance, and I received two notes from Holmes, dated from
Narbonne and from Nimes, from which I gathered that his stay in France
was likely to be a long one. It was with some surprise, therefore, that
I saw him walk into my consulting-room upon the evening of April 24th.
It struck me that he was looking even paler and thinner than usual.

“Yes, I have been using myself up rather too freely,” he remarked, in
answer to my look rather than to my words; “I have been a little pressed
of late. Have you any objection to my closing your shutters?”

The only light in the room came from the lamp upon the table at which I
had been reading. Holmes edged his way round the wall and flinging the
shutters together, he bolted them securely.

“You are afraid of something?” I asked.

“Well, I am.”

“Of what?”

“Of air-guns.”

“My dear Holmes, what do you mean?”

“I think that you know me well enough, Watson, to understand that I am
by no means a nervous man. At the same time, it is stupidity rather than
courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you. Might
I trouble you for a match?” He drew in the smoke of his cigarette as if
the soothing influence was grateful to him.

“I must apologize for calling so late,” said he, “and I must further beg
you to be so unconventional as to allow me to leave your house presently
by scrambling over your back garden wall.”

“But what does it all mean?” I asked.

He held out his hand, and I saw in the light of the lamp that two of his
knuckles were burst and bleeding.

“It is not an airy nothing, you see,” said he, smiling. “On the
contrary, it is solid enough for a man to break his hand over. Is Mrs.
Watson in?”

“She is away upon a visit.”

“Indeed! You are alone?”

“Quite.”

“Then it makes it the easier for me to propose that you should come away
with me for a week to the Continent.”

“Where?”

“Oh, anywhere. It's all the same to me.”

There was something very strange in all this. It was not Holmes's nature
to take an aimless holiday, and something about his pale, worn face told
me that his nerves were at their highest tension. He saw the question in
my eyes, and, putting his finger-tips together and his elbows upon his
knees, he explained the situation.

“You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?” said he.

“Never.”

“Aye, there's the genius and the wonder of the thing!” he cried. “The
man pervades London, and no one has heard of him. That's what puts
him on a pinnacle in the records of crime. I tell you, Watson, in all
seriousness, that if I could beat that man, if I could free society
of him, I should feel that my own career had reached its summit, and
I should be prepared to turn to some more placid line in life. Between
ourselves, the recent cases in which I have been of assistance to the
royal family of Scandinavia, and to the French republic, have left me in
such a position that I could continue to live in the quiet fashion
which is most congenial to me, and to concentrate my attention upon my
chemical researches. But I could not rest, Watson, I could not sit quiet
in my chair, if I thought that such a man as Professor Moriarty were
walking the streets of London unchallenged.”

“What has he done, then?”

“His career has been an extraordinary one. He is a man of good birth and
excellent education, endowed by nature with a phenomenal mathematical
faculty. At the age of twenty-one he wrote a treatise upon the Binomial
Theorem, which has had a European vogue. On the strength of it he won
the Mathematical Chair at one of our smaller universities, and had, to
all appearances, a most brilliant career before him. But the man had
hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind. A criminal strain
ran in his blood, which, instead of being modified, was increased and
rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers.
Dark rumors gathered round him in the university town, and eventually he
was compelled to resign his chair and to come down to London, where he
set up as an army coach. So much is known to the world, but what I am
telling you now is what I have myself discovered.

“As you are aware, Watson, there is no one who knows the higher criminal
world of London so well as I do. For years past I have continually been
conscious of some power behind the malefactor, some deep organizing
power which forever stands in the way of the law, and throws its shield
over the wrong-doer. Again and again in cases of the most varying
sorts--forgery cases, robberies, murders--I have felt the presence of
this force, and I have deduced its action in many of those undiscovered
crimes in which I have not been personally consulted. For years I have
endeavored to break through the veil which shrouded it, and at last
the time came when I seized my thread and followed it, until it led
me, after a thousand cunning windings, to ex-Professor Moriarty of
mathematical celebrity.

“He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organizer of half that
is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. He is a
genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first
order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its web, but
that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of
each of them. He does little himself. He only plans. But his agents are
numerous and splendidly organized. Is there a crime to be done, a
paper to be abstracted, we will say, a house to be rifled, a man to be
removed--the word is passed to the Professor, the matter is organized
and carried out. The agent may be caught. In that case money is found
for his bail or his defence. But the central power which uses the agent
is never caught--never so much as suspected. This was the organization
which I deduced, Watson, and which I devoted my whole energy to exposing
and breaking up.

“But the Professor was fenced round with safeguards so cunningly devised
that, do what I would, it seemed impossible to get evidence which would
convict in a court of law. You know my powers, my dear Watson, and yet
at the end of three months I was forced to confess that I had at last
met an antagonist who was my intellectual equal. My horror at his crimes
was lost in my admiration at his skill. But at last he made a trip--only
a little, little trip--but it was more than he could afford when I was
so close upon him. I had my chance, and, starting from that point, I
have woven my net round him until now it is all ready to close. In three
days--that is to say, on Monday next--matters will be ripe, and the
Professor, with all the principal members of his gang, will be in the
hands of the police. Then will come the greatest criminal trial of the
century, the clearing up of over forty mysteries, and the rope for all
of them; but if we move at all prematurely, you understand, they may
slip out of our hands even at the last moment.

“Now, if I could have done this without the knowledge of Professor
Moriarty, all would have been well. But he was too wily for that. He saw
every step which I took to draw my toils round him. Again and again
he strove to break away, but I as often headed him off. I tell you,
my friend, that if a detailed account of that silent contest could
be written, it would take its place as the most brilliant bit of
thrust-and-parry work in the history of detection. Never have I risen to
such a height, and never have I been so hard pressed by an opponent. He
cut deep, and yet I just undercut him. This morning the last steps were
taken, and three days only were wanted to complete the business. I was
sitting in my room thinking the matter over, when the door opened and
Professor Moriarty stood before me.

“My nerves are fairly proof, Watson, but I must confess to a start when
I saw the very man who had been so much in my thoughts standing there on
my threshhold. His appearance was quite familiar to me. He is extremely
tall and thin, his forehead domes out in a white curve, and his two
eyes are deeply sunken in his head. He is clean-shaven, pale, and
ascetic-looking, retaining something of the professor in his features.
His shoulders are rounded from much study, and his face protrudes
forward, and is forever slowly oscillating from side to side in a
curiously reptilian fashion. He peered at me with great curiosity in his
puckered eyes.

“'You have less frontal development than I should have expected,' said
he, at last. 'It is a dangerous habit to finger loaded firearms in the
pocket of one's dressing-gown.'

“The fact is that upon his entrance I had instantly recognized the
extreme personal danger in which I lay. The only conceivable escape for
him lay in silencing my tongue. In an instant I had slipped the revolver
from the drawer into my pocket, and was covering him through the cloth.
At his remark I drew the weapon out and laid it cocked upon the table.
He still smiled and blinked, but there was something about his eyes
which made me feel very glad that I had it there.

“'You evidently don't know me,' said he.

“'On the contrary,' I answered, 'I think it is fairly evident that I do.
Pray take a chair. I can spare you five minutes if you have anything to
say.'

“'All that I have to say has already crossed your mind,' said he.

“'Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,' I replied.

“'You stand fast?'

“'Absolutely.'

“He clapped his hand into his pocket, and I raised the pistol from
the table. But he merely drew out a memorandum-book in which he had
scribbled some dates.

“'You crossed my path on the 4th of January,' said he. 'On the 23d you
incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously inconvenienced
by you; at the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans; and
now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in such a position
through your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of
losing my liberty. The situation is becoming an impossible one.'

“'Have you any suggestion to make?' I asked.

“'You must drop it, Mr. Holmes,' said he, swaying his face about. 'You
really must, you know.'

“'After Monday,' said I.

“'Tut, tut,' said he. 'I am quite sure that a man of your intelligence
will see that there can be but one outcome to this affair. It is
necessary that you should withdraw. You have worked things in such a
fashion that we have only one resource left. It has been an intellectual
treat to me to see the way in which you have grappled with this affair,
and I say, unaffectedly, that it would be a grief to me to be forced
to take any extreme measure. You smile, sir, but I assure you that it
really would.'

“'Danger is part of my trade,' I remarked.

“'That is not danger,' said he. 'It is inevitable destruction. You stand
in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty organization,
the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness, have been unable
to realize. You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be trodden under foot.'

“'I am afraid,' said I, rising, 'that in the pleasure of this
conversation I am neglecting business of importance which awaits me
elsewhere.'

“He rose also and looked at me in silence, shaking his head sadly.

“'Well, well,' said he, at last. 'It seems a pity, but I have done
what I could. I know every move of your game. You can do nothing before
Monday. It has been a duel between you and me, Mr. Holmes. You hope to
place me in the dock. I tell you that I will never stand in the dock.
You hope to beat me. I tell you that you will never beat me. If you are
clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do
as much to you.'

“'You have paid me several compliments, Mr. Moriarty,' said I. 'Let me
pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured of the former
eventuality I would, in the interests of the public, cheerfully accept
the latter.'

“'I can promise you the one, but not the other,' he snarled, and so
turned his rounded back upon me, and went peering and blinking out of
the room.

“That was my singular interview with Professor Moriarty. I confess that
it left an unpleasant effect upon my mind. His soft, precise fashion
of speech leaves a conviction of sincerity which a mere bully could
not produce. Of course, you will say: 'Why not take police precautions
against him?' the reason is that I am well convinced that it is from his
agents the blow will fall. I have the best proofs that it would be so.”

“You have already been assaulted?”

“My dear Watson, Professor Moriarty is not a man who lets the grass grow
under his feet. I went out about mid-day to transact some business in
Oxford Street. As I passed the corner which leads from Bentinck Street
on to the Welbeck Street crossing a two-horse van furiously driven
whizzed round and was on me like a flash. I sprang for the foot-path
and saved myself by the fraction of a second. The van dashed round by
Marylebone Lane and was gone in an instant. I kept to the pavement after
that, Watson, but as I walked down Vere Street a brick came down from
the roof of one of the houses, and was shattered to fragments at my
feet. I called the police and had the place examined. There were slates
and bricks piled up on the roof preparatory to some repairs, and they
would have me believe that the wind had toppled over one of these. Of
course I knew better, but I could prove nothing. I took a cab after that
and reached my brother's rooms in Pall Mall, where I spent the day. Now
I have come round to you, and on my way I was attacked by a rough with a
bludgeon. I knocked him down, and the police have him in custody; but
I can tell you with the most absolute confidence that no possible
connection will ever be traced between the gentleman upon whose front
teeth I have barked my knuckles and the retiring mathematical coach, who
is, I dare say, working out problems upon a black-board ten miles away.
You will not wonder, Watson, that my first act on entering your rooms
was to close your shutters, and that I have been compelled to ask your
permission to leave the house by some less conspicuous exit than the
front door.”

I had often admired my friend's courage, but never more than now, as he
sat quietly checking off a series of incidents which must have combined
to make up a day of horror.

“You will spend the night here?” I said.

“No, my friend, you might find me a dangerous guest. I have my plans
laid, and all will be well. Matters have gone so far now that they can
move without my help as far as the arrest goes, though my presence is
necessary for a conviction. It is obvious, therefore, that I cannot do
better than get away for the few days which remain before the police are
at liberty to act. It would be a great pleasure to me, therefore, if you
could come on to the Continent with me.”

“The practice is quiet,” said I, “and I have an accommodating neighbor.
I should be glad to come.”

“And to start to-morrow morning?”

“If necessary.”

“Oh yes, it is most necessary. Then these are your instructions, and I
beg, my dear Watson, that you will obey them to the letter, for you are
now playing a double-handed game with me against the cleverest rogue and
the most powerful syndicate of criminals in Europe. Now listen! You
will dispatch whatever luggage you intend to take by a trusty messenger
unaddressed to Victoria to-night. In the morning you will send for a
hansom, desiring your man to take neither the first nor the second which
may present itself. Into this hansom you will jump, and you will drive
to the Strand end of the Lowther Arcade, handing the address to the
cabman upon a slip of paper, with a request that he will not throw it
away. Have your fare ready, and the instant that your cab stops,
dash through the Arcade, timing yourself to reach the other side at a
quarter-past nine. You will find a small brougham waiting close to the
curb, driven by a fellow with a heavy black cloak tipped at the collar
with red. Into this you will step, and you will reach Victoria in time
for the Continental express.”

“Where shall I meet you?”

“At the station. The second first-class carriage from the front will be
reserved for us.”

“The carriage is our rendezvous, then?”

“Yes.”

It was in vain that I asked Holmes to remain for the evening. It was
evident to me that he thought he might bring trouble to the roof he was
under, and that that was the motive which impelled him to go. With a few
hurried words as to our plans for the morrow he rose and came out with
me into the garden, clambering over the wall which leads into Mortimer
Street, and immediately whistling for a hansom, in which I heard him
drive away.

In the morning I obeyed Holmes's injunctions to the letter. A hansom was
procured with such precaution as would prevent its being one which was
placed ready for us, and I drove immediately after breakfast to the
Lowther Arcade, through which I hurried at the top of my speed. A
brougham was waiting with a very massive driver wrapped in a dark cloak,
who, the instant that I had stepped in, whipped up the horse and rattled
off to Victoria Station. On my alighting there he turned the carriage,
and dashed away again without so much as a look in my direction.

So far all had gone admirably. My luggage was waiting for me, and I had
no difficulty in finding the carriage which Holmes had indicated, the
less so as it was the only one in the train which was marked “Engaged.”
 My only source of anxiety now was the non-appearance of Holmes. The
station clock marked only seven minutes from the time when we were
due to start. In vain I searched among the groups of travellers and
leave-takers for the lithe figure of my friend. There was no sign of
him. I spent a few minutes in assisting a venerable Italian priest, who
was endeavoring to make a porter understand, in his broken English,
that his luggage was to be booked through to Paris. Then, having taken
another look round, I returned to my carriage, where I found that the
porter, in spite of the ticket, had given me my decrepit Italian friend
as a traveling companion. It was useless for me to explain to him that
his presence was an intrusion, for my Italian was even more limited than
his English, so I shrugged my shoulders resignedly, and continued to
look out anxiously for my friend. A chill of fear had come over me, as I
thought that his absence might mean that some blow had fallen during the
night. Already the doors had all been shut and the whistle blown, when--

“My dear Watson,” said a voice, “you have not even condescended to say
good-morning.”

I turned in uncontrollable astonishment. The aged ecclesiastic had
turned his face towards me. For an instant the wrinkles were smoothed
away, the nose drew away from the chin, the lower lip ceased to protrude
and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes regained their fire, the drooping
figure expanded. The next the whole frame collapsed again, and Holmes
had gone as quickly as he had come.

“Good heavens!” I cried; “how you startled me!”

“Every precaution is still necessary,” he whispered. “I have reason to
think that they are hot upon our trail. Ah, there is Moriarty himself.”

The train had already begun to move as Holmes spoke. Glancing back, I
saw a tall man pushing his way furiously through the crowd, and waving
his hand as if he desired to have the train stopped. It was too late,
however, for we were rapidly gathering momentum, and an instant later
had shot clear of the station.

“With all our precautions, you see that we have cut it rather fine,”
 said Holmes, laughing. He rose, and throwing off the black cassock and
hat which had formed his disguise, he packed them away in a hand-bag.

“Have you seen the morning paper, Watson?”

“No.”

“You haven't' seen about Baker Street, then?”

“Baker Street?”

“They set fire to our rooms last night. No great harm was done.”

“Good heavens, Holmes! this is intolerable.”

“They must have lost my track completely after their bludgeon-man was
arrested. Otherwise they could not have imagined that I had returned
to my rooms. They have evidently taken the precaution of watching you,
however, and that is what has brought Moriarty to Victoria. You could
not have made any slip in coming?”

“I did exactly what you advised.”

“Did you find your brougham?”

“Yes, it was waiting.”

“Did you recognize your coachman?”

“No.”

“It was my brother Mycroft. It is an advantage to get about in such a
case without taking a mercenary into your confidence. But we must plan
what we are to do about Moriarty now.”

“As this is an express, and as the boat runs in connection with it, I
should think we have shaken him off very effectively.”

“My dear Watson, you evidently did not realize my meaning when I said
that this man may be taken as being quite on the same intellectual plane
as myself. You do not imagine that if I were the pursuer I should allow
myself to be baffled by so slight an obstacle. Why, then, should you
think so meanly of him?”

“What will he do?”

“What I should do?”

“What would you do, then?”

“Engage a special.”

“But it must be late.”

“By no means. This train stops at Canterbury; and there is always at
least a quarter of an hour's delay at the boat. He will catch us there.”

“One would think that we were the criminals. Let us have him arrested on
his arrival.”

“It would be to ruin the work of three months. We should get the big
fish, but the smaller would dart right and left out of the net. On
Monday we should have them all. No, an arrest is inadmissible.”

“What then?”

“We shall get out at Canterbury.”

“And then?”

“Well, then we must make a cross-country journey to Newhaven, and so
over to Dieppe. Moriarty will again do what I should do. He will get on
to Paris, mark down our luggage, and wait for two days at the depot.
In the meantime we shall treat ourselves to a couple of carpet-bags,
encourage the manufactures of the countries through which we travel, and
make our way at our leisure into Switzerland, via Luxembourg and Basle.”

At Canterbury, therefore, we alighted, only to find that we should have
to wait an hour before we could get a train to Newhaven.

I was still looking rather ruefully after the rapidly disappearing
luggage-van which contained my wardrobe, when Holmes pulled my sleeve
and pointed up the line.

“Already, you see,” said he.

Far away, from among the Kentish woods there rose a thin spray of smoke.
A minute later a carriage and engine could be seen flying along the open
curve which leads to the station. We had hardly time to take our place
behind a pile of luggage when it passed with a rattle and a roar,
beating a blast of hot air into our faces.

“There he goes,” said Holmes, as we watched the carriage swing and
rock over the points. “There are limits, you see, to our friend's
intelligence. It would have been a coup-de-maitre had he deduced what I
would deduce and acted accordingly.”

“And what would he have done had he overtaken us?”

“There cannot be the least doubt that he would have made a murderous
attack upon me. It is, however, a game at which two may play. The
question now is whether we should take a premature lunch here, or run
our chance of starving before we reach the buffet at Newhaven.”


We made our way to Brussels that night and spent two days there, moving
on upon the third day as far as Strasburg. On the Monday morning Holmes
had telegraphed to the London police, and in the evening we found a
reply waiting for us at our hotel. Holmes tore it open, and then with a
bitter curse hurled it into the grate.

“I might have known it!” he groaned. “He has escaped!”

“Moriarty?”

“They have secured the whole gang with the exception of him. He has
given them the slip. Of course, when I had left the country there was no
one to cope with him. But I did think that I had put the game in their
hands. I think that you had better return to England, Watson.”

“Why?”

“Because you will find me a dangerous companion now. This man's
occupation is gone. He is lost if he returns to London. If I read his
character right he will devote his whole energies to revenging himself
upon me. He said as much in our short interview, and I fancy that he
meant it. I should certainly recommend you to return to your practice.”

It was hardly an appeal to be successful with one who was an
old campaigner as well as an old friend. We sat in the Strasburg
salle-à-manger arguing the question for half an hour, but the same night
we had resumed our journey and were well on our way to Geneva.

For a charming week we wandered up the Valley of the Rhone, and then,
branching off at Leuk, we made our way over the Gemmi Pass, still deep
in snow, and so, by way of Interlaken, to Meiringen. It was a lovely
trip, the dainty green of the spring below, the virgin white of the
winter above; but it was clear to me that never for one instant did
Holmes forget the shadow which lay across him. In the homely Alpine
villages or in the lonely mountain passes, I could tell by his quick
glancing eyes and his sharp scrutiny of every face that passed us,
that he was well convinced that, walk where we would, we could not walk
ourselves clear of the danger which was dogging our footsteps.

Once, I remember, as we passed over the Gemmi, and walked along
the border of the melancholy Daubensee, a large rock which had been
dislodged from the ridge upon our right clattered down and roared into
the lake behind us. In an instant Holmes had raced up on to the ridge,
and, standing upon a lofty pinnacle, craned his neck in every direction.
It was in vain that our guide assured him that a fall of stones was a
common chance in the spring-time at that spot. He said nothing, but
he smiled at me with the air of a man who sees the fulfillment of that
which he had expected.

And yet for all his watchfulness he was never depressed. On the
contrary, I can never recollect having seen him in such exuberant
spirits. Again and again he recurred to the fact that if he could
be assured that society was freed from Professor Moriarty he would
cheerfully bring his own career to a conclusion.

“I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not lived
wholly in vain,” he remarked. “If my record were closed to-night I could
still survey it with equanimity. The air of London is the sweeter for my
presence. In over a thousand cases I am not aware that I have ever used
my powers upon the wrong side. Of late I have been tempted to look into
the problems furnished by nature rather than those more superficial ones
for which our artificial state of society is responsible. Your memoirs
will draw to an end, Watson, upon the day that I crown my career by
the capture or extinction of the most dangerous and capable criminal in
Europe.”

I shall be brief, and yet exact, in the little which remains for me to
tell. It is not a subject on which I would willingly dwell, and yet I am
conscious that a duty devolves upon me to omit no detail.

It was on the 3d of May that we reached the little village of Meiringen,
where we put up at the Englischer Hof, then kept by Peter Steiler the
elder. Our landlord was an intelligent man, and spoke excellent English,
having served for three years as waiter at the Grosvenor Hotel in
London. At his advice, on the afternoon of the 4th we set off together,
with the intention of crossing the hills and spending the night at the
hamlet of Rosenlaui. We had strict injunctions, however, on no account
to pass the falls of Reichenbach, which are about half-way up the hill,
without making a small detour to see them.

It is indeed, a fearful place. The torrent, swollen by the melting snow,
plunges into a tremendous abyss, from which the spray rolls up like the
smoke from a burning house. The shaft into which the river hurls itself
is an immense chasm, lined by glistening coal-black rock, and narrowing
into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable depth, which brims over and
shoots the stream onward over its jagged lip. The long sweep of green
water roaring forever down, and the thick flickering curtain of spray
hissing forever upward, turn a man giddy with their constant whirl and
clamor. We stood near the edge peering down at the gleam of the breaking
water far below us against the black rocks, and listening to the
half-human shout which came booming up with the spray out of the abyss.

The path has been cut half-way round the fall to afford a complete view,
but it ends abruptly, and the traveler has to return as he came. We had
turned to do so, when we saw a Swiss lad come running along it with
a letter in his hand. It bore the mark of the hotel which we had just
left, and was addressed to me by the landlord. It appeared that within a
very few minutes of our leaving, an English lady had arrived who was in
the last stage of consumption. She had wintered at Davos Platz, and was
journeying now to join her friends at Lucerne, when a sudden hemorrhage
had overtaken her. It was thought that she could hardly live a few
hours, but it would be a great consolation to her to see an English
doctor, and, if I would only return, etc. The good Steiler assured me
in a postscript that he would himself look upon my compliance as a very
great favor, since the lady absolutely refused to see a Swiss physician,
and he could not but feel that he was incurring a great responsibility.

The appeal was one which could not be ignored. It was impossible to
refuse the request of a fellow-countrywoman dying in a strange land. Yet
I had my scruples about leaving Holmes. It was finally agreed, however,
that he should retain the young Swiss messenger with him as guide and
companion while I returned to Meiringen. My friend would stay some
little time at the fall, he said, and would then walk slowly over the
hill to Rosenlaui, where I was to rejoin him in the evening. As I turned
away I saw Holmes, with his back against a rock and his arms folded,
gazing down at the rush of the waters. It was the last that I was ever
destined to see of him in this world.

When I was near the bottom of the descent I looked back. It was
impossible, from that position, to see the fall, but I could see the
curving path which winds over the shoulder of the hill and leads to it.
Along this a man was, I remember, walking very rapidly.

I could see his black figure clearly outlined against the green behind
him. I noted him, and the energy with which he walked but he passed from
my mind again as I hurried on upon my errand.

It may have been a little over an hour before I reached Meiringen. Old
Steiler was standing at the porch of his hotel.

“Well,” said I, as I came hurrying up, “I trust that she is no worse?”

A look of surprise passed over his face, and at the first quiver of his
eyebrows my heart turned to lead in my breast.

“You did not write this?” I said, pulling the letter from my pocket.
“There is no sick Englishwoman in the hotel?”

“Certainly not!” he cried. “But it has the hotel mark upon it! Ha, it
must have been written by that tall Englishman who came in after you had
gone. He said--”

But I waited for none of the landlord's explanations. In a tingle of
fear I was already running down the village street, and making for the
path which I had so lately descended. It had taken me an hour to come
down. For all my efforts two more had passed before I found myself at
the fall of Reichenbach once more. There was Holmes's Alpine-stock still
leaning against the rock by which I had left him. But there was no sign
of him, and it was in vain that I shouted. My only answer was my own
voice reverberating in a rolling echo from the cliffs around me.

It was the sight of that Alpine-stock which turned me cold and sick.
He had not gone to Rosenlaui, then. He had remained on that three-foot
path, with sheer wall on one side and sheer drop on the other, until his
enemy had overtaken him. The young Swiss had gone too. He had probably
been in the pay of Moriarty, and had left the two men together. And then
what had happened? Who was to tell us what had happened then?

I stood for a minute or two to collect myself, for I was dazed with the
horror of the thing. Then I began to think of Holmes's own methods and
to try to practise them in reading this tragedy. It was, alas, only too
easy to do. During our conversation we had not gone to the end of the
path, and the Alpine-stock marked the place where we had stood. The
blackish soil is kept forever soft by the incessant drift of spray,
and a bird would leave its tread upon it. Two lines of footmarks were
clearly marked along the farther end of the path, both leading away from
me. There were none returning. A few yards from the end the soil was
all ploughed up into a patch of mud, and the branches and ferns which
fringed the chasm were torn and bedraggled. I lay upon my face and
peered over with the spray spouting up all around me. It had darkened
since I left, and now I could only see here and there the glistening of
moisture upon the black walls, and far away down at the end of the shaft
the gleam of the broken water. I shouted; but only the same half-human
cry of the fall was borne back to my ears.

But it was destined that I should after all have a last word of greeting
from my friend and comrade. I have said that his Alpine-stock had been
left leaning against a rock which jutted on to the path. From the top of
this bowlder the gleam of something bright caught my eye, and, raising
my hand, I found that it came from the silver cigarette-case which he
used to carry. As I took it up a small square of paper upon which it
had lain fluttered down on to the ground. Unfolding it, I found that it
consisted of three pages torn from his note-book and addressed to me. It
was characteristic of the man that the direction was a precise, and the
writing as firm and clear, as though it had been written in his study.

My dear Watson [it said], I write these few lines through the courtesy
of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of
those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch
of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself
informed of our movements. They certainly confirm the very high opinion
which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall
be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though
I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and
especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to you,
however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that
no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this.
Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite convinced
that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart
on that errand under the persuasion that some development of this sort
would follow. Tell Inspector Patterson that the papers which he needs
to convict the gang are in pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope
and inscribed “Moriarty.” I made every disposition of my property before
leaving England, and handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give my
greetings to Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes


A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains. An examination
by experts leaves little doubt that a personal contest between the two
men ended, as it could hardly fail to end in such a situation, in their
reeling over, locked in each other's arms. Any attempt at recovering the
bodies was absolutely hopeless, and there, deep down in that dreadful
caldron of swirling water and seething foam, will lie for all time the
most dangerous criminal and the foremost champion of the law of their
generation. The Swiss youth was never found again, and there can be no
doubt that he was one of the numerous agents whom Moriarty kept in his
employ. As to the gang, it will be within the memory of the public
how completely the evidence which Holmes had accumulated exposed their
organization, and how heavily the hand of the dead man weighed
upon them. Of their terrible chief few details came out during the
proceedings, and if I have now been compelled to make a clear statement
of his career it is due to those injudicious champions who have
endeavored to clear his memory by attacks upon him whom I shall ever
regard as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known.





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Project Gutenberg's The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by Arthur Conan Doyle

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Posting Date: April 18, 2011 [EBook #1661]
First Posted: November 29, 2002

Language: English


*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES ***




Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer and Jose Menendez









THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

by

SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE



   I. A Scandal in Bohemia
  II. The Red-headed League
 III. A Case of Identity
  IV. The Boscombe Valley Mystery
   V. The Five Orange Pips
  VI. The Man with the Twisted Lip
 VII. The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
VIII. The Adventure of the Speckled Band
  IX. The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb
   X. The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
  XI. The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
 XII. The Adventure of the Copper Beeches




ADVENTURE I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

I.

To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE woman. I have seldom heard
him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses
and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt
any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that
one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but
admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect
reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a
lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never
spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They
were admirable things for the observer--excellent for drawing the
veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner
to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely
adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which
might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a
sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power
lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a
nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and
that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable
memory.

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us
away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the
home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first
finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to
absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of
society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in
Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from
week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the
drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still,
as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his
immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in
following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which
had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time
to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons
to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up
of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee,
and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so
delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely
shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of
my former friend and companion.

One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was
returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to
civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I
passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated
in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the
Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes
again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers.
His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw
his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against
the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head
sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who
knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their
own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his
drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new
problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which
had formerly been in part my own.

His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I
think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly
eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars,
and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he
stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular
introspective fashion.

"Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you have
put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."

"Seven!" I answered.

"Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more,
I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not
tell me that you intended to go into harness."

"Then, how do you know?"

"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting
yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and
careless servant girl?"

"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would certainly
have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true
that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful
mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you
deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has
given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it
out."

He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands
together.

"It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the
inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it,
the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they
have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round
the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it.
Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile
weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting
specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a
gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black
mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge
on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted
his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce
him to be an active member of the medical profession."

I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his
process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I
remarked, "the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously
simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each
successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you
explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good
as yours."

"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing
himself down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe.
The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen
the steps which lead up from the hall to this room."

"Frequently."

"How often?"

"Well, some hundreds of times."

"Then how many are there?"

"How many? I don't know."

"Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is
just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps,
because I have both seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are
interested in these little problems, and since you are good
enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you
may be interested in this." He threw over a sheet of thick,
pink-tinted note-paper which had been lying open upon the table.
"It came by the last post," said he. "Read it aloud."

The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

"There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight
o'clock," it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a
matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of
the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may
safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which
can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all
quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do
not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask."

"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine that
it means?"

"I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before
one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit
theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself.
What do you deduce from it?"

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
written.

"The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I remarked,
endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper
could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly
strong and stiff."

"Peculiar--that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not an
English paper at all. Hold it up to the light."

I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," a "P," and a
large "G" with a small "t" woven into the texture of the paper.

"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.

"The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather."

"Not at all. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for
'Gesellschaft,' which is the German for 'Company.' It is a
customary contraction like our 'Co.' 'P,' of course, stands for
'Papier.' Now for the 'Eg.' Let us glance at our Continental
Gazetteer." He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves.
"Eglow, Eglonitz--here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking
country--in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. 'Remarkable as being
the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous
glass-factories and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, what do you
make of that?" His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue
triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.

"Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you
note the peculiar construction of the sentence--'This account of
you we have from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or Russian
could not have written that. It is the German who is so
uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover
what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and
prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if
I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts."

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and
grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the
bell. Holmes whistled.

"A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing
out of the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of
beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in
this case, Watson, if there is nothing else."

"I think that I had better go, Holmes."

"Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my
Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity
to miss it."

"But your client--"

"Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he
comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best
attention."

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and
in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there
was a loud and authoritative tap.

"Come in!" said Holmes.

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six
inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His
dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked
upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed
across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while
the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined
with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch
which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended
halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with
rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence
which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a
broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper
part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black
vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment,
for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower
part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character,
with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive
of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

"You had my note?" he asked with a deep harsh voice and a
strongly marked German accent. "I told you that I would call." He
looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to
address.

"Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and
colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me
in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?"

"You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman.
I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour
and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most
extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate
with you alone."

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me
back into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say
before this gentleman anything which you may say to me."

The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin," said
he, "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at
the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At
present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it
may have an influence upon European history."

"I promise," said Holmes.

"And I."

"You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor. "The
august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to
you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have
just called myself is not exactly my own."

"I was aware of it," said Holmes dryly.

"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution
has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense
scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of
Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House
of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia."

"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself
down in his armchair and closing his eyes.

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him
as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe.
Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his
gigantic client.

"If your Majesty would condescend to state your case," he
remarked, "I should be better able to advise you."

The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he
tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You
are right," he cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt to
conceal it?"

"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not spoken
before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich
Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and
hereditary King of Bohemia."

"But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down
once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, "you
can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in
my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not
confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I
have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting
you."

"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

"The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a
lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known
adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you."

"Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured Holmes without
opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of
docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it
was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not
at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography
sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a
staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea
fishes.

"Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year
1858. Contralto--hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera
of Warsaw--yes! Retired from operatic stage--ha! Living in
London--quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled
with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and
is now desirous of getting those letters back."

"Precisely so. But how--"

"Was there a secret marriage?"

"None."

"No legal papers or certificates?"

"None."

"Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should
produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is
she to prove their authenticity?"

"There is the writing."

"Pooh, pooh! Forgery."

"My private note-paper."

"Stolen."

"My own seal."

"Imitated."

"My photograph."

"Bought."

"We were both in the photograph."

"Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an
indiscretion."

"I was mad--insane."

"You have compromised yourself seriously."

"I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now."

"It must be recovered."

"We have tried and failed."

"Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought."

"She will not sell."

"Stolen, then."

"Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked
her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice
she has been waylaid. There has been no result."

"No sign of it?"

"Absolutely none."

Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem," said he.

"But a very serious one to me," returned the King reproachfully.

"Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the
photograph?"

"To ruin me."

"But how?"

"I am about to be married."

"So I have heard."

"To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the
King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her
family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a
doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end."

"And Irene Adler?"

"Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I
know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul
of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and
the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry
another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not
go--none."

"You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"

"I am sure."

"And why?"

"Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the
betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday."

"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes with a yawn. "That
is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to
look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in
London for the present?"

"Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the
Count Von Kramm."

"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress."

"Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety."

"Then, as to money?"

"You have carte blanche."

"Absolutely?"

"I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom
to have that photograph."

"And for present expenses?"

The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak
and laid it on the table.

"There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in
notes," he said.

Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and
handed it to him.

"And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."

Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he. "Was the
photograph a cabinet?"

"It was."

"Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon
have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he added,
as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. "If
you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three
o'clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you."


II.

At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had
not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the
house shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down
beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him,
however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his
inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and
strange features which were associated with the two crimes which
I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the
exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own.
Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my
friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of
a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a
pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the
quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most
inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable
success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to
enter into my head.

It was close upon four before the door opened, and a
drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an
inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room.
Accustomed as I was to my friend's amazing powers in the use of
disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it
was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he
emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old.
Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in
front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes.

"Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked and laughed again
until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the
chair.

"What is it?"

"It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I
employed my morning, or what I ended by doing."

"I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the
habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler."

"Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you,
however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this
morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a
wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of
them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found
Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but
built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock
to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well
furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those
preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open.
Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window
could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round
it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without
noting anything else of interest.

"I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that
there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the
garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses,
and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half and half, two
fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire
about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in
the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but
whose biographies I was compelled to listen to."

"And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.

"Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She is
the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the
Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts,
drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for
dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings.
Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark,
handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and
often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See
the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him
home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him.
When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up
and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan
of campaign.

"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the
matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the
relation between them, and what the object of his repeated
visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the
former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his
keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this
question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony
Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman's chambers in the
Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my
inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to
let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the
situation."

"I am following you closely," I answered.

"I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab
drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a
remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached--evidently
the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a
great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the
maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly
at home.

"He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch
glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and
down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see
nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than
before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from
his pocket and looked at it earnestly, 'Drive like the devil,' he
shouted, 'first to Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to
the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if
you do it in twenty minutes!'

"Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do
well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau,
the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under
his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of
the buckles. It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall
door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment,
but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.

"'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 'and half a
sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.'

"This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing
whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her
landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked
twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could
object. 'The Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a sovereign
if you reach it in twenty minutes.' It was twenty-five minutes to
twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind.

"My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but the
others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their
steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid
the man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there
save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who
seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three
standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side
aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church.
Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to
me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards
me.

"'Thank God,' he cried. 'You'll do. Come! Come!'

"'What then?' I asked.

"'Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'

"I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was
I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear,
and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally
assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to
Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and
there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady
on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was
the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my
life, and it was the thought of it that started me laughing just
now. It seems that there had been some informality about their
license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them
without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance
saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in
search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean
to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the occasion."

"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and what
then?"

"Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if
the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate
very prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church
door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and
she to her own house. 'I shall drive out in the park at five as
usual,' she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove
away in different directions, and I went off to make my own
arrangements."

"Which are?"

"Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the
bell. "I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to
be busier still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want
your co-operation."

"I shall be delighted."

"You don't mind breaking the law?"

"Not in the least."

"Nor running a chance of arrest?"

"Not in a good cause."

"Oh, the cause is excellent!"

"Then I am your man."

"I was sure that I might rely on you."

"But what is it you wish?"

"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to
you. Now," he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that
our landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I
have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must
be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns
from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her."

"And what then?"

"You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to
occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must
not interfere, come what may. You understand?"

"I am to be neutral?"

"To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small
unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being
conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the
sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close
to that open window."

"Yes."

"You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."

"Yes."

"And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room what
I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of
fire. You quite follow me?"

"Entirely."

"It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long cigar-shaped
roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's smoke-rocket,
fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting.
Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire,
it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then
walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten
minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?"

"I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you,
and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry
of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street."

"Precisely."

"Then you may entirely rely on me."

"That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I
prepare for the new role I have to play."

He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in
the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist
clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white
tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and
benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have
equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His
expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every
fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as
science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in
crime.

It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still
wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in
Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just
being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge,
waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such
as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes' succinct description,
but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On
the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was
remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men
smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his
wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and
several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with
cigars in their mouths.

"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of
the house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The
photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are
that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey
Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his
princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the
photograph?"

"Where, indeed?"

"It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is
cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's
dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid
and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We
may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her."

"Where, then?"

"Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But
I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive,
and they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it
over to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but
she could not tell what indirect or political influence might be
brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that she
had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she
can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house."

"But it has twice been burgled."

"Pshaw! They did not know how to look."

"But how will you look?"

"I will not look."

"What then?"

"I will get her to show me."

"But she will refuse."

"She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is
her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter."

As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round
the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which
rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of
the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in
the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another
loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce
quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who
took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder,
who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and
in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was
the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who
struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes
dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but just as he reached
her he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood
running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to
their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while
a number of better-dressed people, who had watched the scuffle
without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to
attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her,
had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her
superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking
back into the street.

"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.

"He is dead," cried several voices.

"No, no, there's life in him!" shouted another. "But he'll be
gone before you can get him to hospital."

"He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have had the
lady's purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a
gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now."

"He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"

"Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable
sofa. This way, please!"

Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out
in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings
from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the
blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay
upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with
compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I
know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life
than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was
conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited
upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery
to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted
to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under
my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are
but preventing her from injuring another.

Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man
who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the
window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the
signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!" The
word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of
spectators, well dressed and ill--gentlemen, ostlers, and
servant-maids--joined in a general shriek of "Fire!" Thick clouds
of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I
caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice
of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm.
Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner
of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my
friend's arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar.
He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we
had turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the
Edgeware Road.

"You did it very nicely, Doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could
have been better. It is all right."

"You have the photograph?"

"I know where it is."

"And how did you find out?"

"She showed me, as I told you she would."

"I am still in the dark."

"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The matter
was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the
street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening."

"I guessed as much."

"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in
the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand
to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick."

"That also I could fathom."

"Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else
could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room
which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was
determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for
air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your
chance."

"How did that help you?"

"It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on
fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she
values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have
more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the
Darlington substitution scandal it was of use to me, and also in
the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby;
an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to
me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious
to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it.
The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were
enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The
photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the
right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a
glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I cried out that it
was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed
from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making
my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to
attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had
come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to
wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all."

"And now?" I asked.

"Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King
to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be
shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is
probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the
photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain
it with his own hands."

"And when will you call?"

"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall
have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage
may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to
the King without delay."

We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was
searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

"Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the
greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had
hurried by.

"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the
dimly lit street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have
been."


III.

I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our
toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed
into the room.

"You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by
either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

"Not yet."

"But you have hopes?"

"I have hopes."

"Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."

"We must have a cab."

"No, my brougham is waiting."

"Then that will simplify matters." We descended and started off
once more for Briony Lodge.

"Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

"Married! When?"

"Yesterday."

"But to whom?"

"To an English lawyer named Norton."

"But she could not love him."

"I am in hopes that she does."

"And why in hopes?"

"Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future
annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your
Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason
why she should interfere with your Majesty's plan."

"It is true. And yet--Well! I wish she had been of my own
station! What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a
moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in
Serpentine Avenue.

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood
upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped
from the brougham.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.

"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a
questioning and rather startled gaze.

"Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She
left this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing
Cross for the Continent."

"What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and
surprise. "Do you mean that she has left England?"

"Never to return."

"And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is lost."

"We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed into the
drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was
scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and
open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before
her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small
sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a
photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler
herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to
"Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for." My friend
tore it open and we all three read it together. It was dated at
midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:

"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--You really did it very well. You
took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a
suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I
began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had
been told that if the King employed an agent it would certainly
be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this,
you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became
suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind
old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress
myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage
of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to
watch you, ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call
them, and came down just as you departed.

"Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was
really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and
started for the Temple to see my husband.

"We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by
so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when
you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in
peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may
do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly
wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a
weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might
take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to
possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

                                      "Very truly yours,
                                   "IRENE NORTON, née ADLER."

"What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when
we had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick
and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen?
Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?"

"From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a
very different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am
sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business
to a more successful conclusion."

"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be
more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The
photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire."

"I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."

"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can
reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from
his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

"Your Majesty has something which I should value even more
highly," said Holmes.

"You have but to name it."

"This photograph!"

The King stared at him in amazement.

"Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."

"I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the
matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning." He
bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the
King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his
chambers.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom
of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were
beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the
cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And
when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her
photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.



ADVENTURE II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a
very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair.
With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when
Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door
behind me.

"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear
Watson," he said cordially.

"I was afraid that you were engaged."

"So I am. Very much so."

"Then I can wait in the next room."

"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and
helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no
doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes.

"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and
putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in
judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love
of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum
routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by
the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you
will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own
little adventures."

"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I
observed.

"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we
went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary
Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary
combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more
daring than any effort of the imagination."

"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

"You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my
view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you
until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to
be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call
upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to
be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some
time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique
things are very often connected not with the larger but with the
smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for
doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I
have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present
case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is
certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to
recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend
Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the
peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every
possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some
slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide
myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my
memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the
facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the
inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the
advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper
flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and
endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the
indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor
bore every mark of being an average commonplace British
tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey
shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat,
unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy
Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as
an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a
wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether,
look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save
his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and
discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook
his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.
"Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual
labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has
been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of
writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger
upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did
manual labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's
carpenter."

"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger
than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
developed."

"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you
use an arc-and-compass breastpin."

"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for
five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the
elbow where you rest it upon the desk?"

"Well, but China?"

"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right
wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small
study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature
of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a
delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I
see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter
becomes even more simple."

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I
thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see
that there was nothing in it, after all."

"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake
in explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my
poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I
am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

"Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger
planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what began
it all. You just read it for yourself, sir."

I took the paper from him and read as follows:

"TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late
Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now
another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a
salary of 4 pounds a week for purely nominal services. All
red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age
of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at
eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7
Pope's Court, Fleet Street."

"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice
read over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when
in high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?"
said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us
all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this
advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note,
Doctor, of the paper and the date."

"It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months
ago."

"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small
pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near the City. It's not a
very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than
just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants,
but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but
that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the
business."

"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth,
either. It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter
assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better
himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after
all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"

"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employé who
comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience
among employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is
not as remarkable as your advertisement."

"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a
fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought
to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar
like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his
main fault, but on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice
in him."

"He is still with you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple
cooking and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the
house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very
quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads
and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.
Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight
weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

"'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'

"'Why that?' I asks.

"'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the
Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who
gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than
there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what
to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here's
a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.'

"'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a
very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of
my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting
my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what
was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

"'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he
asked with his eyes open.

"'Never.'

"'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one
of the vacancies.'

"'And what are they worth?' I asked.

"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight,
and it need not interfere very much with one's other
occupations.'

"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears,
for the business has not been over-good for some years, and an
extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.

"'Tell me all about it,' said I.

"'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for
yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address
where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out,
the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah
Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself
red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men;
so when he died it was found that he had left his enormous
fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the
interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of
that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to
do.'

"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who
would apply.'

"'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is
really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had
started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the
old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your
applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but
real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr.
Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be
worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a
few hundred pounds.'

"Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves,
that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed
to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I
stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent
Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might
prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for
the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to
have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for
the address that was given us in the advertisement.

"I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in
his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement.
Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court
looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought
there were so many in the whole country as were brought together
by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they
were--straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay;
but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real
vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I
would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear
of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and
pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up
to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream
upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back
dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found
ourselves in the office."

"Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked
Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge
pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

"There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs
and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that
was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate
as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in
them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem
to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn
came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of
the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he
might have a private word with us.

"'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is
willing to fill a vacancy in the League.'

"'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He has
every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so
fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and
gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he
plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my
success.

"'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will,
however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.'
With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I
yelled with the pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he as
he released me. 'I perceive that all is as it should be. But we
have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and
once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which
would disgust you with human nature.' He stepped over to the
window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the
vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below,
and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there
was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the
manager.

"'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of
the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are
you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'

"I answered that I had not.

"His face fell immediately.

"'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I am
sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the
propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their
maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a
bachelor.'

"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was
not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for
a few minutes he said that it would be all right.

"'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be
fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a
head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your
new duties?'

"'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,'
said I.

"'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent Spaulding.
'I should be able to look after that for you.'

"'What would be the hours?' I asked.

"'Ten to two.'

"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr.
Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just
before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in
the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man,
and that he would see to anything that turned up.

"'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'

"'Is 4 pounds a week.'

"'And the work?'

"'Is purely nominal.'

"'What do you call purely nominal?'

"'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the
building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole
position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You
don't comply with the conditions if you budge from the office
during that time.'

"'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,'
said I.

"'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither sickness
nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose
your billet.'

"'And the work?'

"'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." There is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be
ready to-morrow?'

"'Certainly,' I answered.

"'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you
once more on the important position which you have been fortunate
enough to gain.' He bowed me out of the room and I went home with
my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased
at my own good fortune.

"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in
low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the
whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its
object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past
belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay
such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the
'Encyclopaedia Britannica.' Vincent Spaulding did what he could to
cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the
whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look
at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a
quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for
Pope's Court.

"Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as
possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross
was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off
upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from
time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he
bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had
written, and locked the door of the office after me.

"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the
manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my
week's work. It was the same next week, and the same the week
after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I
left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only
once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at
all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an
instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet
was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk
the loss of it.

"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about
Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and
hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B's before very
long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly
filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole
business came to an end."

"To an end?"

"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as
usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a
little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the
panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet
of note-paper. It read in this fashion:

                  THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

                           IS

                        DISSOLVED.

                     October 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the
rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so
completely overtopped every other consideration that we both
burst out into a roar of laughter.

"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our
client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can
do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from
which he had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for
the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you
will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it.
Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the
door?"

"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called
at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything
about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant
living on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me
what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had
never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan
Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him.

"'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'

"'What, the red-headed man?'

"'Yes.'

"'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor
and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new
premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

"'Where could I find him?'

"'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17
King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'

"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was
a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever
heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say
that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite
good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place
without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough
to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right
away to you."

"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an
exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it.
From what you have told me I think that it is possible that
graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear."

"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost four
pound a week."

"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do
not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary
league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some
30 pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have
gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have
lost nothing by them."

"No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are,
and what their object was in playing this prank--if it was a
prank--upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it
cost them two and thirty pounds."

"We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first,
one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who
first called your attention to the advertisement--how long had he
been with you?"

"About a month then."

"How did he come?"

"In answer to an advertisement."

"Was he the only applicant?"

"No, I had a dozen."

"Why did you pick him?"

"Because he was handy and would come cheap."

"At half-wages, in fact."

"Yes."

"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon
his forehead."

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I thought
as much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears are
pierced for earrings?"

"Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he
was a lad."

"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is still
with you?"

"Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."

"And has your business been attended to in your absence?"

"Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of a
morning."

"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an
opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is
Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

"Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left us, "what
do you make of it all?"

"I make nothing of it," I answered frankly. "It is a most
mysterious business."

"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless
crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is
the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this
matter."

"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three pipe problem, and I
beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled
himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his
hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his
black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird.
I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and
indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his
chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put
his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

"Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he
remarked. "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare
you for a few hours?"

"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very
absorbing."

"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City
first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that
there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is
rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is
introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!"

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short
walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular
story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky,
little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy
two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in
enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded
laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and
uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with
"JABEZ WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced
the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side
and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down
again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally
he returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously
upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up
to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a
bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step
in.

"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would
go from here to the Strand."

"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly,
closing the door.

"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He is,
in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring
I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known
something of him before."

"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good
deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you
inquired your way merely in order that you might see him."

"Not him."

"What then?"

"The knees of his trousers."

"And what did you see?"

"What I expected to see."

"Why did you beat the pavement?"

"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We
are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg
Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the
corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a
contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was
one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City
to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense
stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward,
while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of
pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line
of fine shops and stately business premises that they really
abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square
which we had just quitted.

"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing
along the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the
houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of
London. There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little
newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank,
the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building
depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now,
Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had some play. A
sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where
all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no
red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a
very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All
the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect
happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the
music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes
were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the
relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was
possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature
alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and
astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction
against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally
predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was
never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been
lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his
black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase
would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning
power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were
unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a
man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him
that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall I
felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set
himself to hunt down.

"You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we
emerged.

"Yes, it would be as well."

"And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being
Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help
to-night."

"At what time?"

"Ten will be early enough."

"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

"Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger,
so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved his
hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the
crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was
always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings
with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had
seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that
he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to
happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and
grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought
over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed
copier of the "Encyclopaedia" down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg
Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me.
What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?
Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from
Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant was a
formidable man--a man who might play a deep game. I tried to
puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside
until night should bring an explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my
way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker
Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered
the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering
his room I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men,
one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police
agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a
very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.

"Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his
pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.
"Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me
introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in
to-night's adventure."

"We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in
his consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man for
starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do
the running down."

"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,"
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said
the police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods, which
are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical
and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It
is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of
the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly
correct than the official force."

"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the
stranger with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber.
It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I
have not had my rubber."

"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will
play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and
that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather,
the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and for you, Jones, it will
be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."

"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a
young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his
profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on
any criminal in London. He's a remarkable man, is young John
Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been
to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and
though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to
find the man himself. He'll crack a crib in Scotland one week,
and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
I've been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him
yet."

"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.
I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I
agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is
past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two
will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the
second."

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive
and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in
the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit
streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.

"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow
Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the
matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is
not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession.
He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as
tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we
are, and they are waiting for us."

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had
found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and,
following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a
narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us.
Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive
iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding
stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr.
Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us
down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a
third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all
round with crates and massive boxes.

"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he
held up the lantern and gazed about him.

"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon
the flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite
hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise.

"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes
severely. "You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit
down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a
very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his
knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens,
began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few
seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again
and put his glass in his pocket.

"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can
hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.
Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their
work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at
present, Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the cellar of
the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr.
Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to
you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of
London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at
present."

"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had
several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

"Your French gold?"

"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources
and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of
France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to
unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The
crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between
layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at
present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the
directors have had misgivings upon the subject."

"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is
time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an
hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr.
Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern."

"And sit in the dark?"

"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and
I thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might have your
rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have
gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And,
first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men,
and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us
some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate,
and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a
light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no
compunction about shooting them down."

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case
behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front
of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute
darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot
metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready
to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked
up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and
subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the
vault.

"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back
through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have
done what I asked you, Jones?"

"I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."

"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent
and wait."

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but
an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must
have almost gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs
were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my
nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my
hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle
breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper,
heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note
of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case
in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint
of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then
it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then,
without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand
appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the
centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the
hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then
it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark
again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between
the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending,
tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon
its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed
the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut,
boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand
on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and
waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another
instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after
him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face
and a shock of very red hair.

"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the
bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the
collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of
rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed
upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes' hunting crop came
down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone
floor.

"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no
chance at all."

"So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy
that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his
coat-tails."

"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I
must compliment you."

"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new
and effective."

"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker
at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the
derbies."

"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,"
remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.
"You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have
the goodness, also, when you address me always to say 'sir' and
'please.'"

"All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would
you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry
your Highness to the police-station?"

"That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow
to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the
detective.

"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them
from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or
repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated
in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts
at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience."

"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over
this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond
that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in
many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of
the Red-headed League."


"You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning
as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it
was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible
object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of
the League, and the copying of the 'Encyclopaedia,' must be to get
this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of
hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but,
really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was
no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the colour of his
accomplice's hair. The 4 pounds a week was a lure which must draw
him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands?
They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary
office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and
together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the
week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for
half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive
for securing the situation."

"But how could you guess what the motive was?"

"Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a
mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The
man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in his
house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and
such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something
out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's
fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the
cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then
I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I
had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in
London. He was doing something in the cellar--something which
took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once
more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel
to some other building.

"So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind.
It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had
never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his
face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have
remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of
those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they
were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and
Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I
had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I
called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank
directors, with the result that you have seen."

"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt
to-night?" I asked.

"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that
they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other
words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential
that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the
bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than
any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape.
For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night."

"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned
admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings
true."

"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already
feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort
to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little
problems help me to do so."

"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of
some little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre
c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."



ADVENTURE III. A CASE OF IDENTITY

"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side
of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely
stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We
would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere
commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window
hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the
roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the
strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the
wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and
leading to the most outré results, it would make all fiction with
its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and
unprofitable."

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which
come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and
vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to
its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,
neither fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the
police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the
platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an
observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend
upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking
so," I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser
and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout
three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is
strange and bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper
from the ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the
first heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his
wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know without
reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of
course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the
bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of
writers could invent nothing more crude."

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,"
said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This
is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged
in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The
husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the
conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of
winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling
them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely
to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a
pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over
you in your example."

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in
the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his
homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon
it.

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks.
It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my
assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which
sparkled upon his finger.

"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in
which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it
even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of
my little problems."

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of
interest. They are important, you understand, without being
interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in
unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation,
and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the
charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the
simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is
the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter
which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing
which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however,
that I may have something better before very many minutes are
over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."

He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted
blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite
there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck,
and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was
tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her
ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous,
hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated
backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove
buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves
the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp
clang of the bell.

"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his
cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always
means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure
that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet
even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously
wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom
is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love
matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or
grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons
entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself
loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed
merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed
her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and,
having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked
her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was
peculiar to him.

"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a
little trying to do so much typewriting?"

"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters
are without looking." Then, suddenly realising the full purport
of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear
and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've
heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know
all that?"

"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know
things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others
overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?"

"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege,
whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had
given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as
much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in
my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and
I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked
Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to
the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss
Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said,
"for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.
Windibank--that is, my father--took it all. He would not go to
the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he
would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done,
it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away
to you."

"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the
name is different."

"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny,
too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself."

"And your mother is alive?"

"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.
Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and
a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father
was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy
business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the
foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the
business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines.
They got 4700 pounds for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't
near as much as father could have got if he had been alive."

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this
rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he
had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.

"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the
business?"

"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle
Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4 1/2 per
cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can
only touch the interest."

"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so
large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the
bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in
every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely
upon an income of about 60 pounds."

"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you
understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a
burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while
I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the
time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it
over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I
earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can
often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day."

"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes.
"This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as
freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your
connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel."

A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked
nervously at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the
gasfitters' ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets
when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and
sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He
never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I
wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I
was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to
prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all
father's friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing
fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much
as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do,
he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went,
mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it
was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from
France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."

"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and
shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying
anything to a woman, for she would have her way."

"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a
gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if
we had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is to
say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father
came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house
any more."

"No?"

"Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He
wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to
say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But
then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to
begin with, and I had not got mine yet."

"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see
you?"

"Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer
wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each
other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he
used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so
there was no need for father to know."

"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that
we took. Hosmer--Mr. Angel--was a cashier in an office in
Leadenhall Street--and--"

"What office?"

"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."

"Where did he live, then?"

"He slept on the premises."

"And you don't know his address?"

"No--except that it was Leadenhall Street."

"Where did you address your letters, then?"

"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called
for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be
chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady,
so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't
have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come
from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt that the
machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he
was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think
of."

"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an axiom
of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.
Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me
in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to
be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his
voice was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he
was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat,
and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always
well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just
as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare."

"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather,
returned to France?"

"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we
should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest
and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever
happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite
right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion.
Mother was all in his favour from the first and was even fonder
of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the
week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to
mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother
said she would make it all right with him. I didn't quite like
that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as
he was only a few years older than me; but I didn't want to do
anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the
company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on
the very morning of the wedding."

"It missed him, then?"

"Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived."

"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for
the Friday. Was it to be in church?"

"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near
King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St.
Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were
two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a
four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the
street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler
drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and
when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one
there! The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become
of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was
last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything
since then to throw any light upon what became of him."

"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said
Holmes.

"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all
the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to
be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to
separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him,
and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed
strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since
gives a meaning to it."

"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some
unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"

"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he
would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw
happened."

"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"

"None."

"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"

"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter
again."

"And your father? Did you tell him?"

"Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had
happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said,
what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of
the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my
money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him,
there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very independent about
money and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what
could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me
half-mad to think of it, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She
pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob
heavily into it.

"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and
I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the
weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind
dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel
vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life."

"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

"I fear not."

"Then what has happened to him?"

"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an
accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can
spare."

"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she.
"Here is the slip and here are four letters from him."

"Thank you. And your address?"

"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your
father's place of business?"

"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers
of Fenchurch Street."

"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will
leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given
you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it
to affect your life."

"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be
true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was
something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which
compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon
the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever
she might be summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips
still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him,
and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down
from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a
counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with
the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of
infinite languor in his face.

"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found
her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way,
is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you
consult my index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of
the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however,
there were one or two details which were new to me. But the
maiden herself was most instructive."

"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite
invisible to me," I remarked.

"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to
look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring
you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of
thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace.
Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe
it."

"Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a
feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads
sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her
dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little
purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and
were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't
observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a
general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable,
easy-going way."

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

"'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have
really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed
everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and
you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general
impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My
first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is
perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you
observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most
useful material for showing traces. The double line a little
above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table,
was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type,
leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side
of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the
broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and,
observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I
ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed
to surprise her."

"It surprised me."

"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and
interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots
which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were
really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and
the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower
buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and
fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly
dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned,
it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry."

"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by
my friend's incisive reasoning.

"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving
home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right
glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see
that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had
written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been
this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger.
All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back
to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised
description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

I held the little printed slip to the light.

"Missing," it said, "on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman
named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height;
strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in
the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted
glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen,
in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert
chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over
elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in
Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing--"

"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued,
glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no
clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There
is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike
you."

"They are typewritten," I remarked.

"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the
neat little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you
see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is
rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive--in
fact, we may call it conclusive."

"Of what?"

"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it
bears upon the case?"

"I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able
to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were
instituted."

"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters,
which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the
other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking
him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow
evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the
male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the
answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem
upon the shelf for the interim."

I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers
of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that
he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy
demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he had
been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in
the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler
photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the
Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with
the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a strange tangle
indeed which he could not unravel.

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the
conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would
find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up
to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary
Sutherland.

A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own
attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at
the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six
o'clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a
hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too
late to assist at the dénouement of the little mystery. I found
Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin
form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable
array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell
of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the
chemical work which was so dear to him.

"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.

"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."

"No, no, the mystery!" I cried.

"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon.
There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said
yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback
is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."

"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss
Sutherland?"

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet
opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the
passage and a tap at the door.

"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said
Holmes. "He has written to me to say that he would be here at
six. Come in!"

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some
thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a
bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and
penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of
us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a
slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.

"Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think that
this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an
appointment with me for six o'clock?"

"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not
quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland
has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far
better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite
against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable,
impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily
controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I
did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the
official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family
misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless
expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?"

"On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have every reason to
believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."

Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. "I am
delighted to hear it," he said.

"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter has
really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless
they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some
letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one
side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that
in every case there is some little slurring over of the 'e,' and
a slight defect in the tail of the 'r.' There are fourteen other
characteristics, but those are the more obvious."

"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office,
and no doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing
keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.

"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study,
Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another
little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its
relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some
little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come
from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not
only are the 'e's' slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you will
observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen
other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well."

Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. "I
cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,"
he said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know
when you have done it."

"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in
the door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"

"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips
and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

"Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes suavely. "There
is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too
transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that
it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's
right! Sit down and let us talk it over."

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a
glitter of moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable," he
stammered.

"I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,
Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a
petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the
course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up
on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands
in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed,
than to us.

"The man married a woman very much older than himself for her
money," said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the
daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable
sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have
made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it.
The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate
and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with
her fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would
not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would
mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her
stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of
keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of
people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not
answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and
finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain
ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an
idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the
connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself,
covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with
a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice
into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the
girl's short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off
other lovers by making love himself."

"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never
thought that she would have been so carried away."

"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very
decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that
her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never
for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the
gentleman's attentions, and the effect was increased by the
loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began
to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as
far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There
were meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure the
girl's affections from turning towards anyone else. But the
deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys
to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to
bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it
would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady's mind and
prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to
come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and
hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening
on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss
Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to
his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not
listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her,
and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished
away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a
four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of
events, Mr. Windibank!"

Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes
had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold
sneer upon his pale face.

"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but if you
are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is
you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing
actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door
locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal
constraint."

"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking
and throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who
deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a
friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!"
he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon
the man's face, "it is not part of my duties to my client, but
here's a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat
myself to--" He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he
could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs,
the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr.
James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road.

"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he
threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will
rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and
ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not
entirely devoid of interest."

"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I
remarked.

"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr.
Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious
conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really
profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the
stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together,
but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was
suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice,
which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My
suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in
typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his
handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognise even
the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts,
together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same
direction."

"And how did you verify them?"

"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I
knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed
description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the
result of a disguise--the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I
sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me
whether it answered to the description of any of their
travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the
typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business
address asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his
reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but
characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from
Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the
description tallied in every respect with that of their employé,
James Windibank. Voilà tout!"

"And Miss Sutherland?"

"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old
Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger
cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.'
There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much
knowledge of the world."



ADVENTURE IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY

We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the
maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran
in this way:

"Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from
the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy.
Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect.
Leave Paddington by the 11:15."

"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me.
"Will you go?"

"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at
present."

"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking
a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good,
and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes' cases."

"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained
through one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack
at once, for I have only half an hour."

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the
effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were
few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a
cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock
Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt
figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey
travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.

"It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It
makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on
whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless
or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall
get the tickets."

We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of
papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged
and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until
we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a
gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.

"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.

"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."

"The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just
been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those
simple cases which are so extremely difficult."

"That sounds a little paradoxical."

"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a
clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more
difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they
have established a very serious case against the son of the
murdered man."

"It is a murder, then?"

"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for
granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into
it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have
been able to understand it, in a very few words.

"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a
Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned
some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he
held, that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was
also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the
colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to
settle down they should do so as near each other as possible.
Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his
tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect
equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son,
a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same
age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have
avoided the society of the neighbouring English families and to
have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of
sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the
neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants--a man and a girl.
Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the
least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the
families. Now for the facts.

"On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at
Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the
Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out
of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been
out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told
the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of
importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came
back alive.

"From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a
mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One
was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was
William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both
these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The
game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.
McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the
same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the
father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was
following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in
the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.

"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder,
the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly
wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the
edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of
the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the
woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she
saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr.
McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a
violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very
strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his
hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their
violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached
home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near
Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to
fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came
running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead
in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was
much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right
hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On
following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the
grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated
blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as
might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's
gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the
body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly
arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful murder' having been returned
at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the
magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next
Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out
before the coroner and the police-court."

"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If
ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so
here."

"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes
thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to one thing,
but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it
pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something
entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case
looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very
possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people
in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the
daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his
innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect
in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in
his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the
case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are
flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly
digesting their breakfasts at home."

"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you
will find little credit to be gained out of this case."

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he
answered, laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some
other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to
Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting
when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by
means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of
understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly
perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand
side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted
even so self-evident a thing as that."

"How on earth--"

"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness
which characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this
season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less
and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until
it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the
jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated
than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking
at himself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a
result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and
inference. Therein lies my métier, and it is just possible that
it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before
us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in
the inquest, and which are worth considering."

"What are they?"

"It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after
the return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary
informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not
surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts.
This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any
traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the
coroner's jury."

"It was a confession," I ejaculated.

"No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."

"Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at
least a most suspicious remark."

"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift which I
can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be,
he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the
circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared
surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I
should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such
surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances,
and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His
frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent
man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and
firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not
unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of
his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day
so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and
even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so
important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The
self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark
appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a
guilty one."

I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far slighter
evidence," I remarked.

"So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged."

"What is the young man's own account of the matter?"

"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters,
though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive.
You will find it here, and may read it for yourself."

He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire
paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the
paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own
statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the
corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this
way:

"Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called
and gave evidence as follows: 'I had been away from home for
three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the
morning of last Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at
the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he
had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after
my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and,
looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out
of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he was
going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of
the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit
warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William
Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but
he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had
no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards
from the pool I heard a cry of "Cooee!" which was a usual signal
between my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found
him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at
seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. A
conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to blows,
for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his
passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned
towards Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards,
however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me
to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground,
with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in
my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for
some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner's lodge-keeper,
his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one
near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by
his injuries. He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and
forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no
active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.'

"The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before
he died?

"Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some
allusion to a rat.

"The Coroner: What did you understand by that?

"Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was
delirious.

"The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father
had this final quarrel?

"Witness: I should prefer not to answer.

"The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.

"Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can
assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which
followed.

"The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point
out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case
considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.

"Witness: I must still refuse.

"The Coroner: I understand that the cry of 'Cooee' was a common
signal between you and your father?

"Witness: It was.

"The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw
you, and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?

"Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.

"A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions
when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father
fatally injured?

"Witness: Nothing definite.

"The Coroner: What do you mean?

"Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into
the open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet
I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay
upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be
something grey in colour, a coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps.
When I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was
gone.

"'Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?'

"'Yes, it was gone.'

"'You cannot say what it was?'

"'No, I had a feeling something was there.'

"'How far from the body?'

"'A dozen yards or so.'

"'And how far from the edge of the wood?'

"'About the same.'

"'Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen
yards of it?'

"'Yes, but with my back towards it.'

"This concluded the examination of the witness."

"I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the coroner
in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy.
He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his
father having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his
refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and
his singular account of his father's dying words. They are all,
as he remarks, very much against the son."

Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon
the cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some
pains," said he, "to single out the very strongest points in the
young man's favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him
credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too
little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would
give him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from
his own inner consciousness anything so outré as a dying
reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No,
sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what
this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that
hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and
not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the
scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be
there in twenty minutes."

It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through
the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn,
found ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A
lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for
us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and
leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic
surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of
Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a
room had already been engaged for us.

"I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a cup
of tea. "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be
happy until you had been on the scene of the crime."

"It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered. "It
is entirely a question of barometric pressure."

Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.

"How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud
in the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need
smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country
hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I
shall use the carriage to-night."

Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already formed
your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case is as
plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer
it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a
very positive one, too. She has heard of you, and would have your
opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing
which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my
soul! here is her carriage at the door."

He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the
most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her
violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her
cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her
overpowering excitement and concern.

"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the
other of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition,
fastening upon my companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I
have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it.
I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it,
too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each
other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no
one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a
charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him."

"I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes.
"You may rely upon my doing all that I can."

"But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion?
Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself
think that he is innocent?"

"I think that it is very probable."

"There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking
defiantly at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my colleague
has been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he said.

"But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did
it. And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the
reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because
I was concerned in it."

"In what way?" asked Holmes.

"It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had
many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that
there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always
loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young
and has seen very little of life yet, and--and--well, he
naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there
were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them."

"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of such a
union?"

"No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in
favour of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as
Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.

"Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father
if I call to-morrow?"

"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."

"The doctor?"

"Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for
years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken
to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his
nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive
who had known dad in the old days in Victoria."

"Ha! In Victoria! That is important."

"Yes, at the mines."

"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner
made his money."

"Yes, certainly."

"Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to
me."

"You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you
will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do
tell him that I know him to be innocent."

"I will, Miss Turner."

"I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if
I leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking." She
hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we
heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.

"I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity after a
few minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which you
are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I
call it cruel."

"I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said
Holmes. "Have you an order to see him in prison?"

"Yes, but only for you and me."

"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have
still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"

"Ample."

"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very
slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours."

I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through
the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel,
where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a
yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin,
however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were
groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the
action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and
gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the
day. Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were
absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely
unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between
the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when,
drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was
something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the
nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts?
I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which
contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's
deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left
parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been
shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot
upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from
behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when
seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it
did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his
back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call
Holmes' attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying
reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be
delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become
delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how
he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my
brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident
of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the
murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his
overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to
return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was
kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a
tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was! I
did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith
in Sherlock Holmes' insight that I could not lose hope as long
as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young
McCarthy's innocence.

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone,
for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down.
"It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able
to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his
very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not
wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young
McCarthy."

"And what did you learn from him?"

"Nothing."

"Could he throw no light?"

"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew
who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced
now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very
quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think,
sound at heart."

"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact
that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as
this Miss Turner."

"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,
insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was
only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away
five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get
into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a
registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can
imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not
doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows
to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort
which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father,
at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss
Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself,
and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would
have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with
his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in
Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that
point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however,
for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious
trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and
has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the
Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I
think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all
that he has suffered."

"But if he is innocent, who has done it?"

"Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two
points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with
someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his
son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would
return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry
'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the
crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk
about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all
minor matters until to-morrow."

There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke
bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with
the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe
Pool.

"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is
said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is
despaired of."

"An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.

"About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life
abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This
business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend
of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I
have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."

"Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

"Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody
about here speaks of his kindness to him."

"Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this
McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have
been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of
marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably,
heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner,
as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would
follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself
was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not
deduce something from that?"

"We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said
Lestrade, winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts,
Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies."

"You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard
to tackle the facts."

"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it
difficult to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.

"And that is--"

"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that
all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,
laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley
Farm upon the left."

"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking
building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches
of lichen upon the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless
chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight
of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door,
when the maid, at Holmes' request, showed us the boots which her
master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the
son's, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured
these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes
desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed
the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent
as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of
Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed
and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines,
while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter.
His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips
compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long,
sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal
lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated
upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell
unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick,
impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way
along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of
the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is
all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon
the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either
side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and
once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and
I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous,
while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the
conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a
definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water
some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the
Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner.
Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see
the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich
landowner's dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods
grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass
twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the reeds
which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which
the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground,
that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the
fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager
face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read
upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking
up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon
or other trace. But how on earth--"

"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its
inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and
there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all
have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo
and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the
lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or
eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of
the same feet." He drew out a lens and lay down upon his
waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to
himself than to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he
was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are
deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his
story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are
the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It
is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this?
Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite
unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course
that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up
and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we
were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a
great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced
his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon
his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he
remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks,
gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and
examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of
the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among
the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then
he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the
highroad, where all traces were lost.

"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked,
returning to his natural manner. "I fancy that this grey house on
the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a
word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done
that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab,
and I shall be with you presently."

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove
back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he
had picked up in the wood.

"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out.
"The murder was done with it."

"I see no marks."

"There are none."

"How do you know, then?"

"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few
days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It
corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other
weapon."

"And the murderer?"

"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian
cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his
pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be
enough to aid us in our search."

Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he
said. "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a
hard-headed British jury."

"Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own
method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon,
and shall probably return to London by the evening train."

"And leave your case unfinished?"

"No, finished."

"But the mystery?"

"It is solved."

"Who was the criminal, then?"

"The gentleman I describe."

"But who is he?"

"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a
populous neighbourhood."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said,
"and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking
for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."

"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance.
Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before
I leave."

Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where
we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in
thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds
himself in a perplexing position.

"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared "just sit
down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't
know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a
cigar and let me expound."

 "Pray do so."

"Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about
young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly,
although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One
was the fact that his father should, according to his account,
cry 'Cooee!' before seeing him. The other was his singular dying
reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but
that was all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double
point our research must commence, and we will begin it by
presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true."

"What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The
son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that
he was within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the
attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But
'Cooee' is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used
between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the
person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was
someone who had been in Australia."

"What of the rat, then?"

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened
it out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,"
he said. "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand
over part of the map. "What do you read?"

"ARAT," I read.

"And now?" He raised his hand.

"BALLARAT."

"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his
son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter
the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."

"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down
considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point
which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a
certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite
conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak."

"Certainly."

"And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only
be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could
hardly wander."

"Quite so."

"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the
ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that
imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."

"But how did you gain them?"

"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of
trifles."

"His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length
of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."

"Yes, they were peculiar boots."

"But his lameness?"

"The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than
his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped--he
was lame."

"But his left-handedness."

"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded
by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from
immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can
that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind
that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had
even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special
knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian
cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and
written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different
varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the
ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss
where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety
which are rolled in Rotterdam."

"And the cigar-holder?"

"I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he
used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the
cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."

"Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from which
he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as
truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the
direction in which all this points. The culprit is--"

"Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of
our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His
slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of
decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and
his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual
strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled
hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air
of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an
ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were
tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that
he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.

"Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my
note?"

"Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to
see me here to avoid scandal."

"I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."

"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my
companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question
was already answered.

"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "It
is so. I know all about McCarthy."

The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he cried.
"But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you
my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at
the Assizes."

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.

"I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It
would break her heart--it will break her heart when she hears
that I am arrested."

"It may not come to that," said Holmes.

"What?"

"I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter
who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests.
Young McCarthy must be got off, however."

"I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had diabetes for
years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a
month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a gaol."

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand
and a bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth," he
said. "I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson
here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the
last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall
not use it unless it is absolutely needed."

"It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I
shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I
should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the
thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but
will not take me long to tell.

"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil
incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of
such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years,
and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be
in his power.

"It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap
then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at
anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck
with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you
would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and
we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time
to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings.
Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party
is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.

"One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and
we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers
and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of
their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed,
however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of
the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the
Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his
wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every
feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made
our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted
from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and
respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in
the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money,
to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too,
and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice.
Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down
the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned
over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was
going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.

"I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in
Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his
foot.

"'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be
as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and
you can have the keeping of us. If you don't--it's a fine,
law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman
within hail.'

"Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking
them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land
ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness;
turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my
elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more
afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he
wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without
question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing
which I could not give. He asked for Alice.

"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was
known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that
his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was
firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that
I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that
was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do
his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses
to talk it over.

"When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I
smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone.
But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in
me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my
daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she
were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I
and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a
man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and
a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb,
I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl!
Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I
did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned,
I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl
should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more
than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction
than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought
back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I
was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in
my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that
occurred."

"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man
signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we
may never be exposed to such a temptation."

"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"

"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you
will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the
Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is
condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be
seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or
dead, shall be safe with us."

"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds,
when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace
which you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his
giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.

"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate
play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such
a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say,
'There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'"

James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a
number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and
submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven
months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is
every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily
together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their
past.



ADVENTURE V. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS

When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes
cases between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which
present strange and interesting features that it is no easy
matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however,
have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have
not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend
possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of
these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his
analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without
an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and
have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and
surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to
him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable
in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted
to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are
points in connection with it which never have been, and probably
never will be, entirely cleared up.

The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater
or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my
headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the
adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant
Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a
furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the
British barque "Sophy Anderson", of the singular adventures of the
Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the
Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered,
Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man's watch, to
prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that
therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time--a
deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the
case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of
them present such singular features as the strange train of
circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.

It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales
had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had
screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that
even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced
to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and
to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which
shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like
untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew
higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in
the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the
fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the
other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories until
the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text,
and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of
the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a
few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker
Street.

"Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was surely the
bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?"

"Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not encourage
visitors."

"A client, then?"

"If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out
on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more
likely to be some crony of the landlady's."

Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there
came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He
stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and
towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

"Come in!" said he.

The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the
outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of
refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella
which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told
of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about
him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his
face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is
weighed down with some great anxiety.

"I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden pince-nez to
his eyes. "I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have
brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug
chamber."

"Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes. "They may rest
here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from
the south-west, I see."

"Yes, from Horsham."

"That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is
quite distinctive."

"I have come for advice."

"That is easily got."

"And help."

"That is not always so easy."

"I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast
how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."

"Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards."

"He said that you could solve anything."

"He said too much."

"That you are never beaten."

"I have been beaten four times--three times by men, and once by a
woman."

"But what is that compared with the number of your successes?"

"It is true that I have been generally successful."

"Then you may be so with me."

"I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me
with some details as to your case."

"It is no ordinary one."

"None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of
appeal."

"And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you
have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of
events than those which have happened in my own family."

"You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us the
essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards
question you as to those details which seem to me to be most
important."

The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out
towards the blaze.

"My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have,
as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful
business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an
idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the
affair.

"You must know that my grandfather had two sons--my uncle Elias
and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry,
which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He
was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business
met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire
upon a handsome competence.

"My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and
became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done
very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army,
and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When
Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where
he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came
back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham.
He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his
reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes, and his
dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to
them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very
foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring
disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I
doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or
three fields round his house, and there he would take his
exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave
his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very
heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any
friends, not even his own brother.

"He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the
time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This
would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years
in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he
was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be
fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would
make me his representative both with the servants and with the
tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite
master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I
liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in
his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he
had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was
invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or
anyone else to enter. With a boy's curiosity I have peeped
through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a
collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such
a room.

"One day--it was in March, 1883--a letter with a foreign stamp
lay upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was not a
common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all
paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. 'From
India!' said he as he took it up, 'Pondicherry postmark! What can
this be?' Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little
dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to
laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight
of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his
skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he
still held in his trembling hand, 'K. K. K.!' he shrieked, and
then, 'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!'

"'What is it, uncle?' I cried.

"'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired to his
room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope
and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the
gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else
save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his
overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I
ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key,
which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small
brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.

"'They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,'
said he with an oath. 'Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my
room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.'

"I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to
step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the
grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned
paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I
glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was
printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the
envelope.

"'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my will. I leave
my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to
my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to
you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you
cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest
enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't
say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper
where Mr. Fordham shows you.'

"I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with
him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest
impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every
way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I
could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left
behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed
and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I
could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever,
and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his
time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the
inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy
and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a
revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man,
and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by
man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would
rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him,
like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror
which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen
his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it
were new raised from a basin.

"Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to
abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those
drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when
we went to search for him, face downward in a little
green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There
was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep,
so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity,
brought in a verdict of 'suicide.' But I, who knew how he winced
from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself
that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed,
however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and
of some 14,000 pounds, which lay to his credit at the bank."

"One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I foresee,
one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me
have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and
the date of his supposed suicide."

"The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks
later, upon the night of May 2nd."

"Thank you. Pray proceed."

"When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my
request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been
always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its
contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a
paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and
'Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register' written beneath.
These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had
been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was
nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many
scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle's life in
America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had
done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier.
Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern
states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had
evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag
politicians who had been sent down from the North.

"Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live at
Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the
January of '85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my
father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the
breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened
envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the
outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what
he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked
very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon
himself.

"'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he stammered.

"My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' said I.

"He looked inside the envelope. 'So it is,' he cried. 'Here are
the very letters. But what is this written above them?'

"'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peeping over his
shoulder.

"'What papers? What sundial?' he asked.

"'The sundial in the garden. There is no other,' said I; 'but the
papers must be those that are destroyed.'

"'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. 'We are in a
civilised land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind.
Where does the thing come from?'

"'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.

"'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. 'What have I to do
with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such
nonsense.'

"'I should certainly speak to the police,' I said.

"'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'

"'Then let me do so?'

"'No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such
nonsense.'

"It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate
man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of
forebodings.

"On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went
from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is
in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad
that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from
danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in
error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram
from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had
fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the
neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I
hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered
his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from
Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him,
and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in
bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes.'
Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I
was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of
murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no
robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads.
And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease,
and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been
woven round him.

"In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me
why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well
convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an
incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as
pressing in one house as in another.

"It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two
years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time
I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that
this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended
with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon,
however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in
which it had come upon my father."

The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and
turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried
orange pips.

"This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is
London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were
upon my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the
papers on the sundial.'"

"What have you done?" asked Holmes.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white
hands--"I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor
rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in
the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight
and no precautions can guard against."

"Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are
lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for
despair."

"I have seen the police."

"Ah!"

"But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that
the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all
practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really
accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with
the warnings."

Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible
imbecility!" he cried.

"They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in
the house with me."

"Has he come with you to-night?"

"No. His orders were to stay in the house."

Again Holmes raved in the air.

"Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, above all, why did you
not come at once?"

"I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major
Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to
you."

"It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have
acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than
that which you have placed before us--no suggestive detail which
might help us?"

"There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat
pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted
paper, he laid it out upon the table. "I have some remembrance,"
said he, "that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I
observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the
ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet
upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it
may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from
among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond
the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think
myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is
undoubtedly my uncle's."

Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper,
which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from
a book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were the
following enigmatical notices:

"4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.

"7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and
      John Swain, of St. Augustine.

"9th. McCauley cleared.

"10th. John Swain cleared.

"12th. Visited Paramore. All well."

"Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it
to our visitor. "And now you must on no account lose another
instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told
me. You must get home instantly and act."

"What shall I do?"

"There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must
put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass
box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say
that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that
this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such
words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you
must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do
you understand?"

"Entirely."

"Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I
think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our
web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first
consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens
you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the
guilty parties."

"I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling on his
overcoat. "You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall
certainly do as you advise."

"Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in
the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that
you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you
go back?"

"By train from Waterloo."

"It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that
you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too
closely."

"I am armed."

"That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case."

"I shall see you at Horsham, then?"

"No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek
it."

"Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news
as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every
particular." He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside
the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered
against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come
to us from amid the mad elements--blown in upon us like a sheet
of sea-weed in a gale--and now to have been reabsorbed by them
once more.

Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk
forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he
lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue
smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

"I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all our cases we
have had none more fantastic than this."

"Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."

"Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems
to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the
Sholtos."

"But have you," I asked, "formed any definite conception as to
what these perils are?"

"There can be no question as to their nature," he answered.

"Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue
this unhappy family?"

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the
arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. "The ideal
reasoner," he remarked, "would, when he had once been shown a
single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the
chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which
would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole
animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who
has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents
should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both
before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the
reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study
which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the
aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest
pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to
utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this
in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all
knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and
encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so
impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge
which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have
endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one
occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits
in a very precise fashion."

"Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singular document.
Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I
remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the
mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry
eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime
records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and
self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the
main points of my analysis."

Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he said, "I say now, as
I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic
stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the
rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he
can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which
has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster
all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the
'American Encyclopaedia' which stands upon the shelf beside you.
Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what may be
deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong
presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for
leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their
habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for
the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love
of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of
someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis
that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from
America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by
considering the formidable letters which were received by himself
and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those
letters?"

"The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the
third from London."

"From East London. What do you deduce from that?"

"They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship."

"Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that
the probability--the strong probability--is that the writer was
on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the
case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and
its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days.
Does that suggest anything?"

"A greater distance to travel."

"But the letter had also a greater distance to come."

"Then I do not see the point."

"There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man
or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send
their singular warning or token before them when starting upon
their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign
when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a
steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter.
But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those
seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which
brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the
writer."

"It is possible."

"More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly
urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to
caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which
it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one
comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay."

"Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless
persecution?"

"The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital
importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think
that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them.
A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way
as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in
it, and they must have been men of resource and determination.
Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may.
In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an
individual and becomes the badge of a society."

"But of what society?"

"Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and
sinking his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"

"I never have."

Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it
is," said he presently:

"'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to
the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret
society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the
Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local
branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee,
Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was
used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of
the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country
of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually
preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic
but generally recognised shape--a sprig of oak-leaves in some
parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this
the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might
fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would
unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and
unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the
society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a
case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with
impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the
perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite
of the efforts of the United States government and of the better
classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year
1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have
been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.'

"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that
the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the
disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may
well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his
family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track.
You can understand that this register and diary may implicate
some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many
who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered."

"Then the page we have seen--"

"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent
the pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to
them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or
left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a
sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let
some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only
chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have
told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done
to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for
half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable
ways of our fellow-men."


It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a
subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the
great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came
down.

"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I
foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of
young Openshaw's."

"What steps will you take?" I asked.

"It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries.
I may have to go down to Horsham, after all."

"You will not go there first?"

"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the
maid will bring up your coffee."

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and
glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a
chill to my heart.

"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."

"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it
done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy
Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:

"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and
a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and
stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it
was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was
given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was
eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman
whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his
pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham.
It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch
the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and
the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge
of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body
exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that
the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident,
which should have the effect of calling the attention of the
authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages."

We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and
shaken than I had ever seen him.

"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty
feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal
matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my
hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that
I should send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair
and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a
flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and
unclasping of his long thin hands.

"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could
they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the
direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too
crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson,
we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!"

"To the police?"

"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may
take the flies, but not before."

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in
the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes
had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he
entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard,
and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously,
washing it down with a long draught of water.

"You are hungry," I remarked.

"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
breakfast."

"Nothing?"

"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."

"And how have you succeeded?"

"Well."

"You have a clue?"

"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not
long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish
trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"

"What do you mean?"

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he
squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and
thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote
"S. H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain
James Calhoun, Barque 'Lone Star,' Savannah, Georgia."

"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling.
"It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a
precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him."

"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."

"How did you trace it, then?"

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with
dates and names.

"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers
and files of the old papers, following the future career of every
vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in
'83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were
reported there during those months. Of these, one, the 'Lone Star,'
instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported
as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to
one of the states of the Union."

"Texas, I think."

"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must
have an American origin."

"What then?"

"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque
'Lone Star' was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a
certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present
in the port of London."

"Yes?"

"The 'Lone Star' had arrived here last week. I went down to the
Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by
the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired
to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and
as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the
Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."

"What will you do, then?"

"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I
learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are
Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away
from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has
been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship
reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and
the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these
three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans,
and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the
orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as
resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very
severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for
news of the "Lone Star" of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We
did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a
shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough
of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon it, and that is
all which we shall ever know of the fate of the "Lone Star."



ADVENTURE VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal
of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to
opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some
foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De
Quincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he had
drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the
same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the
practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many
years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of
mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see
him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point
pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble
man.

One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell,
about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the
clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work
down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps
upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in
some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then,
suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms
about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in
such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help."

"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney.
How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when
you came in."

"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was
always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds
to a light-house.

"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine
and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or
should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about
Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about
him!"

It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her
husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend
and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words
as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it
possible that we could bring him back to her?

It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late
he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the
farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been
confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and
shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him
eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the
dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the
effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar
of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could
she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and
pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of
it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second
thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical
adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it
better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would
send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the
address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left
my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding
eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at
the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to
be.

But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my
adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the
high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east
of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached
by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the
mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search.
Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in
the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the
light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch
and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the
brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the
forecastle of an emigrant ship.

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying
in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads
thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a
dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black
shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright,
now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of
the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to
themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low,
monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then
suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own
thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At
the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside
which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old
man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon
his knees, staring into the fire.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe
for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend
of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and
peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and
unkempt, staring out at me.

"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of
reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what
o'clock is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Of what day?"

"Of Friday, June 19th."

"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What
d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his
arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting
this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here
a few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll
go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate.
Give me your hand! Have you a cab?"

"Yes, I have one waiting."

"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I
owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of
sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying
fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed
the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my
skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look
back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I
glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my
side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very
wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between
his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his
fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my
self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of
astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him
but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull
eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and
grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He
made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he
turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided
into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.

"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you
would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend
of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with
you."

"I have a cab outside."

"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should
recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to
say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait
outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, for
they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with
such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney
was once confined in the cab my mission was practically
accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better
than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular
adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a
few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him
out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a
very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den,
and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two
streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.
Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and
burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added
opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical
views."

"I was certainly surprised to find you there."

"But not more so than I to find you."

"I came to find a friend."

"And I to find an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural
prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable
inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent
ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been
recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an
hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own
purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have
vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that
building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless
nights."

"What! You do not mean bodies?"

"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had 1000 pounds
for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It
is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that
Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our
trap should be here." He put his two forefingers between his
teeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which was answered by a
similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle
of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through
the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from
its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?"

"If I can be of use."

"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still
more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

"The Cedars?"

"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I
conduct the inquiry."

"Where is it, then?"

"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."

"But I am all in the dark."

"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up
here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a
crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her
head. So long, then!"

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through
the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which
widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad
balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly
beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and
mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of
the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of
revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a
star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of
the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his
breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat
beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which
seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in
upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles,
and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban
villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up
his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he
is acting for the best.

"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes
you quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great
thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are
not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear
little woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

"You forget that I know nothing about it."

"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before
we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can
get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I
can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case
clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a
spark where all is dark to me."

"Proceed, then."

"Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee
a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have
plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very
nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made
friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter
of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no
occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into
town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon
Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of
age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very
affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know
him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far
as we have been able to ascertain, amount to 88 pounds 10s., while
he has 220 pounds standing to his credit in the Capital and
Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money
troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier
than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important
commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy
home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife
received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his
departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable
value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the
offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up
in your London, you will know that the office of the company is
in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where
you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for
the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office,
got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through
Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me
so far?"

"It is very clear."

"If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.
Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab,
as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself.
While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly
heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her
husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning
to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she
distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly
agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then
vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that
he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind.
One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that
although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town
in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the
steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which
you found me to-night--and running through the front room she
attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At
the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of
whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who
acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled
with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the
lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of
constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The
inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the
continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to
the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no
sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was
no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who,
it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly
swore that no one else had been in the front room during the
afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was
staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had
been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box
which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell
a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had
promised to bring home.

"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple
showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious.
The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an
abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a
sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon
the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom
window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered
at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The
bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On
examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill,
and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of
the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were
all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of
his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch--all were
there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these
garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St.
Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no
other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon
the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by
swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of
the tragedy.

"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately
implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the
vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was
known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few
seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could
hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence
was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no
knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he
could not account in any way for the presence of the missing
gentleman's clothes.

"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who
lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was
certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St.
Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which
is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a
professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police
regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some
little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand
side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the
wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,
cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he
is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the
greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I
have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of
making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised
at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His
appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him
without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face
disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has
turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a
pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular
contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid
the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he
is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be
thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now
learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been
the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."

"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handed
against a man in the prime of life?"

"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in
other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man.
Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that
weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional
strength in the others."

"Pray continue your narrative."

"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the
window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her
presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful
examination of the premises, but without finding anything which
threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not
arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes
during which he might have communicated with his friend the
Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and
searched, without anything being found which could incriminate
him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right
shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been
cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from
there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and
that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from
the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr.
Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in
his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to
Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband
at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or
dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the
police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in
the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.

"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they
had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not
Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And
what do you think they found in the pockets?"

"I cannot imagine."

"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with
pennies and half-pennies--421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It
was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a
human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between
the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the
weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked
away into the river."

"But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the
room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose
that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the
window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed.
What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him
that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize
the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it
would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little
time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried
to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his
Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.
There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret
hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he
stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the
pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and
would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard
the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the
window when the police appeared."

"It certainly sounds feasible."

"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a
better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the
station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before
been anything against him. He had for years been known as a
professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very
quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and
the questions which have to be solved--what Neville St. Clair was
doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is
he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance--are
all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot
recall any case within my experience which looked at the first
glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of
events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great
town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and
we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us.
Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered
villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We have
touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in
Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent.
See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside
that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have
little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet."

"But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" I
asked.

"Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here.
Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and
you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for
my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have
no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"

We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its
own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, and
springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding
gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door
flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad
in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy
pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure
outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one
half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head
and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing
question.

"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were two
of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw
that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"No good news?"

"None."

"No bad?"

"No."

"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have
had a long day."

"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to
me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it
possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this
investigation."

"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly.
"You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our
arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so
suddenly upon us."

"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I were
not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of
any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be
indeed happy."

"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a
well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had
been laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or two
plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain
answer."

"Certainly, madam."

"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given
to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."

"Upon what point?"

"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.
"Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking
keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

"You think that he is dead?"

"I do."

"Murdered?"

"I don't say that. Perhaps."

"And on what day did he meet his death?"

"On Monday."

"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how
it is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been
galvanised.

"What!" he roared.

"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of
paper in the air.

"May I see it?"

"Certainly."

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out
upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I
had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The
envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend
postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day
before, for it was considerably after midnight.

"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not your
husband's writing, madam."

"No, but the enclosure is."

"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go
and inquire as to the address."

"How can you tell that?"

"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried
itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that
blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight
off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This
man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before
he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not
familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is
nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha!
there has been an enclosure here!"

"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."

"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

"One of his hands."

"One?"

"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual
writing, and yet I know it well."

"'Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a
huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.
Wait in patience.--NEVILLE.' Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf
of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in
Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been
gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been
chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband's
hand, madam?"

"None. Neville wrote those words."

"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair,
the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the
danger is over."

"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent.
The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from
him."

"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only
posted to-day."

"That is possible."

"If so, much may have happened between."

"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is
well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I
should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him
last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room
rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that
something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such
a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?"

"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman
may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical
reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong
piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband
is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away
from you?"

"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

"No."

"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

"Very much so."

"Was the window open?"

"Yes."

"Then he might have called to you?"

"He might."

"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

"Yes."

"A call for help, you thought?"

"Yes. He waved his hands."

"But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"

"It is possible."

"And you thought he was pulled back?"

"He disappeared so suddenly."

"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the
room?"

"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and
the Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his
ordinary clothes on?"

"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare
throat."

"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

"Never."

"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

"Never."

"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about
which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little
supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day
to-morrow."

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary
after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however,
who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for
days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over,
rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view
until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his
data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now
preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and
waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered
about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from
the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of
Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with
an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front
of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an
old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the
corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him,
silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set
aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he
sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found
the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still
between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was
full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of
shag which I had seen upon the previous night.

"Awake, Watson?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Game for a morning drive?"

"Certainly."

"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the
stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He
chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed
a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one
was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly
finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was
putting in the horse.

"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his
boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the
presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve
to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the
key of the affair now."

"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," he
continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been
there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this
Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will
not fit the lock."

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into
the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and
trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both
sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country
carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but
the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as
some city in a dream.

"It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes,
flicking the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been
as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than
never to learn it at all."

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily
from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey
side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the
river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the
right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well
known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted
him. One of them held the horse's head while the other led us in.

"Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

"Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

"Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come
down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged
jacket. "I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet."
"Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small,
office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a
telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his
desk.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged
with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St.
Clair, of Lee."

"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."

"So I heard. You have him here?"

"In the cells."

"Is he quiet?"

"Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."

"Dirty?"

"Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his
face is as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been
settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you
saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it."

"I should like to see him very much."

"Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave
your bag."

"No, I think that I'll take it."

"Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a
passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and
brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each
side.

"The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it
is!" He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door
and glanced through.

"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."

We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his
face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and
heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his
calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his
tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely
dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its
repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right
across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up
one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a
perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over
his eyes and forehead.

"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.

"He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an idea that
he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me."
He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my
astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.

"He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.

"Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very
quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable
figure."

"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn't
look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped his
key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The
sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep
slumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge,
and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the
prisoner's face.

"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
Lee, in the county of Kent."

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled
off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the
coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had
seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the
repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled
red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale,
sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned,
rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment.
Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and
threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing
man. I know him from the photograph."

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons
himself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am I
charged with?"

"With making away with Mr. Neville St.-- Oh, come, you can't be
charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of
it," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been
twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake."

"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime
has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally
detained."

"No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said
Holmes. "You would have done better to have trusted your wife."

"It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner.
"God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My
God! What an exposure! What can I do?"

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him
kindly on the shoulder.

"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said
he, "of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand,
if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible
case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the
details should find their way into the papers. Inspector
Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you
might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case
would then never go into court at all."

"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would have
endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left
my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

"You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent
education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and
finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day
my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the
metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point
from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying
begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to
base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the
secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for
my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my
face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good
scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a
small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of
hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business
part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a
beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned
home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no
less than 26s. 4d.

"I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until,
some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ
served upon me for 25 pounds. I was at my wit's end where to get
the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's
grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers,
and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In
ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.

"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous
work at 2 pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as much in
a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on
the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between my
pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up
reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first
chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets
with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a
low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could
every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings
transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow,
a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that
my secret was safe in his possession.

"Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of
money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London
could earn 700 pounds a year--which is less than my average
takings--but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making
up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved by
practice and made me quite a recognised character in the City.
All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me,
and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take 2 pounds.

"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the
country, and eventually married, without anyone having a
suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had
business in the City. She little knew what.

"Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my
room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw,
to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the
street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of
surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my
confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from
coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that
she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on
those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's
eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it
occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that
the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening
by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in
the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was
weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from
the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of
the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes
would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of
constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather,
I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr.
Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.

"I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I
was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and
hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would
be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the
Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together
with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to
fear."

"That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.

"Good God! What a week she must have spent!"

"The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet,
"and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to
post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor
customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days."

"That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubt
of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"

"Many times; but what was a fine to me?"

"It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police are
to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."

"I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take."

"In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps
may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out.
I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for
having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your
results."

"I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five
pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if
we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."



VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second
morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the
compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a
purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the
right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly
studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and
on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable
hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several
places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair
suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the
purpose of examination.

"You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

"Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss
my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one"--he jerked his
thumb in the direction of the old hat--"but there are points in
connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and
even of instruction."

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows
were thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that,
homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to
it--that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of
some mystery and the punishment of some crime."

"No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of
those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have
four million human beings all jostling each other within the
space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so
dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events
may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be
presented which may be striking and bizarre without being
criminal. We have already had experience of such."

"So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I
have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any
legal crime."

"Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler
papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the
adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt
that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category.
You know Peterson, the commissionaire?"

"Yes."

"It is to him that this trophy belongs."

"It is his hat."

"No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will
look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual
problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon
Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I
have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's
fire. The facts are these: about four o'clock on Christmas
morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was
returning from some small jollification and was making his way
homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in
the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and
carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the
corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger
and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the
man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and,
swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him.
Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his
assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and
seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him,
dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the
labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham
Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of
Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of
battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this
battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose."

"Which surely he restored to their owner?"

"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For
Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to
the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H.
B.' are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are
some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in
this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any
one of them."

"What, then, did Peterson do?"

"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me.
The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs
that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it
should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried
it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose,
while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who
lost his Christmas dinner."

"Did he not advertise?"

"No."

"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

"Only as much as we can deduce."

"From his hat?"

"Precisely."

"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered
felt?"

"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather
yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this
article?"

I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round
shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of
red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's
name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were
scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a
hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was
cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places,
although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the
discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail,
however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in
drawing your inferences."

"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective
fashion which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less
suggestive than it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there
are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others
which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That
the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the
face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the
last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He
had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a
moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his
fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink,
at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that
his wife has ceased to love him."

"My dear Holmes!"

"He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a
sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is
middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the
last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are
the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also,
by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid
on in his house."

"You are certainly joking, Holmes."

"Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you
these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

"I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I
am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that
this man was intellectual?"

For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right
over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is
a question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a
brain must have something in it."

"The decline of his fortunes, then?"

"This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge
came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the
band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could
afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no
hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

"Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the
foresight and the moral retrogression?"

Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he putting
his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.
"They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a
sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his
way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see
that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace
it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly,
which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other
hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the
felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not
entirely lost his self-respect."

"Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

"The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses
lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the
lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of
hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all
appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of
lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey
dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house,
showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while
the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the
wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in
the best of training."

"But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

"This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and
when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear
that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's
affection."

"But he might be a bachelor."

"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his
wife. Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

"You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce
that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

"One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I
see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt
that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with
burning tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in
one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never
got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"

"Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as
you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm
done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a
waste of energy."

Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew
open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment
with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with
astonishment.

"The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.

"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off
through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon
the sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

"See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out
his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but
of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric
point in the dark hollow of his hand.

Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said
he, "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you
have got?"

"A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though
it were putty."

"It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."

"Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

"Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I
have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day
lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be
conjectured, but the reward offered of 1000 pounds is certainly
not within a twentieth part of the market price."

"A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire
plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

"That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
sentimental considerations in the background which would induce
the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but
recover the gem."

"It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I
remarked.

"Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner,
a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's
jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case
has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the
matter here, I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers,
glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out,
doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:

"Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst.,
abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the
valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder,
upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect
that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess
of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he might
solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had
remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been
called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared,
that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco
casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was
accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the
dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was
arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found
either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to
the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on
discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room,
where she found matters as described by the last witness.
Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest
of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence
in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for
robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate
refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to
the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion
during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was
carried out of court."

"Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully,
tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the
sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to
the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You
see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much
more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the
stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry
Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other
characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set
ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and
ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To
do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie
undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If
this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods."

"What will you say?"

"Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: 'Found at
the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr.
Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at
221B, Baker Street.' That is clear and concise."

"Very. But will he see it?"

"Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor
man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his
mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson
that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must
have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his
bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to
see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to
it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency
and have this put in the evening papers."

"In which, sir?"

"Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News,
Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."

"Very well, sir. And this stone?"

"Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say,
Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here
with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place
of the one which your family is now devouring."

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and
held it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just
see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and
focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet
baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a
bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found
in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable
in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is
blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has
already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a
vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about
for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal.
Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the
gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in my strong box now and
drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it."

"Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

"I cannot tell."

"Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
anything to do with the matter?"

"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an
absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he
was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made
of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple
test if we have an answer to our advertisement."

"And you can do nothing until then?"

"Nothing."

"In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall
come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I
should like to see the solution of so tangled a business."

"Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I
believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I
ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past
six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I
approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a
coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the
bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I
arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to
Holmes' room.

"Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his armchair
and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he
could so readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr.
Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is
more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have
just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?"

"Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a
broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of
grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight
tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his
habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in
front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded
from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a
slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the
impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had
ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

"We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes,
"because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your
address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not
been so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had
no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off
both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a
hopeless attempt at recovering them."

"Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to
eat it."

"To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his
excitement.

"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so.
But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is
about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your
purpose equally well?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of
relief.

"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of
your own bird, so if you wish--"

The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as
relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly
see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are
going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I
will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive
upon the sideboard."

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug
of his shoulders.

"There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the
way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one
from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a
better grown goose."

"Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly
gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who
frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum--we are to be found in
the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our
good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which,
on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to
receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the
rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a
Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity." With
a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and
strode off upon his way.

"So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the
door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing
whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

"Not particularly."

"Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow
up this clue while it is still hot."

"By all means."

It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped
cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly
in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out
into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out
crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors' quarter,
Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into
Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at
the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one
of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open
the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from
the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

"Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,"
said he.

"My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker,
who was a member of your goose club."

"Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

"Indeed! Whose, then?"

"Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."

"Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"

"Breckinridge is his name."

"Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health landlord,
and prosperity to your house. Good-night."

"Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat
as we came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that though
we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we
have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal
servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible
that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we
have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police,
and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us
follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and
quick march!"

We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a
zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest
stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor
a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was
helping a boy to put up the shutters.

"Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my
companion.

"Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the
bare slabs of marble.

"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

"That's no good."

"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

"Ah, but I was recommended to you."

"Who by?"

"The landlord of the Alpha."

"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"

To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
salesman.

"Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms
akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."

"It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the
geese which you supplied to the Alpha."

"Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you
should be so warm over such a trifle."

"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am.
When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end
of the business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you
sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One
would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the
fuss that is made over them."

"Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been
making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us
the bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my
opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the
bird I ate is country bred."

"Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped
the salesman.

"It's nothing of the kind."

"I say it is."

"I don't believe it."

"D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled
them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that
went to the Alpha were town bred."

"You'll never persuade me to believe that."

"Will you bet, then?"

"It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But
I'll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be
obstinate."

The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said
he.

The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging
lamp.

"Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I
was out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is
still one left in my shop. You see this little book?"

"Well?"

"That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well,
then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers
after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger.
Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a
list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just
read it out to me."

"Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes.

"Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."

Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs.
Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"

"Now, then, what's the last entry?"

"'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"

"Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"

"'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"

"What have you to say now?"

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from
his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the
air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off
he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless
fashion which was peculiar to him.

"When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the 'Pink 'un'
protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,"
said he. "I daresay that if I had put 100 pounds down in front of
him, that man would not have given me such complete information
as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a
wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our
quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is
whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or
whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what
that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves
who are anxious about the matter, and I should--"

His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke
out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a
little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of
yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while
Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was
shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.

"I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you
were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more
with your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs.
Oakshott here and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with
it? Did I buy the geese off you?"

"No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little
man.

"Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

"She told me to ask you."

"Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had
enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and
the inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

"Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes.
"Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this
fellow." Striding through the scattered knots of people who
lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook
the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang
round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige of
colour had been driven from his face.

"Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering
voice.

"You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help
overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now.
I think that I could be of assistance to you."

"You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
people don't know."

"But you can know nothing of this?"

"Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to
trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton
Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr.
Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr.
Henry Baker is a member."

"Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried
the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers.
"I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that
case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this
wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we
go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he
answered with a sidelong glance.

"No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always
awkward doing business with an alias."

A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then,"
said he, "my real name is James Ryder."

"Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray
step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you
everything which you would wish to know."

The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure
whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe.
Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in
the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during
our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and
the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous
tension within him.

"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room.
"The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold,
Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my
slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then!
You want to know what became of those geese?"

"Yes, sir."

"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in
which you were interested--white, with a black bar across the
tail."

Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell
me where it went to?"

"It came here."

"Here?"

"Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that
you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was
dead--the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen.
I have it here in my museum."

Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece
with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up
the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold,
brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a
drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

"The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or
you'll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair,
Watson. He's not got blood enough to go in for felony with
impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little
more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!"

For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy
brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring
with frightened eyes at his accuser.

"I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I
could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me.
Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case
complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the
Countess of Morcar's?"

"It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a
crackling voice.

"I see--her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of
sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has
been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous
in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the
making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man
Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter
before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him.
What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady's
room--you and your confederate Cusack--and you managed that he
should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled
the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man
arrested. You then--"

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked.
"Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I
never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll
swear it on a Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's
sake, don't!"

"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very well
to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this
poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

"I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the
charge against him will break down."

"Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account
of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came
the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies
your only hope of safety."

Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you
it just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been
arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get
away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment
the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my
room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe.
I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister's
house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton
Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there
every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective;
and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down
my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me
what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I
had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went
into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would
be best to do.

"I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and
has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met
me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they
could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to
me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind
to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my
confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money.
But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had
gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment be
seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat
pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at
the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly
an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the
best detective that ever lived.

"My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the
pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she
was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in
it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in
the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds--a fine big
one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill
open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger
could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass
along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped
and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the
matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and
fluttered off among the others.

"'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.

"'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I
was feeling which was the fattest.'

"'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you--Jem's bird, we
call it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six
of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen
for the market.'

"'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the same to you,
I'd rather have that one I was handling just now.'

"'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we
fattened it expressly for you.'

"'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.

"'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it
you want, then?'

"'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
flock.'

"'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

"Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird
all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was
a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed
until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My
heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I
knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird,
rushed back to my sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There
was not a bird to be seen there.

"'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

"'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

"'Which dealer's?'

"'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

"'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same
as the one I chose?'

"'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never
tell them apart.'

"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my
feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the
lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they
had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always
answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad.
Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now--and now I am myself
a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which
I sold my character. God help me! God help me!" He burst into
convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.

There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and
by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the
edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

"Get out!" said he.

"What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

"No more words. Get out!"

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon
the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running
footfalls from the street.

"After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his
clay pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their
deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing;
but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must
collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just
possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong
again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and
you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of
forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and
whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you
will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin
another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief
feature."



VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND

On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I
have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend
Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number
merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did
rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of
wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation
which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic.
Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which
presented more singular features than that which was associated
with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran.
The events in question occurred in the early days of my
association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors
in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them
upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the
time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by
the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It
is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I
have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the
death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even
more terrible than the truth.

It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to
find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my
bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the
mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I
blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little
resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.

"Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the
common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she
retorted upon me, and I on you."

"What is it, then--a fire?"

"No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a
considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She
is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander
about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock
sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is
something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it
prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to
follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should
call you and give you the chance."

"My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his
professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid
deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a
logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were
submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in
a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A
lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in
the window, rose as we entered.

"Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson,
before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am
glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the
fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot
coffee, for I observe that you are shivering."

"It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a low
voice, changing her seat as requested.

"What, then?"

"It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her veil as
she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable
state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless
frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features
and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot
with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard.
Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick,
all-comprehensive glances.

"You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending forward and
patting her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have no
doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see."

"You know me, then?"

"No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm
of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had
a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached
the station."

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.

"There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling. "The left
arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven
places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a
dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you
sit on the left-hand side of the driver."

"Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct," said
she. "I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at
twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I
can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues.
I have no one to turn to--none, save only one, who cares for me,
and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you,
Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you
helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had
your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me,
too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness
which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward
you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be
married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you
shall not find me ungrateful."

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.

"Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it was
concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time,
Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote
the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to
reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty
to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which
suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us
everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter."

"Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my situation
lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions
depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to
another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to
look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it
as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can
read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have
heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold
wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid
the dangers which encompass me."

"I am all attention, madam."

"My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who
is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in
England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of
Surrey."

Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," said he.

"The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north,
and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four
successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition,
and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the
days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground,
and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under
a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence
there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but
his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to
the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which
enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta,
where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he
established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused
by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he
beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital
sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and
afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man.

"When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner,
the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery.
My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old
at the time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable
sum of money--not less than 1000 pounds a year--and this she
bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him,
with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to
each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return
to England my mother died--she was killed eight years ago in a
railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his
attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us
to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The
money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and
there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

"But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our
neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of
Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in
his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious
quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper
approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the
family, and in my stepfather's case it had, I believe, been
intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the
police-court, until at last he became the terror of the village,
and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of
immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

"Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a
stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I
could gather together that I was able to avert another public
exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gipsies,
and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few
acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate,
and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents,
wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a
passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a
correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon,
which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the
villagers almost as much as their master.

"You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I
had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with
us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was
but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already
begun to whiten, even as mine has."

"Your sister is dead, then?"

"She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish
to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I
have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own
age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden
sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we
were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady's
house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there
a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My
stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned and
offered no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight of
the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event
occurred which has deprived me of my only companion."

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes
closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his
lids now and glanced across at his visitor.

"Pray be precise as to details," said he.

"It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful
time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have
already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The
bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms
being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms
the first is Dr. Roylott's, the second my sister's, and the third
my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open
out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?"

"Perfectly so."

"The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That
fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we
knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled
by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom
to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where
she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At
eleven o'clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door
and looked back.

"'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone whistle
in the dead of the night?'

"'Never,' said I.

"'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in
your sleep?'

"'Certainly not. But why?'

"'Because during the last few nights I have always, about three
in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper,
and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from--perhaps
from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would
just ask you whether you had heard it.'

"'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the
plantation.'

"'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you
did not hear it also.'

"'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'

"'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.' She smiled
back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her
key turn in the lock."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Was it your custom always to lock
yourselves in at night?"

"Always."

"And why?"

"I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah
and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were
locked."

"Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."

"I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending
misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect,
were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two
souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind
was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing
against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale,
there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew
that it was my sister's voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a
shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door
I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and
a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had
fallen. As I ran down the passage, my sister's door was unlocked,
and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it
horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By
the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at the
opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for
help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a
drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground.
She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were
dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not
recognised me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out
in a voice which I shall never forget, 'Oh, my God! Helen! It was
the band! The speckled band!' There was something else which she
would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the
air in the direction of the doctor's room, but a fresh convulsion
seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for
my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his
dressing-gown. When he reached my sister's side she was
unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent
for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for
she slowly sank and died without having recovered her
consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister."

"One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this whistle and
metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"

"That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is
my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of
the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have
been deceived."

"Was your sister dressed?"

"No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."

"Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when
the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did
the coroner come to?"

"He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott's
conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable
to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that
the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows
were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars,
which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded,
and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was
also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is
wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is certain,
therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end.
Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her."

"How about poison?"

"The doctors examined her for it, but without success."

"What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"

"It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock,
though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."

"Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?"

"Yes, there are nearly always some there."

"Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band--a
speckled band?"

"Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of
delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of
people, perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not
know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear
over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which
she used."

Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

"These are very deep waters," said he; "pray go on with your
narrative."

"Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until
lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend,
whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask
my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage--Percy Armitage--the
second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My
stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to
be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs
were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom
wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the
chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in
which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last
night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I
suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which
had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the
lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to
go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was
daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which
is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on
this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your
advice."

"You have done wisely," said my friend. "But have you told me
all?"

"Yes, all."

"Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather."

"Why, what do you mean?"

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which
fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little
livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed
upon the white wrist.

"You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.

The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. "He
is a hard man," she said, "and perhaps he hardly knows his own
strength."

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin
upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

"This is a very deep business," he said at last. "There are a
thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide
upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If
we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for
us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your
stepfather?"

"As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some
most important business. It is probable that he will be away all
day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a
housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily
get her out of the way."

"Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"

"By no means."

"Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?"

"I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am
in town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so as to
be there in time for your coming."

"And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some
small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and
breakfast?"

"No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have
confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you
again this afternoon." She dropped her thick black veil over her
face and glided from the room.

"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes,
leaning back in his chair.

"It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."

"Dark enough and sinister enough."

"Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls
are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable,
then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her
mysterious end."

"What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the
very peculiar words of the dying woman?"

"I cannot think."

"When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of
a band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor,
the fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has
an interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying
allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner
heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of
those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its
place, I think that there is good ground to think that the
mystery may be cleared along those lines."

"But what, then, did the gipsies do?"

"I cannot imagine."

"I see many objections to any such theory."

"And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going
to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are
fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of
the devil!"

The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that
our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had
framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar
mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a
black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters,
with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his
hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his
breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face,
seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and
marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other
of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin,
fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old
bird of prey.

"Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.

"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my
companion quietly.

"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."

"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I
have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.

"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man
furiously.

"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my
companion imperturbably.

"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step
forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel!
I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

My friend smiled.

"Holmes, the busybody!"

His smile broadened.

"Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"

Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most
entertaining," said he. "When you go out close the door, for
there is a decided draught."

"I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare to meddle with
my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her!
I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here." He stepped
swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with
his huge brown hands.

"See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he snarled, and
hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the
room.

"He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing. "I am
not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him
that my grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he spoke
he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort,
straightened it out again.

"Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer
from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now,
Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk
down to Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get some data which may
help us in this matter."


It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled
over with notes and figures.

"I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he. "To
determine its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the
present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The
total income, which at the time of the wife's death was little
short of 1100 pounds, is now, through the fall in agricultural
prices, not more than 750 pounds. Each daughter can claim an
income of 250 pounds, in case of marriage. It is evident,
therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have
had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to
a very serious extent. My morning's work has not been wasted,
since it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for
standing in the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson,
this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is
aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you
are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be
very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your
pocket. An Eley's No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen
who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush
are, I think, all that we need."

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for
Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove
for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a
perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the
heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out
their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant
smell of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange
contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this
sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in
the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over
his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the
deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the
shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.

"Look there!" said he.

A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope,
thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the
branches there jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a
very old mansion.

"Stoke Moran?" said he.

"Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott," remarked
the driver.

"There is some building going on there," said Holmes; "that is
where we are going."

"There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a cluster of
roofs some distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the
house, you'll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by
the foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is
walking."

"And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed Holmes, shading
his eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest."

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way
to Leatherhead.

"I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the stile,
"that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or
on some definite business. It may stop his gossip.
Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as
our word."

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a
face which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly for
you," she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned
out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely
that he will be back before evening."

"We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaintance,"
said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had
occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

"Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then."

"So it appears."

"He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What
will he say when he returns?"

"He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone
more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself
up from him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to
your aunt's at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our
time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to
examine."

The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high
central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab,
thrown out on each side. In one of these wings the windows were
broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly
caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little
better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern,
and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up
from the chimneys, showed that this was where the family resided.
Some scaffolding had been erected against the end wall, and the
stone-work had been broken into, but there were no signs of any
workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and
down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep attention the
outsides of the windows.

"This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep,
the centre one to your sister's, and the one next to the main
building to Dr. Roylott's chamber?"

"Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one."

"Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does
not seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end
wall."

"There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from
my room."

"Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow
wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There
are windows in it, of course?"

"Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass
through."

"As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were
unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness
to go into your room and bar your shutters?"

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination
through the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the
shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through
which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his
lens he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built
firmly into the massive masonry. "Hum!" said he, scratching his
chin in some perplexity, "my theory certainly presents some
difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were
bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon
the matter."

A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which
the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third
chamber, so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss
Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her
fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a
gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A
brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow
white-counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the
left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two small
wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save
for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and
the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old
and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building
of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat
silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down,
taking in every detail of the apartment.

"Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at last
pointing to a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the
tassel actually lying upon the pillow.

"It goes to the housekeeper's room."

"It looks newer than the other things?"

"Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."

"Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"

"No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
wanted for ourselves."

"Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there.
You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to
this floor." He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in
his hand and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining
minutely the cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with
the wood-work with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he
walked over to the bed and spent some time in staring at it and
in running his eye up and down the wall. Finally he took the
bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.

"Why, it's a dummy," said he.

"Won't it ring?"

"No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting.
You can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where
the little opening for the ventilator is."

"How very absurd! I never noticed that before."

"Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. "There are
one or two very singular points about this room. For example,
what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another
room, when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated
with the outside air!"

"That is also quite modern," said the lady.

"Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked Holmes.

"Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that
time."

"They seem to have been of a most interesting character--dummy
bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into
the inner apartment."

Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that of his
step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small
wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an
armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a
round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things
which met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each
and all of them with the keenest interest.

"What's in here?" he asked, tapping the safe.

"My stepfather's business papers."

"Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

"Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of
papers."

"There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

"No. What a strange idea!"

"Well, look at this!" He took up a small saucer of milk which
stood on the top of it.

"No; we don't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon."

"Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I
daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine." He
squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat
of it with the greatest attention.

"Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising and putting
his lens in his pocket. "Hullo! Here is something interesting!"

The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on
one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself
and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord.

"What do you make of that, Watson?"

"It's a common enough lash. But I don't know why it should be
tied."

"That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's a wicked world,
and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst
of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and
with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn."

I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow so dark as
it was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We
had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss
Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he
roused himself from his reverie.

"It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you should
absolutely follow my advice in every respect."

"I shall most certainly do so."

"The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may
depend upon your compliance."

"I assure you that I am in your hands."

"In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in
your room."

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

"Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the
village inn over there?"

"Yes, that is the Crown."

"Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?"

"Certainly."

"You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a
headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him
retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window,
undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then
withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want
into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in
spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night."

"Oh, yes, easily."

"The rest you will leave in our hands."

"But what will you do?"

"We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate
the cause of this noise which has disturbed you."

"I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,"
said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion's sleeve.

"Perhaps I have."

"Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister's
death."

"I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak."

"You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and
if she died from some sudden fright."

"No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if
Dr. Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain.
Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you,
you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers
that threaten you."

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and
from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and
of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw
Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside
the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some
slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard
the hoarse roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which
he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few
minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as
the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.

"Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together in the
gathering darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking you
to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."

"Can I be of assistance?"

"Your presence might be invaluable."

"Then I shall certainly come."

"It is very kind of you."

"You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms
than was visible to me."

"No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine
that you saw all that I did."

"I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose
that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."

"You saw the ventilator, too?"

"Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to
have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a
rat could hardly pass through."

"I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to
Stoke Moran."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her
sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that
suggested at once that there must be a communication between the
two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been
remarked upon at the coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

"But what harm can there be in that?"

"Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A
ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the
bed dies. Does not that strike you?"

"I cannot as yet see any connection."

"Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?"

"No."

"It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened
like that before?"

"I cannot say that I have."

"The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
relative position to the ventilator and to the rope--or so we may
call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

"Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at.
We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible
crime."

"Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong
he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge.
Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession.
This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall
be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough
before the night is over; for goodness' sake let us have a quiet
pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to something more
cheerful."


About nine o'clock the light among the trees was extinguished,
and all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours
passed slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of
eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us.

"That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his feet; "it
comes from the middle window."

As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord,
explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance,
and that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A
moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing
in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us
through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.

There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for
unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way
among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about
to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel
bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted
child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and
then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness.

"My God!" I whispered; "did you see it?"

Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like
a vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low
laugh and put his lips to my ear.

"It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."

I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There
was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders
at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when,
after following Holmes' example and slipping off my shoes, I
found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed
the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes
round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then
creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered
into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to
distinguish the words:

"The least sound would be fatal to our plans."

I nodded to show that I had heard.

"We must sit without light. He would see it through the
ventilator."

I nodded again.

"Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your
pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of
the bed, and you in that chair."

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon
the bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the
stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left
in darkness.

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a
sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my
companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same
state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut
off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at
our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that
the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the
deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of
an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and
one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for
whatever might befall.

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the
direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was
succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal.
Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle
sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the
smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears.
Then suddenly another sound became audible--a very gentle,
soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping
continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes
sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with
his cane at the bell-pull.

"You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I
heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my
weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which
my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face
was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had
ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator when
suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most
horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder
and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled
in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the
village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the
sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I
stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it
had died away into the silence from which it rose.

"What can it mean?" I gasped.

"It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps,
after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will
enter Dr. Roylott's room."

With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the
corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply
from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his
heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand.

It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant
beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar.
Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott
clad in a long grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding
beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers.
Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we
had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his
eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the
ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with
brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his
head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.

"The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes.

I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began
to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

"It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in
India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence
does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls
into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this
creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to
some place of shelter and let the county police know what has
happened."

As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man's lap,
and throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew it from
its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into
the iron safe, which he closed upon it.

Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of
Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a
narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling
how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed
her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow,
of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the
conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly
playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn
of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back
next day.

"I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which
shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of
the word 'band,' which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to
explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of
by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an
entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly
reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me
that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not
come either from the window or the door. My attention was
speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this
ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The
discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to
the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was
there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and
coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me,
and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was
furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I
was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of
poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical
test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless
man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such
a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be
an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could
distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where
the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the
whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning
light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by
the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned.
He would put it through this ventilator at the hour that he
thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the
rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the
occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but
sooner or later she must fall a victim.

"I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his
room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in
the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary
in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the
safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to
finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic
clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather
hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant.
Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in
order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss
as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the
light and attacked it."

"With the result of driving it through the ventilator."

"And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master
at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and
roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person
it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr.
Grimesby Roylott's death, and I cannot say that it is likely to
weigh very heavily upon my conscience."



IX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB

Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy,
there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his
notice--that of Mr. Hatherley's thumb, and that of Colonel
Warburton's madness. Of these the latter may have afforded a
finer field for an acute and original observer, but the other was
so strange in its inception and so dramatic in its details that
it may be the more worthy of being placed upon record, even if it
gave my friend fewer openings for those deductive methods of
reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable results. The story
has, I believe, been told more than once in the newspapers, but,
like all such narratives, its effect is much less striking when
set forth en bloc in a single half-column of print than when the
facts slowly evolve before your own eyes, and the mystery clears
gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which leads
on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a
deep impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly
served to weaken the effect.

It was in the summer of '89, not long after my marriage, that the
events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned
to civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker
Street rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally
even persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come
and visit us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I
happened to live at no very great distance from Paddington
Station, I got a few patients from among the officials. One of
these, whom I had cured of a painful and lingering disease, was
never weary of advertising my virtues and of endeavouring to send
me on every sufferer over whom he might have any influence.

One morning, at a little before seven o'clock, I was awakened by
the maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come
from Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I
dressed hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases
were seldom trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my
old ally, the guard, came out of the room and closed the door
tightly behind him.

"I've got him here," he whispered, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder; "he's all right."

"What is it, then?" I asked, for his manner suggested that it was
some strange creature which he had caged up in my room.

"It's a new patient," he whispered. "I thought I'd bring him
round myself; then he couldn't slip away. There he is, all safe
and sound. I must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the
same as you." And off he went, this trusty tout, without even
giving me time to thank him.

I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the
table. He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a
soft cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of
his hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all
over with bloodstains. He was young, not more than
five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong, masculine face; but
he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression of a man who
was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took all his
strength of mind to control.

"I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor," said he, "but I
have had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by
train this morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I
might find a doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me
here. I gave the maid a card, but I see that she has left it upon
the side-table."

I took it up and glanced at it. "Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic
engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor)." That was the name,
style, and abode of my morning visitor. "I regret that I have
kept you waiting," said I, sitting down in my library-chair. "You
are fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself
a monotonous occupation."

"Oh, my night could not be called monotonous," said he, and
laughed. He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note,
leaning back in his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical
instincts rose up against that laugh.

"Stop it!" I cried; "pull yourself together!" and I poured out
some water from a caraffe.

It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical
outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis
is over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very
weary and pale-looking.

"I have been making a fool of myself," he gasped.

"Not at all. Drink this." I dashed some brandy into the water,
and the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.

"That's better!" said he. "And now, Doctor, perhaps you would
kindly attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb
used to be."

He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even
my hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four
protruding fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the
thumb should have been. It had been hacked or torn right out from
the roots.

"Good heavens!" I cried, "this is a terrible injury. It must have
bled considerably."

"Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must
have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that
it was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very
tightly round the wrist and braced it up with a twig."

"Excellent! You should have been a surgeon."

"It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own
province."

"This has been done," said I, examining the wound, "by a very
heavy and sharp instrument."

"A thing like a cleaver," said he.

"An accident, I presume?"

"By no means."

"What! a murderous attack?"

"Very murderous indeed."

"You horrify me."

I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered
it over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back
without wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.

"How is that?" I asked when I had finished.

"Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man.
I was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through."

"Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently
trying to your nerves."

"Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police;
but, between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing
evidence of this wound of mine, I should be surprised if they
believed my statement, for it is a very extraordinary one, and I
have not much in the way of proof with which to back it up; and,
even if they believe me, the clues which I can give them are so
vague that it is a question whether justice will be done."

"Ha!" cried I, "if it is anything in the nature of a problem
which you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you
to come to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the
official police."

"Oh, I have heard of that fellow," answered my visitor, "and I
should be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of
course I must use the official police as well. Would you give me
an introduction to him?"

"I'll do better. I'll take you round to him myself."

"I should be immensely obliged to you."

"We'll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to
have a little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?"

"Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story."

"Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an
instant." I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my
wife, and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my
new acquaintance to Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his
sitting-room in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The
Times and smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed
of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day
before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of the
mantelpiece. He received us in his quietly genial fashion,
ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal.
When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance upon the
sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of
brandy and water within his reach.

"It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one,
Mr. Hatherley," said he. "Pray, lie down there and make yourself
absolutely at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are
tired and keep up your strength with a little stimulant."

"Thank you," said my patient, "but I have felt another man since
the doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has
completed the cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable
time as possible, so I shall start at once upon my peculiar
experiences."

Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded
expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat
opposite to him, and we listened in silence to the strange story
which our visitor detailed to us.

"You must know," said he, "that I am an orphan and a bachelor,
residing alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a
hydraulic engineer, and I have had considerable experience of my
work during the seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner &
Matheson, the well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago,
having served my time, and having also come into a fair sum of
money through my poor father's death, I determined to start in
business for myself and took professional chambers in Victoria
Street.

"I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in
business a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so.
During two years I have had three consultations and one small
job, and that is absolutely all that my profession has brought
me. My gross takings amount to 27 pounds 10s. Every day, from
nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, I waited in my
little den, until at last my heart began to sink, and I came to
believe that I should never have any practice at all.

"Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the
office, my clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who
wished to see me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with
the name of 'Colonel Lysander Stark' engraved upon it. Close at
his heels came the colonel himself, a man rather over the middle
size, but of an exceeding thinness. I do not think that I have
ever seen so thin a man. His whole face sharpened away into nose
and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was drawn quite tense over
his outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation seemed to be his
natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye was bright, his
step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but neatly
dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer forty than
thirty.

"'Mr. Hatherley?' said he, with something of a German accent.
'You have been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man
who is not only proficient in his profession but is also discreet
and capable of preserving a secret.'

"I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an
address. 'May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?'

"'Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just
at this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both
an orphan and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.'

"'That is quite correct,' I answered; 'but you will excuse me if
I say that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional
qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter
that you wished to speak to me?'

"'Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to
the point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute
secrecy is quite essential--absolute secrecy, you understand, and
of course we may expect that more from a man who is alone than
from one who lives in the bosom of his family.'

"'If I promise to keep a secret,' said I, 'you may absolutely
depend upon my doing so.'

"He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I
had never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.

"'Do you promise, then?' said he at last.

"'Yes, I promise.'

"'Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No
reference to the matter at all, either in word or writing?'

"'I have already given you my word.'

"'Very good.' He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning
across the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was
empty.

"'That's all right,' said he, coming back. 'I know that clerks are
sometimes curious as to their master's affairs. Now we can talk
in safety.' He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to
stare at me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.

"A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun
to rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man.
Even my dread of losing a client could not restrain me from
showing my impatience.

"'I beg that you will state your business, sir,' said I; 'my time
is of value.' Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the
words came to my lips.

"'How would fifty guineas for a night's work suit you?' he asked.

"'Most admirably.'

"'I say a night's work, but an hour's would be nearer the mark. I
simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which
has got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon
set it right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as
that?'

"'The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.'

"'Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last
train.'

"'Where to?'

"'To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders
of Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a
train from Paddington which would bring you there at about
11:15.'

"'Very good.'

"'I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.'

"'There is a drive, then?'

"'Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good
seven miles from Eyford Station.'

"'Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there
would be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop
the night.'

"'Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.'

"'That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient
hour?'

"'We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to
recompense you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a
young and unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the
very heads of your profession. Still, of course, if you would
like to draw out of the business, there is plenty of time to do
so.'

"I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they
would be to me. 'Not at all,' said I, 'I shall be very happy to
accommodate myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to
understand a little more clearly what it is that you wish me to
do.'

"'Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which
we have exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I
have no wish to commit you to anything without your having it all
laid before you. I suppose that we are absolutely safe from
eavesdroppers?'

"'Entirely.'

"'Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that
fuller's-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found
in one or two places in England?'

"'I have heard so.'

"'Some little time ago I bought a small place--a very small
place--within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to
discover that there was a deposit of fuller's-earth in one of my
fields. On examining it, however, I found that this deposit was a
comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two
very much larger ones upon the right and left--both of them,
however, in the grounds of my neighbours. These good people were
absolutely ignorant that their land contained that which was
quite as valuable as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my
interest to buy their land before they discovered its true value,
but unfortunately I had no capital by which I could do this. I
took a few of my friends into the secret, however, and they
suggested that we should quietly and secretly work our own little
deposit and that in this way we should earn the money which would
enable us to buy the neighbouring fields. This we have now been
doing for some time, and in order to help us in our operations we
erected a hydraulic press. This press, as I have already
explained, has got out of order, and we wish your advice upon the
subject. We guard our secret very jealously, however, and if it
once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our
little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts
came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these
fields and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you
promise me that you will not tell a human being that you are
going to Eyford to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?'

"'I quite follow you,' said I. 'The only point which I could not
quite understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press
in excavating fuller's-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out
like gravel from a pit.'

"'Ah!' said he carelessly, 'we have our own process. We compress
the earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing
what they are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully
into my confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I
trust you.' He rose as he spoke. 'I shall expect you, then, at
Eyford at 11:15.'

"'I shall certainly be there.'

"'And not a word to a soul.' He looked at me with a last long,
questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank
grasp, he hurried from the room.

"Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very
much astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission
which had been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was
glad, for the fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked
had I set a price upon my own services, and it was possible that
this order might lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face
and manner of my patron had made an unpleasant impression upon
me, and I could not think that his explanation of the
fuller's-earth was sufficient to explain the necessity for my
coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I should tell
anyone of my errand. However, I threw all fears to the winds, ate
a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and started off, having
obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding my tongue.

"At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station.
However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I
reached the little dim-lit station after eleven o'clock. I was the
only passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the
platform save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed
out through the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of
the morning waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a
word he grasped my arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door
of which was standing open. He drew up the windows on either
side, tapped on the wood-work, and away we went as fast as the
horse could go."

"One horse?" interjected Holmes.

"Yes, only one."

"Did you observe the colour?"

"Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the
carriage. It was a chestnut."

"Tired-looking or fresh?"

"Oh, fresh and glossy."

"Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue
your most interesting statement."

"Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel
Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I
should think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the
time that we took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat
at my side in silence all the time, and I was aware, more than
once when I glanced in his direction, that he was looking at me
with great intensity. The country roads seem to be not very good
in that part of the world, for we lurched and jolted terribly. I
tried to look out of the windows to see something of where we
were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make out
nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now
and then I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the
journey, but the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the
conversation soon flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the
road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive,
and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang
out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch
which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were, right out of
the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to catch the
most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant that
I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us,
and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage
drove away.

"It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled
about looking for matches and muttering under his breath.
Suddenly a door opened at the other end of the passage, and a
long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew
broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she
held above her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us.
I could see that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which
the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it was a rich
material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as
though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a
gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly
fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered
something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room
from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the
lamp in his hand.

"'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a
few minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a
quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the
centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel
Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the
door. 'I shall not keep you waiting an instant,' said he, and
vanished into the darkness.

"I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my
ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises
on science, the others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked
across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of
the country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded
across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old
clock ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise
everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began
to steal over me. Who were these German people, and what were
they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And
where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was
all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no
idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns,
were within that radius, so the place might not be so secluded,
after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute stillness,
that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room,
humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling
that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee.

"Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the
utter stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman
was standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind
her, the yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and
beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she was sick with
fear, and the sight sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one
shaking finger to warn me to be silent, and she shot a few
whispered words of broken English at me, her eyes glancing back,
like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom behind her.

"'I would go,' said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to
speak calmly; 'I would go. I should not stay here. There is no
good for you to do.'

"'But, madam,' said I, 'I have not yet done what I came for. I
cannot possibly leave until I have seen the machine.'

"'It is not worth your while to wait,' she went on. 'You can pass
through the door; no one hinders.' And then, seeing that I smiled
and shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and
made a step forward, with her hands wrung together. 'For the love
of Heaven!' she whispered, 'get away from here before it is too
late!'

"But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to
engage in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I
thought of my fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of
the unpleasant night which seemed to be before me. Was it all to
go for nothing? Why should I slink away without having carried
out my commission, and without the payment which was my due? This
woman might, for all I knew, be a monomaniac. With a stout
bearing, therefore, though her manner had shaken me more than I
cared to confess, I still shook my head and declared my intention
of remaining where I was. She was about to renew her entreaties
when a door slammed overhead, and the sound of several footsteps
was heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant, threw up
her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly and
as noiselessly as she had come.

"The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man
with a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double
chin, who was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.

"'This is my secretary and manager,' said the colonel. 'By the
way, I was under the impression that I left this door shut just
now. I fear that you have felt the draught.'

"'On the contrary,' said I, 'I opened the door myself because I
felt the room to be a little close.'

"He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. 'Perhaps we had
better proceed to business, then,' said he. 'Mr. Ferguson and I
will take you up to see the machine.'

"'I had better put my hat on, I suppose.'

"'Oh, no, it is in the house.'

"'What, you dig fuller's-earth in the house?'

"'No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that.
All we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us
know what is wrong with it.'

"We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the
fat manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house,
with corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little
low doors, the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the
generations who had crossed them. There were no carpets and no
signs of any furniture above the ground floor, while the plaster
was peeling off the walls, and the damp was breaking through in
green, unhealthy blotches. I tried to put on as unconcerned an
air as possible, but I had not forgotten the warnings of the
lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a keen eye upon
my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and silent
man, but I could see from the little that he said that he was at
least a fellow-countryman.

"Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which
he unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three
of us could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside,
and the colonel ushered me in.

"'We are now,' said he, 'actually within the hydraulic press, and
it would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were
to turn it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the
end of the descending piston, and it comes down with the force of
many tons upon this metal floor. There are small lateral columns
of water outside which receive the force, and which transmit and
multiply it in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine
goes readily enough, but there is some stiffness in the working
of it, and it has lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will
have the goodness to look it over and to show us how we can set
it right.'

"I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very
thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of
exercising enormous pressure. When I passed outside, however, and
pressed down the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by
the whishing sound that there was a slight leakage, which allowed
a regurgitation of water through one of the side cylinders. An
examination showed that one of the india-rubber bands which was
round the head of a driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to
fill the socket along which it worked. This was clearly the cause
of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my companions, who
followed my remarks very carefully and asked several practical
questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When I
had made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the
machine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity.
It was obvious at a glance that the story of the fuller's-earth
was the merest fabrication, for it would be absurd to suppose
that so powerful an engine could be designed for so inadequate a
purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted of a
large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I could see a
crust of metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was
scraping at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a
muttered exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of the
colonel looking down at me.

"'What are you doing there?' he asked.

"I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as
that which he had told me. 'I was admiring your fuller's-earth,'
said I; 'I think that I should be better able to advise you as to
your machine if I knew what the exact purpose was for which it
was used.'

"The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of
my speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in
his grey eyes.

"'Very well,' said he, 'you shall know all about the machine.' He
took a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key
in the lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it
was quite secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and
shoves. 'Hullo!' I yelled. 'Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!'

"And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my
heart into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish
of the leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp
still stood upon the floor where I had placed it when examining
the trough. By its light I saw that the black ceiling was coming
down upon me, slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew better than
myself, with a force which must within a minute grind me to a
shapeless pulp. I threw myself, screaming, against the door, and
dragged with my nails at the lock. I implored the colonel to let
me out, but the remorseless clanking of the levers drowned my
cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my head, and with
my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface. Then it
flashed through my mind that the pain of my death would depend
very much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my
face the weight would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to
think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps; and
yet, had I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly black
shadow wavering down upon me? Already I was unable to stand
erect, when my eye caught something which brought a gush of hope
back to my heart.

"I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the
walls were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw
a thin line of yellow light between two of the boards, which
broadened and broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For
an instant I could hardly believe that here was indeed a door
which led away from death. The next instant I threw myself
through, and lay half-fainting upon the other side. The panel had
closed again behind me, but the crash of the lamp, and a few
moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal, told me
how narrow had been my escape.

"I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and
I found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor,
while a woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand,
while she held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend
whose warning I had so foolishly rejected.

"'Come! come!' she cried breathlessly. 'They will be here in a
moment. They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste
the so-precious time, but come!'

"This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to
my feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding
stair. The latter led to another broad passage, and just as we
reached it we heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of
two voices, one answering the other from the floor on which  we
were and from the one beneath. My guide stopped and looked about
her like one  who is at her wit's end. Then she threw open a door
which led into a bedroom, through the window of which the moon
was shining brightly.

"'It is your only chance,' said she. 'It is high, but it may be
that you can jump it.'

"As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the
passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark
rushing forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a
butcher's cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom,
flung open the window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and
wholesome the garden looked in the moonlight, and it could not be
more than thirty feet down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I
hesitated to jump until I should have heard what passed between
my saviour and the ruffian who pursued me. If she were ill-used,
then at any risks I was determined to go back to her assistance.
The thought had hardly flashed through my mind before he was at
the door, pushing his way past her; but she threw her arms round
him and tried to hold him back.

"'Fritz! Fritz!' she cried in English, 'remember your promise
after the last time. You said it should not be again. He will be
silent! Oh, he will be silent!'

"'You are mad, Elise!' he shouted, struggling to break away from
her. 'You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me
pass, I say!' He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the
window, cut at me with his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and
was hanging by the hands to the sill, when his blow fell. I was
conscious of a dull pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the
garden below.

"I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and
rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I
understood that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly,
however, as I ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me.
I glanced down at my hand, which was throbbing painfully, and
then, for the first time, saw that my thumb had been cut off and
that the blood was pouring from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my
handkerchief round it, but there came a sudden buzzing in my
ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint among the
rose-bushes.

"How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been
a very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was
breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with
dew, and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded
thumb. The smarting of it recalled in an instant all the
particulars of my night's adventure, and I sprang to my feet with
the feeling that I might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But
to my astonishment, when I came to look round me, neither house
nor garden were to be seen. I had been lying in an angle of the
hedge close by the highroad, and just a little lower down was a
long building, which proved, upon my approaching it, to be the
very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night. Were
it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed
during those dreadful hours might have been an evil dream.

"Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning
train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The
same porter was on duty, I found, as had been there when I
arrived. I inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel
Lysander Stark. The name was strange to him. Had he observed a
carriage the night before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was
there a police-station anywhere near? There was one about three
miles off.

"It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined
to wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the
police. It was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first
to have my wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to
bring me along here. I put the case into your hands and shall do
exactly what you advise."

We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to
this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down
from the shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he
placed his cuttings.

"Here is an advertisement which will interest you," said he. "It
appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this:
'Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged
twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten
o'clock at night, and has not been heard of since. Was
dressed in,' etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that
the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I fancy."

"Good heavens!" cried my patient. "Then that explains what the
girl said."

"Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and
desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should
stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out
pirates who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well,
every moment now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall
go down to Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for
Eyford."

Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train
together, bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village.
There were Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector
Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself.
Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map of the county out upon the
seat and was busy with his compasses drawing a circle with Eyford
for its centre.

"There you are," said he. "That circle is drawn at a radius of
ten miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere
near that line. You said ten miles, I think, sir."

"It was an hour's good drive."

"And you think that they brought you back all that way when you
were unconscious?"

"They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having
been lifted and conveyed somewhere."

"What I cannot understand," said I, "is why they should have
spared you when they found you lying fainting in the garden.
Perhaps the villain was softened by the woman's entreaties."

"I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face
in my life."

"Oh, we shall soon clear up all that," said Bradstreet. "Well, I
have drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon
it the folk that we are in search of are to be found."

"I think I could lay my finger on it," said Holmes quietly.

"Really, now!" cried the inspector, "you have formed your
opinion! Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is
south, for the country is more deserted there."

"And I say east," said my patient.

"I am for west," remarked the plain-clothes man. "There are
several quiet little villages up there."

"And I am for north," said I, "because there are no hills there,
and our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up
any."

"Come," cried the inspector, laughing; "it's a very pretty
diversity of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do
you give your casting vote to?"

"You are all wrong."

"But we can't all be."

"Oh, yes, you can. This is my point." He placed his finger in the
centre of the circle. "This is where we shall find them."

"But the twelve-mile drive?" gasped Hatherley.

"Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the
horse was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that
if it had gone twelve miles over heavy roads?"

"Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough," observed Bradstreet
thoughtfully. "Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature
of this gang."

"None at all," said Holmes. "They are coiners on a large scale,
and have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the
place of silver."

"We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,"
said the inspector. "They have been turning out half-crowns by
the thousand. We even traced them as far as Reading, but could
get no farther, for they had covered their traces in a way that
showed that they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this
lucky chance, I think that we have got them right enough."

But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not
destined to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into
Eyford Station we saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed
up from behind a small clump of trees in the neighbourhood and
hung like an immense ostrich feather over the landscape.

"A house on fire?" asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off
again on its way.

"Yes, sir!" said the station-master.

"When did it break out?"

"I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse,
and the whole place is in a blaze."

"Whose house is it?"

"Dr. Becher's."

"Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is Dr. Becher a German, very
thin, with a long, sharp nose?"

The station-master laughed heartily. "No, sir, Dr. Becher is an
Englishman, and there isn't a man in the parish who has a
better-lined waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him,
a patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as
if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm."

The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all
hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low
hill, and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in
front of us, spouting fire at every chink and window, while in
the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly striving to
keep the flames under.

"That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. "There is
the gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That
second window is the one that I jumped from."

"Well, at least," said Holmes, "you have had your revenge upon
them. There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which,
when it was crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls,
though no doubt they were too excited in the chase after you to
observe it at the time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for
your friends of last night, though I very much fear that they are
a good hundred miles off by now."

And Holmes' fears came to be realised, for from that day to this
no word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the
sinister German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a
peasant had met a cart containing several people and some very
bulky boxes driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but
there all traces of the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes'
ingenuity failed ever to discover the least clue as to their
whereabouts.

The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements
which they had found within, and still more so by discovering a
newly severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor.
About sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and
they subdued the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in,
and the whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save
some twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of
the machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so
dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin were discovered stored
in an out-house, but no coins were to be found, which may have
explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have been
already referred to.

How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to
the spot where he recovered his senses might have remained
forever a mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a
very plain tale. He had evidently been carried down by two
persons, one of whom had remarkably small feet and the other
unusually large ones. On the whole, it was most probable that the
silent Englishman, being less bold or less murderous than his
companion, had assisted the woman to bear the unconscious man out
of the way of danger.

"Well," said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return
once more to London, "it has been a pretty business for me! I
have lost my thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what
have I gained?"

"Experience," said Holmes, laughing. "Indirectly it may be of
value, you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the
reputation of being excellent company for the remainder of your
existence."



X. THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR

The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have
long ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles
in which the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have
eclipsed it, and their more piquant details have drawn the
gossips away from this four-year-old drama. As I have reason to
believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to
the general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a
considerable share in clearing the matter up, I feel that no
memoir of him would be complete without some little sketch of
this remarkable episode.

It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I
was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came
home from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table
waiting for him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather
had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and
the Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as
a relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence.
With my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had
surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last,
saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all aside and
lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the
envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend's
noble correspondent could be.

"Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he entered.
"Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a
fish-monger and a tide-waiter."

"Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety," he
answered, smiling, "and the humbler are usually the more
interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social
summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie."

He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

"Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all."

"Not social, then?"

"No, distinctly professional."

"And from a noble client?"

"One of the highest in England."

"My dear fellow, I congratulate you."

"I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my
client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his
case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be
wanting in this new investigation. You have been reading the
papers diligently of late, have you not?"

"It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in
the corner. "I have had nothing else to do."

"It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I
read nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The
latter is always instructive. But if you have followed recent
events so closely you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his
wedding?"

"Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."

"That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord
St. Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn
over these papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter.
This is what he says:

"'MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:--Lord Backwater tells me that I
may place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I
have determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you
in reference to the very painful event which has occurred in
connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is
acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no
objection to your co-operation, and that he even thinks that
it might be of some assistance. I will call at four o'clock in
the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that
time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of
paramount importance. Yours faithfully, ST. SIMON.'

"It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen,
and the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink
upon the outer side of his right little finger," remarked Holmes
as he folded up the epistle.

"He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an
hour."

"Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon
the subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in
their order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client
is." He picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of
reference beside the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he, sitting
down and flattening it out upon his knee. "'Lord Robert Walsingham
de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral.' Hum! 'Arms:
Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.'
He's forty-one years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was
Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The
Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs.
They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on
the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in
all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something
more solid."

"I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I,
"for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as
remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew
that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the
intrusion of other matters."

"Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square
furniture van. That is quite cleared up now--though, indeed, it
was obvious from the first. Pray give me the results of your
newspaper selections."

"Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal
column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks
back: 'A marriage has been arranged,' it says, 'and will, if
rumour is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert
St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty
Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San
Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.' That is all."

"Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his long,
thin legs towards the fire.

"There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society
papers of the same week. Ah, here it is: 'There will soon be a
call for protection in the marriage market, for the present
free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against our home
product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great
Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across
the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the last
week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by
these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself
for over twenty years proof against the little god's arrows, has
now definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty
Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss
Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much
attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only child,
and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to
considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the
future. As it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has
been compelled to sell his pictures within the last few years,
and as Lord St. Simon has no property of his own save the small
estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the Californian heiress
is not the only gainer by an alliance which will enable her to
make the easy and common transition from a Republican lady to a
British peeress.'"

"Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning.

"Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning Post
to say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it
would be at St. George's, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen
intimate friends would be invited, and that the party would
return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been
taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later--that is, on
Wednesday last--there is a curt announcement that the wedding had
taken place, and that the honeymoon would be passed at Lord
Backwater's place, near Petersfield. Those are all the notices
which appeared before the disappearance of the bride."

"Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start.

"The vanishing of the lady."

"When did she vanish, then?"

"At the wedding breakfast."

"Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite
dramatic, in fact."

"Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common."

"They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during
the honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt
as this. Pray let me have the details."

"I warn you that they are very incomplete."

"Perhaps we may make them less so."

"Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a
morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is
headed, 'Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding':

"'The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the
greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which
have taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as
shortly announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the
previous morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to
confirm the strange rumours which have been so persistently
floating about. In spite of the attempts of the friends to hush
the matter up, so much public attention has now been drawn to it
that no good purpose can be served by affecting to disregard what
is a common subject for conversation.

"'The ceremony, which was performed at St. George's, Hanover
Square, was a very quiet one, no one being present save the
father of the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral,
Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the
younger brother and sister of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia
Whittington. The whole party proceeded afterwards to the house of
Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster Gate, where breakfast had been
prepared. It appears that some little trouble was caused by a
woman, whose name has not been ascertained, who endeavoured to
force her way into the house after the bridal party, alleging
that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after a
painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler
and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house
before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast
with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and
retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some
comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that
she had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an
ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the
footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus
apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his mistress,
believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that his
daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with
the bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with
the police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which
will probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very
singular business. Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing
had transpired as to the whereabouts of the missing lady. There
are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is said that the
police have caused the arrest of the woman who had caused the
original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or some
other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange
disappearance of the bride.'"

"And is that all?"

"Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is
a suggestive one."

"And it is--"

"That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance,
has actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a
danseuse at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom
for some years. There are no further particulars, and the whole
case is in your hands now--so far as it has been set forth in the
public press."

"And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would
not have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell,
Watson, and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I
have no doubt that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not
dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness,
if only as a check to my own memory."

"Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page-boy, throwing open
the door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face,
high-nosed and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about
the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose
pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be obeyed. His
manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an undue
impression of age, for he had a slight forward stoop and a little
bend of the knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off
his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the edges and thin
upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the verge of
foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat,
yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters.
He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left to
right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his
golden eyeglasses.

"Good-day, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Pray
take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr.
Watson. Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this
matter over."

"A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine,
Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you
have already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir,
though I presume that they were hardly from the same class of
society."

"No, I am descending."

"I beg pardon."

"My last client of the sort was a king."

"Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?"

"The King of Scandinavia."

"What! Had he lost his wife?"

"You can understand," said Holmes suavely, "that I extend to the
affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to
you in yours."

"Of course! Very right! very right! I'm sure I beg pardon. As to
my own case, I am ready to give you any information which may
assist you in forming an opinion."

"Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public
prints, nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct--this
article, for example, as to the disappearance of the bride."

Lord St. Simon glanced over it. "Yes, it is correct, as far as it
goes."

"But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could
offer an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most
directly by questioning you."

"Pray do so."

"When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?"

"In San Francisco, a year ago."

"You were travelling in the States?"

"Yes."

"Did you become engaged then?"

"No."

"But you were on a friendly footing?"

"I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was
amused."

"Her father is very rich?"

"He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope."

"And how did he make his money?"

"In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold,
invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds."

"Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady's--your
wife's character?"

The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down
into the fire. "You see, Mr. Holmes," said he, "my wife was
twenty before her father became a rich man. During that time she
ran free in a mining camp and wandered through woods or
mountains, so that her education has come from Nature rather than
from the schoolmaster. She is what we call in England a tomboy,
with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any sort of
traditions. She is impetuous--volcanic, I was about to say. She
is swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her
resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given her the
name which I have the honour to bear"--he gave a little stately
cough--"had not I thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I
believe that she is capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that
anything dishonourable would be repugnant to her."

"Have you her photograph?"

"I brought this with me." He opened a locket and showed us the
full face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an
ivory miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect
of the lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the
exquisite mouth. Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he
closed the locket and handed it back to Lord St. Simon.

"The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your
acquaintance?"

"Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I
met her several times, became engaged to her, and have now
married her."

"She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?"

"A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family."

"And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a
fait accompli?"

"I really have made no inquiries on the subject."

"Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the
wedding?"

"Yes."

"Was she in good spirits?"

"Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our
future lives."

"Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the
wedding?"

"She was as bright as possible--at least until after the
ceremony."

"And did you observe any change in her then?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had
ever seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident
however, was too trivial to relate and can have no possible
bearing upon the case."

"Pray let us have it, for all that."

"Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards
the vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it
fell over into the pew. There was a moment's delay, but the
gentleman in the pew handed it up to her again, and it did not
appear to be the worse for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of
the matter, she answered me abruptly; and in the carriage, on our
way home, she seemed absurdly agitated over this trifling cause."

"Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of
the general public were present, then?"

"Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is
open."

"This gentleman was not one of your wife's friends?"

"No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a
common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But
really I think that we are wandering rather far from the point."

"Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less
cheerful frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do
on re-entering her father's house?"

"I saw her in conversation with her maid."

"And who is her maid?"

"Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California
with her."

"A confidential servant?"

"A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed
her to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they
look upon these things in a different way."

"How long did she speak to this Alice?"

"Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of."

"You did not overhear what they said?"

"Lady St. Simon said something about 'jumping a claim.' She was
accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she
meant."

"American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your
wife do when she finished speaking to her maid?"

"She walked into the breakfast-room."

"On your arm?"

"No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that.
Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose
hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She
never came back."

"But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to
her room, covered her bride's dress with a long ulster, put on a
bonnet, and went out."

"Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in
company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who
had already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran's house that
morning."

"Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady,
and your relations to her."

Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.
"We have been on a friendly footing for some years--I may say on
a very friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have
not treated her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of
complaint against me, but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes.
Flora was a dear little thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and
devotedly attached to me. She wrote me dreadful letters when she
heard that I was about to be married, and, to tell the truth, the
reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly was that I
feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came to
Mr. Doran's door just after we returned, and she endeavoured to
push her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my
wife, and even threatening her, but I had foreseen the
possibility of something of the sort, and I had two police
fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out again.
She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a
row."

"Did your wife hear all this?"

"No, thank goodness, she did not."

"And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?"

"Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as
so serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid
some terrible trap for her."

"Well, it is a possible supposition."

"You think so, too?"

"I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon
this as likely?"

"I do not think Flora would hurt a fly."

"Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray
what is your own theory as to what took place?"

"Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I
have given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may
say that it has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of
this affair, the consciousness that she had made so immense a
social stride, had the effect of causing some little nervous
disturbance in my wife."

"In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?"

"Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back--I
will not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to
without success--I can hardly explain it in any other fashion."

"Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis," said
Holmes, smiling. "And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have
nearly all my data. May I ask whether you were seated at the
breakfast-table so that you could see out of the window?"

"We could see the other side of the road and the Park."

"Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer.
I shall communicate with you."

"Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem," said our
client, rising.

"I have solved it."

"Eh? What was that?"

"I say that I have solved it."

"Where, then, is my wife?"

"That is a detail which I shall speedily supply."

Lord St. Simon shook his head. "I am afraid that it will take
wiser heads than yours or mine," he remarked, and bowing in a
stately, old-fashioned manner he departed.

"It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting
it on a level with his own," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "I
think that I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all
this cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the
case before our client came into the room."

"My dear Holmes!"

"I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I
remarked before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination
served to turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial
evidence is occasionally very convincing, as when you find a
trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau's example."

"But I have heard all that you have heard."

"Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which
serves me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some
years back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich
the year after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these
cases--but, hullo, here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade!
You will find an extra tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are
cigars in the box."

The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat,
which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a
black canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated
himself and lit the cigar which had been offered to him.

"What's up, then?" asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. "You
look dissatisfied."

"And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage
case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business."

"Really! You surprise me."

"Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip
through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day."

"And very wet it seems to have made you," said Holmes laying his
hand upon the arm of the pea-jacket.

"Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine."

"In heaven's name, what for?"

"In search of the body of Lady St. Simon."

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

"Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?" he
asked.

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in
the one as in the other."

Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. "I suppose you
know all about it," he snarled.

"Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up."

"Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in
the matter?"

"I think it very unlikely."

"Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found
this in it?" He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the
floor a wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin
shoes and a bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked
in water. "There," said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the
top of the pile. "There is a little nut for you to crack, Master
Holmes."

"Oh, indeed!" said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air.
"You dragged them from the Serpentine?"

"No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper.
They have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me
that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off."

"By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be found
in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope
to arrive at through this?"

"At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance."

"I am afraid that you will find it difficult."

"Are you, indeed, now?" cried Lestrade with some bitterness. "I
am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your
deductions and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as
many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar."

"And how?"

"In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the
card-case is a note. And here is the very note." He slapped it
down upon the table in front of him. "Listen to this: 'You will
see me when all is ready. Come at once. F.H.M.' Now my theory all
along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora
Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was
responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her
initials, is the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped
into her hand at the door and which lured her within their
reach."

"Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, laughing. "You really are
very fine indeed. Let me see it." He took up the paper in a
listless way, but his attention instantly became riveted, and he
gave a little cry of satisfaction. "This is indeed important,"
said he.

"Ha! you find it so?"

"Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly."

Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. "Why," he
shrieked, "you're looking at the wrong side!"

"On the contrary, this is the right side."

"The right side? You're mad! Here is the note written in pencil
over here."

"And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel
bill, which interests me deeply."

"There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," said Lestrade.
"'Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s.
6d., glass sherry, 8d.' I see nothing in that."

"Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the
note, it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I
congratulate you again."

"I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, rising. "I believe in
hard work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories.
Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom
of the matter first." He gathered up the garments, thrust them
into the bag, and made for the door.

"Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled Holmes before his rival
vanished; "I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady
St. Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any
such person."

Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me,
tapped his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and
hurried away.

He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on
his overcoat. "There is something in what the fellow says about
outdoor work," he remarked, "so I think, Watson, that I must
leave you to your papers for a little."

It was after five o'clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had
no time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a
confectioner's man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked
with the help of a youth whom he had brought with him, and
presently, to my very great astonishment, a quite epicurean
little cold supper began to be laid out upon our humble
lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of brace of cold
woodcock, a pheasant, a pâté de foie gras pie with a group of
ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries,
my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian
Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been paid
for and were ordered to this address.

Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the
room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his
eye which made me think that he had not been disappointed in his
conclusions.

"They have laid the supper, then," he said, rubbing his hands.

"You seem to expect company. They have laid for five."

"Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in," said he. "I
am surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I
fancy that I hear his step now upon the stairs."

It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in,
dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very
perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.

"My messenger reached you, then?" asked Holmes.

"Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure.
Have you good authority for what you say?"

"The best possible."

Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his
forehead.

"What will the Duke say," he murmured, "when he hears that one of
the family has been subjected to such humiliation?"

"It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any
humiliation."

"Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint."

"I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the
lady could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of
doing it was undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she
had no one to advise her at such a crisis."

"It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said Lord St. Simon,
tapping his fingers upon the table.

"You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so
unprecedented a position."

"I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have
been shamefully used."

"I think that I heard a ring," said Holmes. "Yes, there are steps
on the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view
of the matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here
who may be more successful." He opened the door and ushered in a
lady and gentleman. "Lord St. Simon," said he "allow me to
introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I
think, you have already met."

At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his
seat and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand
thrust into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended
dignity. The lady had taken a quick step forward and had held out
her hand to him, but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was
as well for his resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was
one which it was hard to resist.

"You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, I guess you have every
cause to be."

"Pray make no apology to me," said Lord St. Simon bitterly.

"Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I
should have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of
rattled, and from the time when I saw Frank here again I just
didn't know what I was doing or saying. I only wonder I didn't
fall down and do a faint right there before the altar."

"Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave
the room while you explain this matter?"

"If I may give an opinion," remarked the strange gentleman,
"we've had just a little too much secrecy over this business
already. For my part, I should like all Europe and America to
hear the rights of it." He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man,
clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert manner.

"Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady. "Frank here
and I met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies, where pa
was working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I;
but then one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile,
while poor Frank here had a claim that petered out and came to
nothing. The richer pa grew the poorer was Frank; so at last pa
wouldn't hear of our engagement lasting any longer, and he took
me away to 'Frisco. Frank wouldn't throw up his hand, though; so
he followed me there, and he saw me without pa knowing anything
about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just
fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and
make his pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had
as much as pa. So then I promised to wait for him to the end of
time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he lived.
'Why shouldn't we be married right away, then,' said he, 'and
then I will feel sure of you; and I won't claim to be your
husband until I come back?' Well, we talked it over, and he had
fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting,
that we just did it right there; and then Frank went off to seek
his fortune, and I went back to pa.

"The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then
he went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New
Mexico. After that came a long newspaper story about how a
miners' camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was
my Frank's name among the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was
very sick for months after. Pa thought I had a decline and took
me to half the doctors in 'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a
year and more, so that I never doubted that Frank was really
dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to 'Frisco, and we came to London,
and a marriage was arranged, and pa was very pleased, but I felt
all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place
in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank.

"Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd have done
my duty by him. We can't command our love, but we can our
actions. I went to the altar with him with the intention to make
him just as good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may
imagine what I felt when, just as I came to the altar rails, I
glanced back and saw Frank standing and looking at me out of the
first pew. I thought it was his ghost at first; but when I looked
again there he was still, with a kind of question in his eyes, as
if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to see him. I wonder I
didn't drop. I know that everything was turning round, and the
words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee in my
ear. I didn't know what to do. Should I stop the service and make
a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and he seemed to
know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to
tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece of paper,
and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on
the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped the
note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a
line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so.
Of course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now
to him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct.

"When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California,
and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but
to get a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to
have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before
his mother and all those great people. I just made up my mind to
run away and explain afterwards. I hadn't been at the table ten
minutes before I saw Frank out of the window at the other side of
the road. He beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park.
I slipped out, put on my things, and followed him. Some woman
came talking something or other about Lord St. Simon to
me--seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little
secret of his own before marriage also--but I managed to get away
from her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and
away we drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and
that was my true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank
had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to
'Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead and had gone to
England, followed me there, and had come upon me at last on the
very morning of my second wedding."

"I saw it in a paper," explained the American. "It gave the name
and the church but not where the lady lived."

"Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all
for openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I
should like to vanish away and never see any of them again--just
sending a line to pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It
was awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting
round that breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So
Frank took my wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of
them, so that I should not be traced, and dropped them away
somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely that we
should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good
gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how
he found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very
clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and
that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we were so
secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to Lord
St. Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at
once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if
I have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very
meanly of me."

Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but
had listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this
long narrative.

"Excuse me," he said, "but it is not my custom to discuss my most
intimate personal affairs in this public manner."

"Then you won't forgive me? You won't shake hands before I go?"

"Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure." He put out
his hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.

"I had hoped," suggested Holmes, "that you would have joined us
in a friendly supper."

"I think that there you ask a little too much," responded his
Lordship. "I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent
developments, but I can hardly be expected to make merry over
them. I think that with your permission I will now wish you all a
very good-night." He included us all in a sweeping bow and
stalked out of the room.

"Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your
company," said Sherlock Holmes. "It is always a joy to meet an
American, Mr. Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the
folly of a monarch and the blundering of a minister in far-gone
years will not prevent our children from being some day citizens
of the same world-wide country under a flag which shall be a
quartering of the Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes."

"The case has been an interesting one," remarked Holmes when our
visitors had left us, "because it serves to show very clearly how
simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight
seems to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural
than the sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing
stranger than the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr.
Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

"You were not yourself at fault at all, then?"

"From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that
the lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony,
the other that she had repented of it within a few minutes of
returning home. Obviously something had occurred during the
morning, then, to cause her to change her mind. What could that
something be? She could not have spoken to anyone when she was
out, for she had been in the company of the bridegroom. Had she
seen someone, then? If she had, it must be someone from America
because she had spent so short a time in this country that she
could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so deep an influence
over her that the mere sight of him would induce her to change
her plans so completely. You see we have already arrived, by a
process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an
American. Then who could this American be, and why should he
possess so much influence over her? It might be a lover; it might
be a husband. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in
rough scenes and under strange conditions. So far I had got
before I ever heard Lord St. Simon's narrative. When he told us
of a man in a pew, of the change in the bride's manner, of so
transparent a device for obtaining a note as the dropping of a
bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and of her very
significant allusion to claim-jumping--which in miners' parlance
means taking possession of that which another person has a prior
claim to--the whole situation became absolutely clear. She had
gone off with a man, and the man was either a lover or was a
previous husband--the chances being in favour of the latter."

"And how in the world did you find them?"

"It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held
information in his hands the value of which he did not himself
know. The initials were, of course, of the highest importance,
but more valuable still was it to know that within a week he had
settled his bill at one of the most select London hotels."

"How did you deduce the select?"

"By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence
for a glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive
hotels. There are not many in London which charge at that rate.
In the second one which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I
learned by an inspection of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an
American gentleman, had left only the day before, and on looking
over the entries against him, I came upon the very items which I
had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were to be forwarded
to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being fortunate
enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to give them
some paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be
better in every way that they should make their position a little
clearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in
particular. I invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I
made him keep the appointment."

"But with no very good result," I remarked. "His conduct was
certainly not very gracious."

"Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would not be
very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and
wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of
fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully
and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in
the same position. Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for
the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away
these bleak autumnal evenings."



XI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET

"Holmes," said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking
down the street, "here is a madman coming along. It seems rather
sad that his relatives should allow him to come out alone."

My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands
in the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It
was a bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day
before still lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the
wintry sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed
into a brown crumbly band by the traffic, but at either side and
on the heaped-up edges of the foot-paths it still lay as white as
when it fell. The grey pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but
was still dangerously slippery, so that there were fewer
passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction of the
Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman
whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.

He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a
massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was
dressed in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining
hat, neat brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet
his actions were in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress
and features, for he was running hard, with occasional little
springs, such as a weary man gives who is little accustomed to
set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he jerked his hands up and
down, waggled his head, and writhed his face into the most
extraordinary contortions.

"What on earth can be the matter with him?" I asked. "He is
looking up at the numbers of the houses."

"I believe that he is coming here," said Holmes, rubbing his
hands.

"Here?"

"Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I
think that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?" As
he spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and
pulled at our bell until the whole house resounded with the
clanging.

A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still
gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in
his eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and
pity. For a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his
body and plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the
extreme limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his
feet, he beat his head against the wall with such force that we
both rushed upon him and tore him away to the centre of the room.
Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the easy-chair and, sitting
beside him, patted his hand and chatted with him in the easy,
soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.

"You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?" said he.
"You are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have
recovered yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into
any little problem which you may submit to me."

The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting
against his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his
brow, set his lips tight, and turned his face towards us.

"No doubt you think me mad?" said he.

"I see that you have had some great trouble," responded Holmes.

"God knows I have!--a trouble which is enough to unseat my
reason, so sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might
have faced, although I am a man whose character has never yet
borne a stain. Private affliction also is the lot of every man;
but the two coming together, and in so frightful a form, have
been enough to shake my very soul. Besides, it is not I alone.
The very noblest in the land may suffer unless some way be found
out of this horrible affair."

"Pray compose yourself, sir," said Holmes, "and let me have a
clear account of who you are and what it is that has befallen
you."

"My name," answered our visitor, "is probably familiar to your
ears. I am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder &
Stevenson, of Threadneedle Street."

The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior
partner in the second largest private banking concern in the City
of London. What could have happened, then, to bring one of the
foremost citizens of London to this most pitiable pass? We
waited, all curiosity, until with another effort he braced
himself to tell his story.

"I feel that time is of value," said he; "that is why I hastened
here when the police inspector suggested that I should secure
your co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and
hurried from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this
snow. That is why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who
takes very little exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the
facts before you as shortly and yet as clearly as I can.

"It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking
business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative
investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection
and the number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means
of laying out money is in the shape of loans, where the security
is unimpeachable. We have done a good deal in this direction
during the last few years, and there are many noble families to
whom we have advanced large sums upon the security of their
pictures, libraries, or plate.

"Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a
card was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I
saw the name, for it was that of none other than--well, perhaps
even to you I had better say no more than that it was a name
which is a household word all over the earth--one of the highest,
noblest, most exalted names in England. I was overwhelmed by the
honour and attempted, when he entered, to say so, but he plunged
at once into business with the air of a man who wishes to hurry
quickly through a disagreeable task.

"'Mr. Holder,' said he, 'I have been informed that you are in the
habit of advancing money.'

"'The firm does so when the security is good.' I answered.

"'It is absolutely essential to me,' said he, 'that I should have
50,000 pounds at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a
sum ten times over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it
a matter of business and to carry out that business myself. In my
position you can readily understand that it is unwise to place
one's self under obligations.'

"'For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?' I asked.

"'Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most
certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you
think it right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the
money should be paid at once.'

"'I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my
own private purse,' said I, 'were it not that the strain would be
rather more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do
it in the name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must
insist that, even in your case, every businesslike precaution
should be taken.'

"'I should much prefer to have it so,' said he, raising up a
square, black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair.
'You have doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?'

"'One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,'
said I.

"'Precisely.' He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft,
flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery
which he had named. 'There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,' said
he, 'and the price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The
lowest estimate would put the worth of the coronet at double the
sum which I have asked. I am prepared to leave it with you as my
security.'

"I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some
perplexity from it to my illustrious client.

"'You doubt its value?' he asked.

"'Not at all. I only doubt--'

"'The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest
about that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely
certain that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a
pure matter of form. Is the security sufficient?'

"'Ample.'

"'You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof
of the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I
have heard of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to
refrain from all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to
preserve this coronet with every possible precaution because I
need not say that a great public scandal would be caused if any
harm were to befall it. Any injury to it would be almost as
serious as its complete loss, for there are no beryls in the
world to match these, and it would be impossible to replace them.
I leave it with you, however, with every confidence, and I shall
call for it in person on Monday morning.'

"Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but,
calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty 1000
pound notes. When I was alone once more, however, with the
precious case lying upon the table in front of me, I could not
but think with some misgivings of the immense responsibility
which it entailed upon me. There could be no doubt that, as it
was a national possession, a horrible scandal would ensue if any
misfortune should occur to it. I already regretted having ever
consented to take charge of it. However, it was too late to alter
the matter now, so I locked it up in my private safe and turned
once more to my work.

"When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave
so precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers' safes had
been forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how
terrible would be the position in which I should find myself! I
determined, therefore, that for the next few days I would always
carry the case backward and forward with me, so that it might
never be really out of my reach. With this intention, I called a
cab and drove out to my house at Streatham, carrying the jewel
with me. I did not breathe freely until I had taken it upstairs
and locked it in the bureau of my dressing-room.

"And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to
thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep
out of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three
maid-servants who have been with me a number of years and whose
absolute reliability is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy
Parr, the second waiting-maid, has only been in my service a few
months. She came with an excellent character, however, and has
always given me satisfaction. She is a very pretty girl and has
attracted admirers who have occasionally hung about the place.
That is the only drawback which we have found to her, but we
believe her to be a thoroughly good girl in every way.

"So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it
will not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an
only son, Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr.
Holmes--a grievous disappointment. I have no doubt that I am
myself to blame. People tell me that I have spoiled him. Very
likely I have. When my dear wife died I felt that he was all I
had to love. I could not bear to see the smile fade even for a
moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish. Perhaps it
would have been better for both of us had I been sterner, but I
meant it for the best.

"It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my
business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild,
wayward, and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the
handling of large sums of money. When he was young he became a
member of an aristocratic club, and there, having charming
manners, he was soon the intimate of a number of men with long
purses and expensive habits. He learned to play heavily at cards
and to squander money on the turf, until he had again and again
to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his
allowance, that he might settle his debts of honour. He tried
more than once to break away from the dangerous company which he
was keeping, but each time the influence of his friend, Sir
George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back again.

"And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George
Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently
brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could
hardly resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than
Arthur, a man of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been
everywhere, seen everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of
great personal beauty. Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far
away from the glamour of his presence, I am convinced from his
cynical speech and the look which I have caught in his eyes that
he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think, and so,
too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman's quick insight into
character.

"And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but
when my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the
world I adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my
daughter. She is a sunbeam in my house--sweet, loving, beautiful,
a wonderful manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and
gentle as a woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know
what I could do without her. In only one matter has she ever gone
against my wishes. Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for
he loves her devotedly, but each time she has refused him. I
think that if anyone could have drawn him into the right path it
would have been she, and that his marriage might have changed his
whole life; but now, alas! it is too late--forever too late!

"Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and
I shall continue with my miserable story.

"When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after
dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious
treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name
of my client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am
sure, left the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed.
Mary and Arthur were much interested and wished to see the famous
coronet, but I thought it better not to disturb it.

"'Where have you put it?' asked Arthur.

"'In my own bureau.'

"'Well, I hope to goodness the house won't be burgled during the
night.' said he.

"'It is locked up,' I answered.

"'Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I
have opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.'

"He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of
what he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with
a very grave face.

"'Look here, dad,' said he with his eyes cast down, 'can you let
me have 200 pounds?'

"'No, I cannot!' I answered sharply. 'I have been far too
generous with you in money matters.'

"'You have been very kind,' said he, 'but I must have this money,
or else I can never show my face inside the club again.'

"'And a very good thing, too!' I cried.

"'Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,'
said he. 'I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money
in some way, and if you will not let me have it, then I must try
other means.'

"I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the
month. 'You shall not have a farthing from me,' I cried, on which
he bowed and left the room without another word.

"When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my
treasure was safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go
round the house to see that all was secure--a duty which I
usually leave to Mary but which I thought it well to perform
myself that night. As I came down the stairs I saw Mary herself
at the side window of the hall, which she closed and fastened as
I approached.

"'Tell me, dad,' said she, looking, I thought, a little
disturbed, 'did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out
to-night?'

"'Certainly not.'

"'She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she
has only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that
it is hardly safe and should be stopped.'

"'You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer
it. Are you sure that everything is fastened?'

"'Quite sure, dad.'

"'Then, good-night.' I kissed her and went up to my bedroom
again, where I was soon asleep.

"I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may
have any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question
me upon any point which I do not make clear."

"On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid."

"I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be
particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety
in my mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual.
About two in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in
the house. It had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an
impression behind it as though a window had gently closed
somewhere. I lay listening with all my ears. Suddenly, to my
horror, there was a distinct sound of footsteps moving softly in
the next room. I slipped out of bed, all palpitating with fear,
and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room door.

"'Arthur!' I screamed, 'you villain! you thief! How dare you
touch that coronet?'

"The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy,
dressed only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the
light, holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be
wrenching at it, or bending it with all his strength. At my cry
he dropped it from his grasp and turned as pale as death. I
snatched it up and examined it. One of the gold corners, with
three of the beryls in it, was missing.

"'You blackguard!' I shouted, beside myself with rage. 'You have
destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the
jewels which you have stolen?'

"'Stolen!' he cried.

"'Yes, thief!' I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.

"'There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,' said he.

"'There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I
call you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to
tear off another piece?'

"'You have called me names enough,' said he, 'I will not stand it
any longer. I shall not say another word about this business,
since you have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in
the morning and make my own way in the world.'

"'You shall leave it in the hands of the police!' I cried
half-mad with grief and rage. 'I shall have this matter probed to
the bottom.'

"'You shall learn nothing from me,' said he with a passion such
as I should not have thought was in his nature. 'If you choose to
call the police, let the police find what they can.'

"By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my
voice in my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and,
at the sight of the coronet and of Arthur's face, she read the
whole story and, with a scream, fell down senseless on the
ground. I sent the house-maid for the police and put the
investigation into their hands at once. When the inspector and a
constable entered the house, Arthur, who had stood sullenly with
his arms folded, asked me whether it was my intention to charge
him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private
matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was
national property. I was determined that the law should have its
way in everything.

"'At least,' said he, 'you will not have me arrested at once. It
would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the
house for five minutes.'

"'That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you
have stolen,' said I. And then, realising the dreadful position
in which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only
my honour but that of one who was far greater than I was at
stake; and that he threatened to raise a scandal which would
convulse the nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell
me what he had done with the three missing stones.

"'You may as well face the matter,' said I; 'you have been caught
in the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous.
If you but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling
us where the beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.'

"'Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,' he answered,
turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened
for any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for
it. I called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search
was made at once not only of his person but of his room and of
every portion of the house where he could possibly have concealed
the gems; but no trace of them could be found, nor would the
wretched boy open his mouth for all our persuasions and our
threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and I, after
going through all the police formalities, have hurried round to
you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter.
The police have openly confessed that they can at present make
nothing of it. You may go to any expense which you think
necessary. I have already offered a reward of 1000 pounds. My
God, what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and my son
in one night. Oh, what shall I do!"

He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to
and fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got
beyond words.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows
knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire.

"Do you receive much company?" he asked.

"None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of
Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No
one else, I think."

"Do you go out much in society?"

"Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for
it."

"That is unusual in a young girl."

"She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She
is four-and-twenty."

"This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to
her also."

"Terrible! She is even more affected than I."

"You have neither of you any doubt as to your son's guilt?"

"How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet
in his hands."

"I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of
the coronet at all injured?"

"Yes, it was twisted."

"Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to
straighten it?"

"God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me.
But it is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If
his purpose were innocent, why did he not say so?"

"Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie?
His silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several
singular points about the case. What did the police think of the
noise which awoke you from your sleep?"

"They considered that it might be caused by Arthur's closing his
bedroom door."

"A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door
so as to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the
disappearance of these gems?"

"They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture
in the hope of finding them."

"Have they thought of looking outside the house?"

"Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has
already been minutely examined."

"Now, my dear sir," said Holmes, "is it not obvious to you now
that this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you
or the police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you
to be a simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider
what is involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came
down from his bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room,
opened your bureau, took out your coronet, broke off by main
force a small portion of it, went off to some other place,
concealed three gems out of the thirty-nine, with such skill that
nobody can find them, and then returned with the other thirty-six
into the room in which he exposed himself to the greatest danger
of being discovered. I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?"

"But what other is there?" cried the banker with a gesture of
despair. "If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain
them?"

"It is our task to find that out," replied Holmes; "so now, if
you please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together,
and devote an hour to glancing a little more closely into
details."

My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition,
which I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy
were deeply stirred by the story to which we had listened. I
confess that the guilt of the banker's son appeared to me to be
as obvious as it did to his unhappy father, but still I had such
faith in Holmes' judgment that I felt that there must be some
grounds for hope as long as he was dissatisfied with the accepted
explanation. He hardly spoke a word the whole way out to the
southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon his breast and his
hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought. Our client
appeared to have taken fresh heart at the little glimpse of hope
which had been presented to him, and he even broke into a
desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A short railway
journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the modest
residence of the great financier.

Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing
back a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a
snow-clad lawn, stretched down in front to two large iron gates
which closed the entrance. On the right side was a small wooden
thicket, which led into a narrow path between two neat hedges
stretching from the road to the kitchen door, and forming the
tradesmen's entrance. On the left ran a lane which led to the
stables, and was not itself within the grounds at all, being a
public, though little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left us standing
at the door and walked slowly all round the house, across the
front, down the tradesmen's path, and so round by the garden
behind into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I
went into the dining-room and waited by the fire until he should
return. We were sitting there in silence when the door opened and
a young lady came in. She was rather above the middle height,
slim, with dark hair and eyes, which seemed the darker against
the absolute pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have ever
seen such deadly paleness in a woman's face. Her lips, too, were
bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying. As she swept
silently into the room she impressed me with a greater sense of
grief than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the
more striking in her as she was evidently a woman of strong
character, with immense capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding
my presence, she went straight to her uncle and passed her hand
over his head with a sweet womanly caress.

"You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you
not, dad?" she asked.

"No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom."

"But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman's
instincts are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will
be sorry for having acted so harshly."

"Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?"

"Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should
suspect him."

"How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with
the coronet in his hand?"

"Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take
my word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say
no more. It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in
prison!"

"I shall never let it drop until the gems are found--never, Mary!
Your affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences
to me. Far from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman
down from London to inquire more deeply into it."

"This gentleman?" she asked, facing round to me.

"No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in
the stable lane now."

"The stable lane?" She raised her dark eyebrows. "What can he
hope to find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir,
that you will succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth,
that my cousin Arthur is innocent of this crime."

"I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may
prove it," returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the
snow from his shoes. "I believe I have the honour of addressing
Miss Mary Holder. Might I ask you a question or two?"

"Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up."

"You heard nothing yourself last night?"

"Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard
that, and I came down."

"You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you
fasten all the windows?"

"Yes."

"Were they all fastened this morning?"

"Yes."

"You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked
to your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?"

"Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and
who may have heard uncle's remarks about the coronet."

"I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her
sweetheart, and that the two may have planned the robbery."

"But what is the good of all these vague theories," cried the
banker impatiently, "when I have told you that I saw Arthur with
the coronet in his hands?"

"Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this
girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I
presume?"

"Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I
met her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom."

"Do you know him?"

"Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our vegetables round.
His name is Francis Prosper."

"He stood," said Holmes, "to the left of the door--that is to
say, farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?"

"Yes, he did."

"And he is a man with a wooden leg?"

Something like fear sprang up in the young lady's expressive
black eyes. "Why, you are like a magician," said she. "How do you
know that?" She smiled, but there was no answering smile in
Holmes' thin, eager face.

"I should be very glad now to go upstairs," said he. "I shall
probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps
I had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up."

He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at
the large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane.
This he opened and made a very careful examination of the sill
with his powerful magnifying lens. "Now we shall go upstairs,"
said he at last.

The banker's dressing-room was a plainly furnished little
chamber, with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror.
Holmes went to the bureau first and looked hard at the lock.

"Which key was used to open it?" he asked.

"That which my son himself indicated--that of the cupboard of the
lumber-room."

"Have you it here?"

"That is it on the dressing-table."

Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.

"It is a noiseless lock," said he. "It is no wonder that it did
not wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must
have a look at it." He opened the case, and taking out the diadem
he laid it upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the
jeweller's art, and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I
have ever seen. At one side of the coronet was a cracked edge,
where a corner holding three gems had been torn away.

"Now, Mr. Holder," said Holmes, "here is the corner which
corresponds to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I
beg that you will break it off."

The banker recoiled in horror. "I should not dream of trying,"
said he.

"Then I will." Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but
without result. "I feel it give a little," said he; "but, though
I am exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my
time to break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do
you think would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would
be a noise like a pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this
happened within a few yards of your bed and that you heard
nothing of it?"

"I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me."

"But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think,
Miss Holder?"

"I confess that I still share my uncle's perplexity."

"Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?"

"He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt."

"Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary
luck during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault
if we do not succeed in clearing the matter up. With your
permission, Mr. Holder, I shall now continue my investigations
outside."

He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any
unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an
hour or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet
heavy with snow and his features as inscrutable as ever.

"I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr.
Holder," said he; "I can serve you best by returning to my
rooms."

"But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?"

"I cannot tell."

The banker wrung his hands. "I shall never see them again!" he
cried. "And my son? You give me hopes?"

"My opinion is in no way altered."

"Then, for God's sake, what was this dark business which was
acted in my house last night?"

"If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow
morning between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to
make it clearer. I understand that you give me carte blanche to
act for you, provided only that I get back the gems, and that you
place no limit on the sum I may draw."

"I would give my fortune to have them back."

"Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then.
Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here
again before evening."

It was obvious to me that my companion's mind was now made up
about the case, although what his conclusions were was more than
I could even dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward
journey I endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he always
glided away to some other topic, until at last I gave it over in
despair. It was not yet three when we found ourselves in our
rooms once more. He hurried to his chamber and was down again in
a few minutes dressed as a common loafer. With his collar turned
up, his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and his worn boots, he
was a perfect sample of the class.

"I think that this should do," said he, glancing into the glass
above the fireplace. "I only wish that you could come with me,
Watson, but I fear that it won't do. I may be on the trail in
this matter, or I may be following a will-o'-the-wisp, but I
shall soon know which it is. I hope that I may be back in a few
hours." He cut a slice of beef from the joint upon the sideboard,
sandwiched it between two rounds of bread, and thrusting this
rude meal into his pocket he started off upon his expedition.

I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in
excellent spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his
hand. He chucked it down into a corner and helped himself to a
cup of tea.

"I only looked in as I passed," said he. "I am going right on."

"Where to?"

"Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time
before I get back. Don't wait up for me in case I should be
late."

"How are you getting on?"

"Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham
since I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a
very sweet little problem, and I would not have missed it for a
good deal. However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get
these disreputable clothes off and return to my highly
respectable self."

I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for
satisfaction than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled,
and there was even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He
hastened upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of
the hall door, which told me that he was off once more upon his
congenial hunt.

I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so
I retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away
for days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that
his lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he
came in, but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there
he was with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the
other, as fresh and trim as possible.

"You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson," said he, "but
you remember that our client has rather an early appointment this
morning."

"Why, it is after nine now," I answered. "I should not be
surprised if that were he. I thought I heard a ring."

It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the
change which had come over him, for his face which was naturally
of a broad and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in,
while his hair seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered
with a weariness and lethargy which was even more painful than
his violence of the morning before, and he dropped heavily into
the armchair which I pushed forward for him.

"I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried," said
he. "Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without
a care in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured
age. One sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece,
Mary, has deserted me."

"Deserted you?"

"Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was
empty, and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to
her last night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had
married my boy all might have been well with him. Perhaps it was
thoughtless of me to say so. It is to that remark that she refers
in this note:

"'MY DEAREST UNCLE:--I feel that I have brought trouble upon you,
and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune
might never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my
mind, ever again be happy under your roof, and I feel that I must
leave you forever. Do not worry about my future, for that is
provided for; and, above all, do not search for me, for it will
be fruitless labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in
death, I am ever your loving,--MARY.'

"What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it
points to suicide?"

"No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible
solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of
your troubles."

"Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have
learned something! Where are the gems?"

"You would not think 1000 pounds apiece an excessive sum for
them?"

"I would pay ten."

"That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter.
And there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your check-book?
Here is a pen. Better make it out for 4000 pounds."

With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes
walked over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of
gold with three gems in it, and threw it down upon the table.

With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.

"You have it!" he gasped. "I am saved! I am saved!"

The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and
he hugged his recovered gems to his bosom.

"There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder," said Sherlock
Holmes rather sternly.

"Owe!" He caught up a pen. "Name the sum, and I will pay it."

"No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that
noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I
should be proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to
have one."

"Then it was not Arthur who took them?"

"I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not."

"You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him
know that the truth is known."

"He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an
interview with him, and finding that he would not tell me the
story, I told it to him, on which he had to confess that I was
right and to add the very few details which were not yet quite
clear to me. Your news of this morning, however, may open his
lips."

"For heaven's sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary
mystery!"

"I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached
it. And let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me
to say and for you to hear: there has been an understanding
between Sir George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now
fled together."

"My Mary? Impossible!"

"It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither
you nor your son knew the true character of this man when you
admitted him into your family circle. He is one of the most
dangerous men in England--a ruined gambler, an absolutely
desperate villain, a man without heart or conscience. Your niece
knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his vows to her, as he
had done to a hundred before her, she flattered herself that she
alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what he said,
but at least she became his tool and was in the habit of seeing
him nearly every evening."

"I cannot, and I will not, believe it!" cried the banker with an
ashen face.

"I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night.
Your niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room,
slipped down and talked to her lover through the window which
leads into the stable lane. His footmarks had pressed right
through the snow, so long had he stood there. She told him of the
coronet. His wicked lust for gold kindled at the news, and he
bent her to his will. I have no doubt that she loved you, but
there are women in whom the love of a lover extinguishes all
other loves, and I think that she must have been one. She had
hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming
downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and told you
about one of the servants' escapade with her wooden-legged lover,
which was all perfectly true.

"Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but
he slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts.
In the middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door,
so he rose and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin
walking very stealthily along the passage until she disappeared
into your dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad
slipped on some clothes and waited there in the dark to see what
would come of this strange affair. Presently she emerged from the
room again, and in the light of the passage-lamp your son saw
that she carried the precious coronet in her hands. She passed
down the stairs, and he, thrilling with horror, ran along and
slipped behind the curtain near your door, whence he could see
what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her stealthily open the
window, hand out the coronet to someone in the gloom, and then
closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing quite close
to where he stood hid behind the curtain.

"As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action
without a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the
instant that she was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune
this would be for you, and how all-important it was to set it
right. He rushed down, just as he was, in his bare feet, opened
the window, sprang out into the snow, and ran down the lane,
where he could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir George
Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught him, and there was
a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one side of the
coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle, your son
struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something
suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet
in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your
room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in
the struggle and was endeavouring to straighten it when you
appeared upon the scene."

"Is it possible?" gasped the banker.

"You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when
he felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not
explain the true state of affairs without betraying one who
certainly deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He
took the more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her
secret."

"And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the
coronet," cried Mr. Holder. "Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have
been! And his asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes!
The dear fellow wanted to see if the missing piece were at the
scene of the struggle. How cruelly I have misjudged him!"

"When I arrived at the house," continued Holmes, "I at once went
very carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in
the snow which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since
the evening before, and also that there had been a strong frost
to preserve impressions. I passed along the tradesmen's path, but
found it all trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it,
however, at the far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood
and talked with a man, whose round impressions on one side showed
that he had a wooden leg. I could even tell that they had been
disturbed, for the woman had run back swiftly to the door, as was
shown by the deep toe and light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had
waited a little, and then had gone away. I thought at the time
that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of whom you had
already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I passed
round the garden without seeing anything more than random tracks,
which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable
lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in
front of me.

"There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second
double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked
feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the
latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but the
other had run swiftly, and as his tread was marked in places over
the depression of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed
after the other. I followed them up and found they led to the
hall window, where Boots had worn all the snow away while
waiting. Then I walked to the other end, which was a hundred
yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced round,
where the snow was cut up as though there had been a struggle,
and, finally, where a few drops of blood had fallen, to show me
that I was not mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and
another little smudge of blood showed that it was he who had been
hurt. When he came to the highroad at the other end, I found that
the pavement had been cleared, so there was an end to that clue.

"On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the
sill and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could
at once see that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the
outline of an instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming
in. I was then beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what
had occurred. A man had waited outside the window; someone had
brought the gems; the deed had been overseen by your son; he had
pursued the thief; had struggled with him; they had each tugged
at the coronet, their united strength causing injuries which
neither alone could have effected. He had returned with the
prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of his opponent. So
far I was clear. The question now was, who was the man and who
was it brought him the coronet?

"It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the
impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the
truth. Now, I knew that it was not you who had brought it down,
so there only remained your niece and the maids. But if it were
the maids, why should your son allow himself to be accused in
their place? There could be no possible reason. As he loved his
cousin, however, there was an excellent explanation why he should
retain her secret--the more so as the secret was a disgraceful
one. When I remembered that you had seen her at that window, and
how she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my conjecture
became a certainty.

"And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently,
for who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must
feel to you? I knew that you went out little, and that your
circle of friends was a very limited one. But among them was Sir
George Burnwell. I had heard of him before as being a man of evil
reputation among women. It must have been he who wore those boots
and retained the missing gems. Even though he knew that Arthur
had discovered him, he might still flatter himself that he was
safe, for the lad could not say a word without compromising his
own family.

"Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took
next. I went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George's house,
managed to pick up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that
his master had cut his head the night before, and, finally, at
the expense of six shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of
his cast-off shoes. With these I journeyed down to Streatham and
saw that they exactly fitted the tracks."

"I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening,"
said Mr. Holder.

"Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home
and changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to
play then, for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert
scandal, and I knew that so astute a villain would see that our
hands were tied in the matter. I went and saw him. At first, of
course, he denied everything. But when I gave him every
particular that had occurred, he tried to bluster and took down a
life-preserver from the wall. I knew my man, however, and I
clapped a pistol to his head before he could strike. Then he
became a little more reasonable. I told him that we would give
him a price for the stones he held--1000 pounds apiece. That
brought out the first signs of grief that he had shown. 'Why,
dash it all!' said he, 'I've let them go at six hundred for the
three!' I soon managed to get the address of the receiver who had
them, on promising him that there would be no prosecution. Off I
set to him, and after much chaffering I got our stones at 1000
pounds apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him that all
was right, and eventually got to my bed about two o'clock, after
what I may call a really hard day's work."

"A day which has saved England from a great public scandal," said
the banker, rising. "Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but
you shall not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your
skill has indeed exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I
must fly to my dear boy to apologise to him for the wrong which I
have done him. As to what you tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my
very heart. Not even your skill can inform me where she is now."

"I think that we may safely say," returned Holmes, "that she is
wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that
whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than
sufficient punishment."



XII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES

"To the man who loves art for its own sake," remarked Sherlock
Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the Daily
Telegraph, "it is frequently in its least important and lowliest
manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is
pleasant to me to observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped
this truth that in these little records of our cases which you
have been good enough to draw up, and, I am bound to say,
occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence not so much
to the many causes célèbres and sensational trials in which I
have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been
trivial in themselves, but which have given room for those
faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis which I have made
my special province."

"And yet," said I, smiling, "I cannot quite hold myself absolved
from the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my
records."

"You have erred, perhaps," he observed, taking up a glowing
cinder with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood
pipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in a
disputatious rather than a meditative mood--"you have erred
perhaps in attempting to put colour and life into each of your
statements instead of confining yourself to the task of placing
upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect which is
really the only notable feature about the thing."

"It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter,"
I remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism
which I had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my
friend's singular character.

"No, it is not selfishness or conceit," said he, answering, as
was his wont, my thoughts rather than my words. "If I claim full
justice for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing--a
thing beyond myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it
is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should
dwell. You have degraded what should have been a course of
lectures into a series of tales."

It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after
breakfast on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at
Baker Street. A thick fog rolled down between the lines of
dun-coloured houses, and the opposing windows loomed like dark,
shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit
and shone on the white cloth and glimmer of china and metal, for
the table had not been cleared yet. Sherlock Holmes had been
silent all the morning, dipping continuously into the
advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last,
having apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very
sweet temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.

"At the same time," he remarked after a pause, during which he
had sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire,
"you can hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of
these cases which you have been so kind as to interest yourself
in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense,
at all. The small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King
of Bohemia, the singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the
problem connected with the man with the twisted lip, and the
incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters which are
outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational, I
fear that you may have bordered on the trivial."

"The end may have been so," I answered, "but the methods I hold
to have been novel and of interest."

"Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant
public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a
compositor by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of
analysis and deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot
blame you, for the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at
least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As
to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an
agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to
young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I have touched
bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my
zero-point, I fancy. Read it!" He tossed a crumpled letter across
to me.

It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and
ran thus:

"DEAR MR. HOLMES:--I am very anxious to consult you as to whether
I should or should not accept a situation which has been offered
to me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I
do not inconvenience you. Yours faithfully,
                                               "VIOLET HUNTER."

"Do you know the young lady?" I asked.

"Not I."

"It is half-past ten now."

"Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring."

"It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You
remember that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to
be a mere whim at first, developed into a serious investigation.
It may be so in this case, also."

"Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved,
for here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question."

As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room.
She was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face,
freckled like a plover's egg, and with the brisk manner of a
woman who has had her own way to make in the world.

"You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure," said she, as my
companion rose to greet her, "but I have had a very strange
experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort
from whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be
kind enough to tell me what I should do."

"Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything
that I can to serve you."

I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner
and speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching
fashion, and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and
his finger-tips together, to listen to her story.

"I have been a governess for five years," said she, "in the
family of Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel
received an appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his
children over to America with him, so that I found myself without
a situation. I advertised, and I answered advertisements, but
without success. At last the little money which I had saved began
to run short, and I was at my wit's end as to what I should do.

"There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End
called Westaway's, and there I used to call about once a week in
order to see whether anything had turned up which might suit me.
Westaway was the name of the founder of the business, but it is
really managed by Miss Stoper. She sits in her own little office,
and the ladies who are seeking employment wait in an anteroom,
and are then shown in one by one, when she consults her ledgers
and sees whether she has anything which would suit them.

"Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office
as usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A
prodigiously stout man with a very smiling face and a great heavy
chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at
her elbow with a pair of glasses on his nose, looking very
earnestly at the ladies who entered. As I came in he gave quite a
jump in his chair and turned quickly to Miss Stoper.

"'That will do,' said he; 'I could not ask for anything better.
Capital! capital!' He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his
hands together in the most genial fashion. He was such a
comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at
him.

"'You are looking for a situation, miss?' he asked.

"'Yes, sir.'

"'As governess?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'And what salary do you ask?'

"'I had 4 pounds a month in my last place with Colonel Spence
Munro.'

"'Oh, tut, tut! sweating--rank sweating!' he cried, throwing his
fat hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling
passion. 'How could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with
such attractions and accomplishments?'

"'My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,' said I.
'A little French, a little German, music, and drawing--'

"'Tut, tut!' he cried. 'This is all quite beside the question.
The point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment
of a lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are
not fitted for the rearing of a child who may some day play a
considerable part in the history of the country. But if you have
why, then, how could any gentleman ask you to condescend to
accept anything under the three figures? Your salary with me,
madam, would commence at 100 pounds a year.'

"You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was,
such an offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman,
however, seeing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face,
opened a pocket-book and took out a note.

"'It is also my custom,' said he, smiling in the most pleasant
fashion until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid
the white creases of his face, 'to advance to my young ladies
half their salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little
expenses of their journey and their wardrobe.'

"It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so
thoughtful a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the
advance was a great convenience, and yet there was something
unnatural about the whole transaction which made me wish to know
a little more before I quite committed myself.

"'May I ask where you live, sir?' said I.

"'Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles
on the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my
dear young lady, and the dearest old country-house.'

"'And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would
be.'

"'One child--one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if
you could see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack!
smack! smack! Three gone before you could wink!' He leaned back
in his chair and laughed his eyes into his head again.

"I was a little startled at the nature of the child's amusement,
but the father's laughter made me think that perhaps he was
joking.

"'My sole duties, then,' I asked, 'are to take charge of a single
child?'

"'No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,' he
cried. 'Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would
suggest, to obey any little commands my wife might give, provided
always that they were such commands as a lady might with
propriety obey. You see no difficulty, heh?'

"'I should be happy to make myself useful.'

"'Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you
know--faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress
which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim.
Heh?'

"'No,' said I, considerably astonished at his words.

"'Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to
you?'

"'Oh, no.'

"'Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?'

"I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes,
my hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of
chestnut. It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of
sacrificing it in this offhand fashion.

"'I am afraid that that is quite impossible,' said I. He had been
watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a
shadow pass over his face as I spoke.

"'I am afraid that it is quite essential,' said he. 'It is a
little fancy of my wife's, and ladies' fancies, you know, madam,
ladies' fancies must be consulted. And so you won't cut your
hair?'

"'No, sir, I really could not,' I answered firmly.

"'Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a
pity, because in other respects you would really have done very
nicely. In that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more
of your young ladies.'

"The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers
without a word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so
much annoyance upon her face that I could not help suspecting
that she had lost a handsome commission through my refusal.

"'Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?' she asked.

"'If you please, Miss Stoper.'

"'Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the
most excellent offers in this fashion,' said she sharply. 'You
can hardly expect us to exert ourselves to find another such
opening for you. Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.' She struck a gong
upon the table, and I was shown out by the page.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found
little enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the
table, I began to ask myself whether I had not done a very
foolish thing. After all, if these people had strange fads and
expected obedience on the most extraordinary matters, they were
at least ready to pay for their eccentricity. Very few
governesses in England are getting 100 pounds a year. Besides,
what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by wearing
it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I was
inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after
I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go
back to the agency and inquire whether the place was still open
when I received this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it
here and I will read it to you:

                       "'The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.
"'DEAR MISS HUNTER:--Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your
address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have
reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you
should come, for she has been much attracted by my description of
you. We are willing to give 30 pounds a quarter, or 120 pounds a
year, so as to recompense you for any little inconvenience which
our fads may cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My
wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would
like you to wear such a dress indoors in the morning. You need
not, however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as we have one
belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which
would, I should think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting
here or there, or amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that
need cause you no inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no
doubt a pity, especially as I could not help remarking its beauty
during our short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain
firm upon this point, and I only hope that the increased salary
may recompense you for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child
is concerned, are very light. Now do try to come, and I shall
meet you with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train.
Yours faithfully, JEPHRO RUCASTLE.'

"That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and
my mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however,
that before taking the final step I should like to submit the
whole matter to your consideration."

"Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the
question," said Holmes, smiling.

"But you would not advise me to refuse?"

"I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to
see a sister of mine apply for."

"What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself
formed some opinion?"

"Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr.
Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not
possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the
matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that
he humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an
outbreak?"

"That is a possible solution--in fact, as matters stand, it is
the most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a
nice household for a young lady."

"But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!"

"Well, yes, of course the pay is good--too good. That is what
makes me uneasy. Why should they give you 120 pounds a year, when
they could have their pick for 40 pounds? There must be some
strong reason behind."

"I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would
understand afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so
much stronger if I felt that you were at the back of me."

"Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that
your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has
come my way for some months. There is something distinctly novel
about some of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt
or in danger--"

"Danger! What danger do you foresee?"

Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a danger if
we could define it," said he. "But at any time, day or night, a
telegram would bring me down to your help."

"That is enough." She rose briskly from her chair with the
anxiety all swept from her face. "I shall go down to Hampshire
quite easy in my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once,
sacrifice my poor hair to-night, and start for Winchester
to-morrow." With a few grateful words to Holmes she bade us both
good-night and bustled off upon her way.

"At least," said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending
the stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well able
to take care of herself."

"And she would need to be," said Holmes gravely. "I am much
mistaken if we do not hear from her before many days are past."

It was not very long before my friend's prediction was fulfilled.
A fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts
turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of
human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual
salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to
something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether
the man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond
my powers to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat
frequently for half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an
abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with a wave of his
hand when I mentioned it. "Data! data! data!" he cried
impatiently. "I can't make bricks without clay." And yet he would
always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should ever
have accepted such a situation.

The telegram which we eventually received came late one night
just as I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down
to one of those all-night chemical researches which he frequently
indulged in, when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a
test-tube at night and find him in the same position when I came
down to breakfast in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope,
and then, glancing at the message, threw it across to me.

"Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, and turned back
to his chemical studies.

The summons was a brief and urgent one.

"Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday
to-morrow," it said. "Do come! I am at my wit's end.  HUNTER."

"Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up.

"I should wish to."

"Just look it up, then."

"There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glancing over my
Bradshaw. "It is due at Winchester at 11:30."

"That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my
analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the
morning."

By eleven o'clock the next day we were well upon our way to the
old English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers
all the way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he
threw them down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal
spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white
clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining
very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip in the air,
which set an edge to a man's energy. All over the countryside,
away to the rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and
grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from amid the light
green of the new foliage.

"Are they not fresh and beautiful?" I cried with all the
enthusiasm of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.

But Holmes shook his head gravely.

"Do you know, Watson," said he, "that it is one of the curses of
a mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with
reference to my own special subject. You look at these scattered
houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them,
and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their
isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed
there."

"Good heavens!" I cried. "Who would associate crime with these
dear old homesteads?"

"They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief,
Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest
alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin
than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."

"You horrify me!"

"But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion
can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no
lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of
a drunkard's blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among
the neighbours, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever
so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is
but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these
lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part
with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the
deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on,
year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had this
lady who appeals to us for help gone to live in Winchester, I
should never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of
country which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she is
not personally threatened."

"No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away."

"Quite so. She has her freedom."

"What CAN be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?"

"I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would
cover the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is
correct can only be determined by the fresh information which we
shall no doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of
the cathedral, and we shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has
to tell."

The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no
distance from the station, and there we found the young lady
waiting for us. She had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch
awaited us upon the table.

"I am so delighted that you have come," she said earnestly. "It
is so very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I
should do. Your advice will be altogether invaluable to me."

"Pray tell us what has happened to you."

"I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr.
Rucastle to be back before three. I got his leave to come into
town this morning, though he little knew for what purpose."

"Let us have everything in its due order." Holmes thrust his long
thin legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen.

"In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole,
with no actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is
only fair to them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and
I am not easy in my mind about them."

"What can you not understand?"

"Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just
as it occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and
drove me in his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he
said, beautifully situated, but it is not beautiful in itself,
for it is a large square block of a house, whitewashed, but all
stained and streaked with damp and bad weather. There are grounds
round it, woods on three sides, and on the fourth a field which
slopes down to the Southampton highroad, which curves past about
a hundred yards from the front door. This ground in front belongs
to the house, but the woods all round are part of Lord
Southerton's preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately in
front of the hall door has given its name to the place.

"I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever,
and was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child.
There was no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to
us to be probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is
not mad. I found her to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much
younger than her husband, not more than thirty, I should think,
while he can hardly be less than forty-five. From their
conversation I have gathered that they have been married about
seven years, that he was a widower, and that his only child by
the first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia. Mr.
Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left them
was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As
the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite
imagine that her position must have been uncomfortable with her
father's young wife.

"Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as
in feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse.
She was a nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately
devoted both to her husband and to her little son. Her light grey
eyes wandered continually from one to the other, noting every
little want and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her
also in his bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they
seemed to be a happy couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow,
this woman. She would often be lost in deep thought, with the
saddest look upon her face. More than once I have surprised her
in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the disposition of
her child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never met so
utterly spoiled and so ill-natured a little creature. He is small
for his age, with a head which is quite disproportionately large.
His whole life appears to be spent in an alternation between
savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving
pain to any creature weaker than himself seems to be his one idea
of amusement, and he shows quite remarkable talent in planning
the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would
rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he
has little to do with my story."

"I am glad of all details," remarked my friend, "whether they
seem to you to be relevant or not."

"I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one
unpleasant thing about the house, which struck me at once, was
the appearance and conduct of the servants. There are only two, a
man and his wife. Toller, for that is his name, is a rough,
uncouth man, with grizzled hair and whiskers, and a perpetual
smell of drink. Twice since I have been with them he has been
quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed to take no notice of it.
His wife is a very tall and strong woman with a sour face, as
silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable. They are a most
unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in the
nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in one
corner of the building.

"For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was
very quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after
breakfast and whispered something to her husband.

"'Oh, yes,' said he, turning to me, 'we are very much obliged to
you, Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut
your hair. I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest
iota from your appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue
dress will become you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in
your room, and if you would be so good as to put it on we should
both be extremely obliged.'

"The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade
of blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it
bore unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not
have been a better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr.
and Mrs. Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, which
seemed quite exaggerated in its vehemence. They were waiting for
me in the drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretching
along the entire front of the house, with three long windows
reaching down to the floor. A chair had been placed close to the
central window, with its back turned towards it. In this I was
asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on the
other side of the room, began to tell me a series of the funniest
stories that I have ever listened to. You cannot imagine how
comical he was, and I laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs.
Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of humour, never so
much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap, and a sad,
anxious look upon her face. After an hour or so, Mr. Rucastle
suddenly remarked that it was time to commence the duties of the
day, and that I might change my dress and go to little Edward in
the nursery.

"Two days later this same performance was gone through under
exactly similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I
sat in the window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny
stories of which my employer had an immense répertoire, and which
he told inimitably. Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and
moving my chair a little sideways, that my own shadow might not
fall upon the page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read for
about ten minutes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then
suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and
to change my dress.

"You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to
what the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly
be. They were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face
away from the window, so that I became consumed with the desire
to see what was going on behind my back. At first it seemed to be
impossible, but I soon devised a means. My hand-mirror had been
broken, so a happy thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of
the glass in my handkerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst
of my laughter, I put my handkerchief up to my eyes, and was able
with a little management to see all that there was behind me. I
confess that I was disappointed. There was nothing. At least that
was my first impression. At the second glance, however, I
perceived that there was a man standing in the Southampton Road,
a small bearded man in a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in
my direction. The road is an important highway, and there are
usually people there. This man, however, was leaning against the
railings which bordered our field and was looking earnestly up. I
lowered my handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her
eyes fixed upon me with a most searching gaze. She said nothing,
but I am convinced that she had divined that I had a mirror in my
hand and had seen what was behind me. She rose at once.

"'Jephro,' said she, 'there is an impertinent fellow upon the
road there who stares up at Miss Hunter.'

"'No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?' he asked.

"'No, I know no one in these parts.'

"'Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to
him to go away.'

"'Surely it would be better to take no notice.'

"'No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn
round and wave him away like that.'

"I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew
down the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have
not sat again in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor
seen the man in the road."

"Pray continue," said Holmes. "Your narrative promises to be a
most interesting one."

"You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may
prove to be little relation between the different incidents of
which I speak. On the very first day that I was at the Copper
Beeches, Mr. Rucastle took me to a small outhouse which stands
near the kitchen door. As we approached it I heard the sharp
rattling of a chain, and the sound as of a large animal moving
about.

"'Look in here!' said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two
planks. 'Is he not a beauty?'

"I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a
vague figure huddled up in the darkness.

"'Don't be frightened,' said my employer, laughing at the start
which I had given. 'It's only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine,
but really old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do
anything with him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then,
so that he is always as keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose
every night, and God help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs
upon. For goodness' sake don't you ever on any pretext set your
foot over the threshold at night, for it's as much as your life
is worth.'

"The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to
look out of my bedroom window about two o'clock in the morning.
It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the
house was silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was
standing, rapt in the peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was
aware that something was moving under the shadow of the copper
beeches. As it emerged into the moonshine I saw what it was. It
was a giant dog, as large as a calf, tawny tinted, with hanging
jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting bones. It walked slowly
across the lawn and vanished into the shadow upon the other side.
That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart which I do not
think that any burglar could have done.

"And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as
you know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a
great coil at the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the
child was in bed, I began to amuse myself by examining the
furniture of my room and by rearranging my own little things.
There was an old chest of drawers in the room, the two upper ones
empty and open, the lower one locked. I had filled the first two
with my linen, and as I had still much to pack away I was
naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third drawer. It
struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight,
so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very
first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There
was only one thing in it, but I am sure that you would never
guess what it was. It was my coil of hair.

"I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint,
and the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing
obtruded itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in
the drawer? With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the
contents, and drew from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two
tresses together, and I assure you that they were identical. Was
it not extraordinary? Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at
all of what it meant. I returned the strange hair to the drawer,
and I said nothing of the matter to the Rucastles as I felt that
I had put myself in the wrong by opening a drawer which they had
locked.

"I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes,
and I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head.
There was one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited
at all. A door which faced that which led into the quarters of
the Tollers opened into this suite, but it was invariably locked.
One day, however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle
coming out through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on
his face which made him a very different person to the round,
jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his
brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins stood out at his
temples with passion. He locked the door and hurried past me
without a word or a look.

"This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the
grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I
could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four
of them in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the
fourth was shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I
strolled up and down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle
came out to me, looking as merry and jovial as ever.

"'Ah!' said he, 'you must not think me rude if I passed you
without a word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with
business matters.'

"I assured him that I was not offended. 'By the way,' said I,
'you seem to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one
of them has the shutters up.'

"He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled
at my remark.

"'Photography is one of my hobbies,' said he. 'I have made my
dark room up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we
have come upon. Who would have believed it? Who would have ever
believed it?' He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was no jest
in his eyes as he looked at me. I read suspicion there and
annoyance, but no jest.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there
was something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know,
I was all on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity,
though I have my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty--a
feeling that some good might come from my penetrating to this
place. They talk of woman's instinct; perhaps it was woman's
instinct which gave me that feeling. At any rate, it was there,
and I was keenly on the lookout for any chance to pass the
forbidden door.

"It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that,
besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to
do in these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large
black linen bag with him through the door. Recently he has been
drinking hard, and yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when
I came upstairs there was the key in the door. I have no doubt at
all that he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both
downstairs, and the child was with them, so that I had an
admirable opportunity. I turned the key gently in the lock,
opened the door, and slipped through.

"There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and
uncarpeted, which turned at a right angle at the farther end.
Round this corner were three doors in a line, the first and third
of which were open. They each led into an empty room, dusty and
cheerless, with two windows in the one and one in the other, so
thick with dirt that the evening light glimmered dimly through
them. The centre door was closed, and across the outside of it
had been fastened one of the broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked
at one end to a ring in the wall, and fastened at the other with
stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the key was
not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the
shuttered window outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from
beneath it that the room was not in darkness. Evidently there was
a skylight which let in light from above. As I stood in the
passage gazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret it
might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of steps within the room
and saw a shadow pass backward and forward against the little
slit of dim light which shone out from under the door. A mad,
unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr. Holmes. My
overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and ran--ran
as though some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the
skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door,
and straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting
outside.

"'So,' said he, smiling, 'it was you, then. I thought that it
must be when I saw the door open.'

"'Oh, I am so frightened!' I panted.

"'My dear young lady! my dear young lady!'--you cannot think how
caressing and soothing his manner was--'and what has frightened
you, my dear young lady?'

"But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I
was keenly on my guard against him.

"'I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,' I answered.
'But it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was
frightened and ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in
there!'

"'Only that?' said he, looking at me keenly.

"'Why, what did you think?' I asked.

"'Why do you think that I lock this door?'

"'I am sure that I do not know.'

"'It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you
see?' He was still smiling in the most amiable manner.

"'I am sure if I had known--'

"'Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over
that threshold again'--here in an instant the smile hardened into
a grin of rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a
demon--'I'll throw you to the mastiff.'

"I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that
I must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing
until I found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I
thought of you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without
some advice. I was frightened of the house, of the man, of the
woman, of the servants, even of the child. They were all horrible
to me. If I could only bring you down all would be well. Of
course I might have fled from the house, but my curiosity was
almost as strong as my fears. My mind was soon made up. I would
send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak, went down to the
office, which is about half a mile from the house, and then
returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt came into my
mind as I approached the door lest the dog might be loose, but I
remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a state of
insensibility that evening, and I knew that he was the only one
in the household who had any influence with the savage creature,
or who would venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and
lay awake half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you.
I had no difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester this
morning, but I must be back before three o'clock, for Mr. and
Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and will be away all the
evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I have told you
all my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and I should be very glad if you
could tell me what it all means, and, above all, what I should
do."

Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story.
My friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in
his pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon
his face.

"Is Toller still drunk?" he asked.

"Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do
nothing with him."

"That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?"

"Yes."

"Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?"

"Yes, the wine-cellar."

"You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very
brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could
perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not
think you a quite exceptional woman."

"I will try. What is it?"

"We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o'clock, my friend
and I. The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will,
we hope, be incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might
give the alarm. If you could send her into the cellar on some
errand, and then turn the key upon her, you would facilitate
matters immensely."

"I will do it."

"Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of
course there is only one feasible explanation. You have been
brought there to personate someone, and the real person is
imprisoned in this chamber. That is obvious. As to who this
prisoner is, I have no doubt that it is the daughter, Miss Alice
Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to have gone to
America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in height,
figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off, very
possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of
course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance you
came upon her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some
friend of hers--possibly her fiancé--and no doubt, as you wore
the girl's dress and were so like her, he was convinced from your
laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from your gesture,
that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and that she no longer
desired his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to prevent
him from endeavouring to communicate with her. So much is fairly
clear. The most serious point in the case is the disposition of
the child."

"What on earth has that to do with it?" I ejaculated.

"My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining
light as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the
parents. Don't you see that the converse is equally valid. I have
frequently gained my first real insight into the character of
parents by studying their children. This child's disposition is
abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty's sake, and whether he
derives this from his smiling father, as I should suspect, or
from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in their
power."

"I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes," cried our client. "A
thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you
have hit it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to
this poor creature."

"We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning
man. We can do nothing until seven o'clock. At that hour we shall
be with you, and it will not be long before we solve the
mystery."

We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we
reached the Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside
public-house. The group of trees, with their dark leaves shining
like burnished metal in the light of the setting sun, were
sufficient to mark the house even had Miss Hunter not been
standing smiling on the door-step.

"Have you managed it?" asked Holmes.

A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. "That is
Mrs. Toller in the cellar," said she. "Her husband lies snoring
on the kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates
of Mr. Rucastle's."

"You have done well indeed!" cried Holmes with enthusiasm. "Now
lead the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black
business."

We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a
passage, and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss
Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the
transverse bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but
without success. No sound came from within, and at the silence
Holmes' face clouded over.

"I trust that we are not too late," said he. "I think, Miss
Hunter, that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put
your shoulder to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our
way in."

It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united
strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There
was no furniture save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a
basketful of linen. The skylight above was open, and the prisoner
gone.

"There has been some villainy here," said Holmes; "this beauty
has guessed Miss Hunter's intentions and has carried his victim
off."

"But how?"

"Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it." He
swung himself up onto the roof. "Ah, yes," he cried, "here's the
end of a long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did
it."

"But it is impossible," said Miss Hunter; "the ladder was not
there when the Rucastles went away."

"He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and
dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were
he whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it
would be as well for you to have your pistol ready."

The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at
the door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy
stick in his hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the
wall at the sight of him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and
confronted him.

"You villain!" said he, "where's your daughter?"

The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open
skylight.

"It is for me to ask you that," he shrieked, "you thieves! Spies
and thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I'll
serve you!" He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he
could go.

"He's gone for the dog!" cried Miss Hunter.

"I have my revolver," said I.

"Better close the front door," cried Holmes, and we all rushed
down the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we
heard the baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a
horrible worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An
elderly man with a red face and shaking limbs came staggering out
at a side door.

"My God!" he cried. "Someone has loosed the dog. It's not been
fed for two days. Quick, quick, or it'll be too late!"

Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with
Toller hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its
black muzzle buried in Rucastle's throat, while he writhed and
screamed upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and
it fell over with its keen white teeth still meeting in the great
creases of his neck. With much labour we separated them and
carried him, living but horribly mangled, into the house. We laid
him upon the drawing-room sofa, and having dispatched the sobered
Toller to bear the news to his wife, I did what I could to
relieve his pain. We were all assembled round him when the door
opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room.

"Mrs. Toller!" cried Miss Hunter.

"Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he
went up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn't let me know
what you were planning, for I would have told you that your pains
were wasted."

"Ha!" said Holmes, looking keenly at her. "It is clear that Mrs.
Toller knows more about this matter than anyone else."

"Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know."

"Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several
points on which I must confess that I am still in the dark."

"I will soon make it clear to you," said she; "and I'd have done
so before now if I could ha' got out from the cellar. If there's
police-court business over this, you'll remember that I was the
one that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice's friend
too.

"She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn't, from the time
that her father married again. She was slighted like and had no
say in anything, but it never really became bad for her until
after she met Mr. Fowler at a friend's house. As well as I could
learn, Miss Alice had rights of her own by will, but she was so
quiet and patient, she was, that she never said a word about them
but just left everything in Mr. Rucastle's hands. He knew he was
safe with her; but when there was a chance of a husband coming
forward, who would ask for all that the law would give him, then
her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her to
sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use
her money. When she wouldn't do it, he kept on worrying her until
she got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death's door. Then
she got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and with her
beautiful hair cut off; but that didn't make no change in her
young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be."

"Ah," said Holmes, "I think that what you have been good enough
to tell us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce
all that remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this
system of imprisonment?"

"Yes, sir."

"And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of
the disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler."

"That was it, sir."

"But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should
be, blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain
arguments, metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your
interests were the same as his."

"Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman," said
Mrs. Toller serenely.

"And in this way he managed that your good man should have no
want of drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment
when your master had gone out."

"You have it, sir, just as it happened."

"I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller," said Holmes, "for
you have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And
here comes the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think,
Watson, that we had best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester,
as it seems to me that our locus standi now is rather a
questionable one."

And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the
copper beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but
was always a broken man, kept alive solely through the care of
his devoted wife. They still live with their old servants, who
probably know so much of Rucastle's past life that he finds it
difficult to part from them. Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were
married, by special license, in Southampton the day after their
flight, and he is now the holder of a government appointment in
the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet Hunter, my friend
Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no further
interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one
of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at
Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.









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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sign of the Four, by Arthur Conan Doyle

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Title: The Sign of the Four

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Posting Date: November 19, 2008 [EBook #2097]
Release Date: March, 2000
[This file last updated March 2, 2011]

Language: English


*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SIGN OF THE FOUR ***














The Sign of the Four


By

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle




Contents





Chapter I

The Science of Deduction

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and
his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long,
white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back
his left shirt-cuff.  For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully
upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with
innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home,
pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined
arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but
custom had not reconciled my mind to it.  On the contrary, from day to
day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled
nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to
protest.  Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver
my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the cool, nonchalant
air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would
care to take anything approaching to a liberty.  His great powers, his
masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many
extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing
him.

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken
with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme
deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no
longer.

"Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"

He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he
had opened.  "It is cocaine," he said,--"a seven-per-cent. solution.
Would you care to try it?"

"No, indeed," I answered, brusquely.  "My constitution has not got over
the Afghan campaign yet.  I cannot afford to throw any extra strain
upon it."

He smiled at my vehemence.  "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said.
"I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one.  I find it,
however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that
its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

"But consider!" I said, earnestly.  "Count the cost!  Your brain may,
as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid
process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave a
permanent weakness.  You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon
you.  Surely the game is hardly worth the candle.  Why should you, for
a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which
you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to
another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to
some extent answerable."

He did not seem offended.  On the contrary, he put his finger-tips
together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who
has a relish for conversation.

"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation.  Give me problems, give me
work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate
analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere.  I can dispense then
with artificial stimulants.  But I abhor the dull routine of existence.
I crave for mental exaltation.  That is why I have chosen my own
particular profession,--or rather created it, for I am the only one in
the world."

"The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

"The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered.  "I am the
last and highest court of appeal in detection.  When Gregson or
Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths--which, by the way,
is their normal state--the matter is laid before me.  I examine the
data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion.  I claim no
credit in such cases.  My name figures in no newspaper.  The work
itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my
highest reward.  But you have yourself had some experience of my
methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case."

"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially.  "I was never so struck by anything
in my life.  I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat
fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"

He shook his head sadly.  "I glanced over it," said he. "Honestly, I
cannot congratulate you upon it.  Detection is, or ought to be, an
exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional
manner.  You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which
produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an
elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated.  "I could not tamper with
the facts."

"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of
proportion should be observed in treating them.  The only point in the
case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from
effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it."

I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially
designed to please him.  I confess, too, that I was irritated by the
egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be
devoted to his own special doings.  More than once during the years
that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small
vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner.  I made no
remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg.  I had a Jezail bullet
through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me from
walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather.

"My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes,
after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe.  "I was consulted
last week by Francois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come
rather to the front lately in the French detective service.  He has all
the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the wide
range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments
of his art.  The case was concerned with a will, and possessed some
features of interest.  I was able to refer him to two parallel cases,
the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have
suggested to him the true solution.  Here is the letter which I had
this morning acknowledging my assistance."  He tossed over, as he
spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I glanced my eyes down
it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray
"magnifiques," "coup-de-maitres," and "tours-de-force," all testifying
to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman.

"He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.

"Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes, lightly.
"He has considerable gifts himself.  He possesses two out of the three
qualities necessary for the ideal detective.  He has the power of
observation and that of deduction.  He is only wanting in knowledge;
and that may come in time.  He is now translating my small works into
French."

"Your works?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing.  "Yes, I have been guilty of
several monographs.  They are all upon technical subjects.  Here, for
example, is one 'Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various
Tobaccoes.'  In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of cigar-,
cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with colored plates illustrating the
difference in the ash.  It is a point which is continually turning up
in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of supreme importance as a
clue.  If you can say definitely, for example, that some murder has
been done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously
narrows your field of search.  To the trained eye there is as much
difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff
of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato."

"You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae," I remarked.

"I appreciate their importance.  Here is my monograph upon the tracing
of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as a
preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon the
influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes of the
hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, weavers, and
diamond-polishers.  That is a matter of great practical interest to the
scientific detective,--especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in
discovering the antecedents of criminals.  But I weary you with my
hobby."

"Not at all," I answered, earnestly.  "It is of the greatest interest
to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your
practical application of it.  But you spoke just now of observation and
deduction.  Surely the one to some extent implies the other."

"Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his arm-chair,
and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe.  "For example,
observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street
Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there
you dispatched a telegram."

"Right!" said I.  "Right on both points!  But I confess that I don't
see how you arrived at it.  It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I
have mentioned it to no one."

"It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my surprise,--"so
absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may
serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction.
Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould adhering to
your instep.  Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they have taken
up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in such a way that
it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering.  The earth is of
this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I know, nowhere
else in the neighborhood.  So much is observation.  The rest is
deduction."

"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"

"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat
opposite to you all morning.  I see also in your open desk there that
you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-cards.  What
could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire?
Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the
truth."

"In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought.
"The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you think
me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe test?"

"On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a
second dose of cocaine.  I should be delighted to look into any problem
which you might submit to me."

"I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object
in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it
in such a way that a trained observer might read it.  Now, I have here
a watch which has recently come into my possession.  Would you have the
kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the
late owner?"

I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my
heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I
intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he
occasionally assumed.  He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at
the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked
eyes and then with a powerful convex lens.  I could hardly keep from
smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and
handed it back.

"There are hardly any data," he remarked.  "The watch has been recently
cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts."

"You are right," I answered.  "It was cleaned before being sent to me."
In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and
impotent excuse to cover his failure.  What data could he expect from
an uncleaned watch?

"Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he
observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes.
"Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to
your elder brother, who inherited it from your father."

"That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"

"Quite so.  The W. suggests your own name.  The date of the watch is
nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch:  so
it was made for the last generation.  Jewelry usually descends to the
eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father.
Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years.  It has,
therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother."

"Right, so far," said I.  "Anything else?"

"He was a man of untidy habits,--very untidy and careless.  He was left
with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time
in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity, and finally,
taking to drink, he died.  That is all I can gather."

I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with
considerable bitterness in my heart.

"This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said.  "I could not have believed
that you would have descended to this.  You have made inquires into the
history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this
knowledge in some fanciful way.  You cannot expect me to believe that
you have read all this from his old watch!  It is unkind, and, to speak
plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it."

"My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies. Viewing
the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and
painful a thing it might be to you.  I assure you, however, that I
never even knew that you had a brother until you handed me the watch."

"Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these facts?
They are absolutely correct in every particular."

"Ah, that is good luck.  I could only say what was the balance of
probability.  I did not at all expect to be so accurate."

"But it was not mere guess-work?"

"No, no:  I never guess.  It is a shocking habit,--destructive to the
logical faculty.  What seems strange to you is only so because you do
not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which
large inferences may depend.  For example, I began by stating that your
brother was careless.  When you observe the lower part of that
watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted in two places, but it
is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard
objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket.  Surely it is no
great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so
cavalierly must be a careless man.  Neither is it a very far-fetched
inference that a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty
well provided for in other respects."

I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.

"It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a
watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the
inside of the case.  It is more handy than a label, as there is no risk
of the number being lost or transposed.  There are no less than four
such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case.
Inference,--that your brother was often at low water.  Secondary
inference,--that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could
not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner
plate, which contains the key-hole.  Look at the thousands of scratches
all round the hole,--marks where the key has slipped.  What sober man's
key could have scored those grooves?  But you will never see a
drunkard's watch without them.  He winds it at night, and he leaves
these traces of his unsteady hand.  Where is the mystery in all this?"

"It is as clear as daylight," I answered.  "I regret the injustice
which I did you.  I should have had more faith in your marvellous
faculty.  May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on foot
at present?"

"None.  Hence the cocaine.  I cannot live without brain-work. What else
is there to live for?  Stand at the window here.  Was ever such a
dreary, dismal, unprofitable world?  See how the yellow fog swirls down
the street and drifts across the dun-colored houses.  What could be
more hopelessly prosaic and material?  What is the use of having
powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them?  Crime
is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those
which are commonplace have any function upon earth."

I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade, when with a crisp knock
our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver.

"A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my companion.

"Miss Mary Morstan," he read.  "Hum!  I have no recollection of the
name.  Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson.  Don't go, doctor.
I should prefer that you remain."



Chapter II

The Statement of the Case

Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward composure
of manner.  She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved,
and dressed in the most perfect taste.  There was, however, a plainness
and simplicity about her costume which bore with it a suggestion of
limited means.  The dress was a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and
unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved
only by a suspicion of white feather in the side.  Her face had neither
regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was
sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual
and sympathetic.  In an experience of women which extends over many
nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face
which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature. I could
not but observe that as she took the seat which Sherlock Holmes placed
for her, her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign
of intense inward agitation.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled
my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic
complication.  She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."

"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully.  "I believe that I
was of some slight service to her.  The case, however, as I remember
it, was a very simple one."

"She did not think so.  But at least you cannot say the same of mine.
I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly inexplicable,
than the situation in which I find myself."

Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened.  He leaned forward in
his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his
clear-cut, hawklike features.  "State your case," said he, in brisk,
business tones.

I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.  "You will, I am sure,
excuse me," I said, rising from my chair.

To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain me.
"If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop, he might be
of inestimable service to me."

I relapsed into my chair.

"Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these.  My father was an
officer in an Indian regiment who sent me home when I was quite a
child.  My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England.  I was
placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at Edinburgh,
and there I remained until I was seventeen years of age.  In the year
1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve
months' leave and came home.  He telegraphed to me from London that he
had arrived all safe, and directed me to come down at once, giving the
Langham Hotel as his address.  His message, as I remember, was full of
kindness and love.  On reaching London I drove to the Langham, and was
informed that Captain Morstan was staying there, but that he had gone
out the night before and had not yet returned. I waited all day without
news of him.  That night, on the advice of the manager of the hotel, I
communicated with the police, and next morning we advertised in all the
papers.  Our inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this no
word has ever been heard of my unfortunate father.  He came home with
his heart full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and
instead--"  She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short
the sentence.

"The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note-book.

"He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 1878,--nearly ten years ago."

"His luggage?"

"Remained at the hotel.  There was nothing in it to suggest a
clue,--some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of
curiosities from the Andaman Islands.  He had been one of the officers
in charge of the convict-guard there."

"Had he any friends in town?"

"Only one that we know of,--Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the 34th
Bombay Infantry.  The major had retired some little time before, and
lived at Upper Norwood.  We communicated with him, of course, but he
did not even know that his brother officer was in England."

"A singular case," remarked Holmes.

"I have not yet described to you the most singular part.  About six
years ago--to be exact, upon the 4th of May, 1882--an advertisement
appeared in the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan and
stating that it would be to her advantage to come forward.  There was
no name or address appended.  I had at that time just entered the
family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess.  By her
advice I published my address in the advertisement column.  The same
day there arrived through the post a small card-board box addressed to
me, which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl.  No word
of writing was enclosed.  Since then every year upon the same date
there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar pearl,
without any clue as to the sender.  They have been pronounced by an
expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value.  You can see
for yourselves that they are very handsome."  She opened a flat box as
she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls that I had ever seen.

"Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Has
anything else occurred to you?"

"Yes, and no later than to-day.  That is why I have come to you. This
morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for
yourself."

"Thank you," said Holmes.  "The envelope too, please.  Postmark,
London, S.W.  Date, July 7.  Hum!  Man's thumb-mark on
corner,--probably postman.  Best quality paper.  Envelopes at sixpence
a packet.  Particular man in his stationery.  No address.  'Be at the
third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven
o'clock.  If you are distrustful, bring two friends.  You are a wronged
woman, and shall have justice.  Do not bring police.  If you do, all
will be in vain.  Your unknown friend.'  Well, really, this is a very
pretty little mystery. What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?"

"That is exactly what I want to ask you."

"Then we shall most certainly go.  You and I and--yes, why, Dr. Watson
is the very man.  Your correspondent says two friends.  He and I have
worked together before."

"But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her voice
and expression.

"I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of any
service."

"You are both very kind," she answered.  "I have led a retired life,
and have no friends whom I could appeal to.  If I am here at six it
will do, I suppose?"

"You must not be later," said Holmes.  "There is one other point,
however.  Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box
addresses?"

"I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of
paper.

"You are certainly a model client.  You have the correct intuition.
Let us see, now."  He spread out the papers upon the table, and gave
little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised
hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no
question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek e will
break out, and see the twirl of the final s.  They are undoubtedly by
the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss
Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of
your father?"

"Nothing could be more unlike."

"I expected to hear you say so.  We shall look out for you, then, at
six.  Pray allow me to keep the papers.  I may look into the matter
before then.  It is only half-past three.  Au revoir, then."

"Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from
one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and
hurried away.  Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly
down the street, until the gray turban and white feather were but a
speck in the sombre crowd.

"What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion.

He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping eyelids.
"Is she?" he said, languidly.  "I did not observe."

"You really are an automaton,--a calculating-machine!" I cried. "There
is something positively inhuman in you at times."

He smiled gently.  "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to
allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities.  A client is to
me a mere unit,--a factor in a problem.  The emotional qualities are
antagonistic to clear reasoning.  I assure you that the most winning
woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for
their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is
a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the
London poor."

"In this case, however--"

"I never make exceptions.  An exception disproves the rule.  Have you
ever had occasion to study character in handwriting?  What do you make
of this fellow's scribble?"

"It is legible and regular," I answered.  "A man of business habits and
some force of character."

Holmes shook his head.  "Look at his long letters," he said. "They
hardly rise above the common herd.  That d might be an a, and that l an
e.  Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however
illegibly they may write.  There is vacillation in his k's and
self-esteem in his capitals.  I am going out now.  I have some few
references to make.  Let me recommend this book,--one of the most
remarkable ever penned.  It is Winwood Reade's 'Martyrdom of Man.'  I
shall be back in an hour."

I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were
far from the daring speculations of the writer.  My mind ran upon our
late visitor,--her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the
strange mystery which overhung her life.  If she were seventeen at the
time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now,--a
sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a
little sobered by experience.  So I sat and mused, until such dangerous
thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged
furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology.  What was I, an army
surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I should
dare to think of such things?  She was a unit, a factor,--nothing more.
If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like a man
than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o'-the-wisps of the
imagination.



Chapter III

In Quest of a Solution

It was half-past five before Holmes returned.  He was bright, eager,
and in excellent spirits,--a mood which in his case alternated with
fits of the blackest depression.

"There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup of
tea which I had poured out for him.  "The facts appear to admit of only
one explanation."

"What! you have solved it already?"

"Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive
fact, that is all.  It is, however, VERY suggestive. The details are
still to be added.  I have just found, on consulting the back files of
the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the 34th Bombay
Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."

"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."

"No?  You surprise me.  Look at it in this way, then.  Captain Morstan
disappears.  The only person in London whom he could have visited is
Major Sholto.  Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London.
Four years later Sholto dies.  WITHIN A WEEK OF HIS DEATH Captain
Morstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated from
year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a
wronged woman.  What wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of
her father?  And why should the presents begin immediately after
Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir knows something of the
mystery and desires to make compensation?  Have you any alternative
theory which will meet the facts?"

"But what a strange compensation!  And how strangely made!  Why, too,
should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the
letter speaks of giving her justice.  What justice can she have?  It is
too much to suppose that her father is still alive.  There is no other
injustice in her case that you know of."

"There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said
Sherlock Holmes, pensively.  "But our expedition of to-night will solve
them all.  Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside.  Are
you all ready?  Then we had better go down, for it is a little past the
hour."

I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes
took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket.  It
was clear that he thought that our night's work might be a serious one.

Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was
composed, but pale.  She must have been more than woman if she did not
feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were
embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered
the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

"Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said. "His
letters were full of allusions to the major.  He and papa were in
command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a
great deal together.  By the way, a curious paper was found in papa's
desk which no one could understand.  I don't suppose that it is of the
slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it, so I
brought it with me.  It is here."

Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his knee.
He then very methodically examined it all over with his double lens.

"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked.  "It has at
some time been pinned to a board.  The diagram upon it appears to be a
plan of part of a large building with numerous halls, corridors, and
passages.  At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and above it
is '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-writing. In the left-hand corner
is a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line with their arms
touching.  Beside it is written, in very rough and coarse characters,
'The sign of the four,--Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan,
Dost Akbar.' No, I confess that I do not see how this bears upon the
matter. Yet it is evidently a document of importance.  It has been kept
carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as clean as the other."

"It was in his pocket-book that we found it."

"Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of
use to us.  I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be much
deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must reconsider my
ideas."  He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by his drawn brow
and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently.  Miss Morstan and I
chatted in an undertone about our present expedition and its possible
outcome, but our companion maintained his impenetrable reserve until
the end of our journey.

It was a September evening, and not yet seven o'clock, but the day had
been a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great city.
Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets.  Down the
Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light which threw
a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement.  The yellow glare
from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous air, and
threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded thoroughfare.
There was, to my mind, something eerie and ghost-like in the endless
procession of faces which flitted across these narrow bars of
light,--sad faces and glad, haggard and merry.  Like all human kind,
they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into the gloom
once more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy
evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged, combined
to make me nervous and depressed.  I could see from Miss Morstan's
manner that she was suffering from the same feeling.  Holmes alone
could rise superior to petty influences.  He held his open note-book
upon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down figures and
memoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.

At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the
side-entrances.  In front a continuous stream of hansoms and
four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of
shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women.  We had hardly
reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small,
dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.

"Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked.

"I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said she.

He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon us.
"You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain dogged manner, "but
I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your companions
is a police-officer."

"I give you my word on that," she answered.

He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a
four-wheeler and opened the door.  The man who had addressed us mounted
to the box, while we took our places inside.  We had hardly done so
before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away at a
furious pace through the foggy streets.

The situation was a curious one.  We were driving to an unknown place,
on an unknown errand.  Yet our invitation was either a complete
hoax,--which was an inconceivable hypothesis,--or else we had good
reason to think that important issues might hang upon our journey.
Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever.  I
endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures in
Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at our
situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were
slightly involved.  To this day she declares that I told her one moving
anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night,
and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it.  At first I had
some idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon, what
with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost
my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going a very
long way.  Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he muttered
the names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by tortuous
by-streets.

"Rochester Row," said he.  "Now Vincent Square.  Now we come out on the
Vauxhall Bridge Road.  We are making for the Surrey side, apparently.
Yes, I thought so.  Now we are on the bridge.  You can catch glimpses
of the river."

We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with the
lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on, and
was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.

"Wordsworth Road," said my companion.  "Priory Road.  Lark Hall Lane.
Stockwell Place.  Robert Street.  Cold Harbor Lane.  Our quest does not
appear to take us to very fashionable regions."

We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.
Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse glare
and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner.  Then came rows
of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden, and
then again interminable lines of new staring brick buildings,--the
monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into the
country.  At last the cab drew up at the third house in a new terrace.
None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at which we stopped
was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen
window.  On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open
by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban, white loose-fitting
clothes, and a yellow sash.  There was something strangely incongruous
in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace door-way of a
third-rate suburban dwelling-house.

"The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a high
piping voice from some inner room.  "Show them in to me, khitmutgar,"
it cried.  "Show them straight in to me."



Chapter IV

The Story of the Bald-Headed Man

We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill lit and
worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw
open.  A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre
of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle
of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which
shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees.  He writhed
his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual
jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose.
Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow
and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly
passing his hand over the lower part of his face.  In spite of his
obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth.  In point of fact
he had just turned his thirtieth year.

"Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.
"Your servant, gentlemen.  Pray step into my little sanctum.  A small
place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the
howling desert of South London."

We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he
invited us.  In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond
of the first water in a setting of brass.  The richest and glossiest of
curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to
expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase.  The carpet was
of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly
into it, as into a bed of moss.  Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart
it increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah
which stood upon a mat in the corner.  A lamp in the fashion of a
silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre
of the room.  As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic
odor.

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and smiling.
"That is my name.  You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these
gentlemen--"

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."

"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited.  "Have you your stethoscope?
Might I ask you--would you have the kindness?  I have grave doubts as
to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good.  The aortic I may
rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."

I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find anything
amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered
from head to foot.  "It appears to be normal," I said.  "You have no
cause for uneasiness."

"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily. "I am
a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve.  I
am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted.  Had your father, Miss
Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have
been alive now."

I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter.  Miss Morstan
sat down, and her face grew white to the lips.  "I knew in my heart
that he was dead," said she.

"I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I can
do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say.
I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to you,
but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say.  The three of
us can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew.  But let us have no
outsiders,--no police or officials.  We can settle everything
satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference.  Nothing
would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity."  He sat down
upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery
blue eyes.

"For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go no
further."

I nodded to show my agreement.

"That is well!  That is well!" said he.  "May I offer you a glass of
Chianti, Miss Morstan?  Or of Tokay?  I keep no other wines. Shall I
open a flask?  No?  Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to
tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco.  I am
a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative."  He
applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
through the rose-water.  We sat all three in a semicircle, with our
heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky
little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the
centre.

"When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he,
"I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might
disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the
liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my man
Williams might be able to see you first.  I have complete confidence in
his discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed
no further in the matter.  You will excuse these precautions, but I am
a man of somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and
there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman.  I have a natural
shrinking from all forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in contact
with the rough crowd.  I live, as you see, with some little atmosphere
of elegance around me.  I may call myself a patron of the arts.  It is
my weakness.  The landscape is a genuine Corot, and, though a
connoisseur might perhaps throw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there
cannot be the least question about the Bouguereau.  I am partial to the
modern French school."

"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here at
your request to learn something which you desire to tell me.  It is
very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as
possible."

"At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall
certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew.  We shall
all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew.  He is
very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to me.
I had quite high words with him last night.  You cannot imagine what a
terrible fellow he is when he is angry."

"If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at
once," I ventured to remark.

He laughed until his ears were quite red.  "That would hardly do," he
cried.  "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that sudden
way.  No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each
other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are several
points in the story of which I am myself ignorant.  I can only lay the
facts before you as far as I know them myself.

"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of the
Indian army.  He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live at
Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood.  He had prospered in India, and
brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection
of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants.  With these
advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury.  My
twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

"I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
disappearance of Captain Morstan.  We read the details in the papers,
and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed
the case freely in his presence.  He used to join in our speculations
as to what could have happened.  Never for an instant did we suspect
that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,--that of all men
he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

"We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive
danger--overhung our father.  He was very fearful of going out alone,
and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at
Pondicherry Lodge.  Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them.
He was once light-weight champion of England.  Our father would never
tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men
with wooden legs.  On one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a
wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for
orders.  We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up.  My brother
and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's, but events have
since led us to change our opinion.

"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a great
shock to him.  He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened
it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in the letter
we could never discover, but I could see as he held it that it was
short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered for years from
an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and towards the
end of April we were informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he
wished to make a last communication to us.

"When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and breathing
heavily.  He besought us to lock the door and to come upon either side
of the bed.  Then, grasping our hands, he made a remarkable statement
to us, in a voice which was broken as much by emotion as by pain.  I
shall try and give it to you in his own very words.

"'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this
supreme moment.  It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan.  The
cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has withheld
from her the treasure, half at least of which should have been hers.
And yet I have made no use of it myself,--so blind and foolish a thing
is avarice.  The mere feeling of possession has been so dear to me that
I could not bear to share it with another.  See that chaplet dipped
with pearls beside the quinine-bottle.  Even that I could not bear to
part with, although I had got it out with the design of sending it to
her. You, my sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure. But
send her nothing--not even the chaplet--until I am gone. After all, men
have been as bad as this and have recovered.

"'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued.  'He had suffered
for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one.  I
alone knew it.  When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of
circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure.  I
brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he
came straight over here to claim his share.  He walked over from the
station, and was admitted by my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is now dead.
Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of the
treasure, and we came to heated words.  Morstan had sprung out of his
chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to his
side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backwards, cutting his
head against the corner of the treasure-chest.  When I stooped over him
I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

"'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I should do.
My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could
not but recognize that there was every chance that I would be accused
of his murder.  His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in
his head, would be black against me. Again, an official inquiry could
not be made without bringing out some facts about the treasure, which I
was particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no soul
upon earth knew where he had gone.  There seemed to be no necessity why
any soul ever should know.

"'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my
servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway.  He stole in and bolted the door
behind him.  "Do not fear, Sahib," he said.  "No one need know that you
have killed him.  Let us hide him away, and who is the wiser?" "I did
not kill him," said I.  Lal Chowdar shook his head and smiled.  "I
heard it all, Sahib," said he.  "I heard you quarrel, and I heard the
blow.  But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in the house.  Let us put
him away together." That was enough to decide me.  If my own servant
could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good before
twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box?  Lal Chowdar and I disposed of
the body that night, and within a few days the London papers were full
of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan.  You will see from
what I say that I can hardly be blamed in the matter.  My fault lies in
the fact that we concealed not only the body, but also the treasure,
and that I have clung to Morstan's share as well as to my own.  I wish
you, therefore, to make restitution.  Put your ears down to my mouth.
The treasure is hidden in--'  At this instant a horrible change came
over his expression; his eyes stared wildly, his jaw dropped, and he
yelled, in a voice which I can never forget, 'Keep him out!  For
Christ's sake keep him out!'  We both stared round at the window behind
us upon which his gaze was fixed.  A face was looking in at us out of
the darkness.  We could see the whitening of the nose where it was
pressed against the glass.  It was a bearded, hairy face, with wild
cruel eyes and an expression of concentrated malevolence. My brother
and I rushed towards the window, but the man was gone.  When we
returned to my father his head had dropped and his pulse had ceased to
beat.

"We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the intruder,
save that just under the window a single footmark was visible in the
flower-bed.  But for that one trace, we might have thought that our
imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face.  We soon, however,
had another and a more striking proof that there were secret agencies
at work all round us.  The window of my father's room was found open in
the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been rifled, and upon his
chest was fixed a torn piece of paper, with the words 'The sign of the
four' scrawled across it.  What the phrase meant, or who our secret
visitor may have been, we never knew.  As far as we can judge, none of
my father's property had been actually stolen, though everything had
been turned out.  My brother and I naturally associated this peculiar
incident with the fear which haunted my father during his life; but it
is still a complete mystery to us."

The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed thoughtfully
for a few moments.  We had all sat absorbed, listening to his
extraordinary narrative.  At the short account of her father's death
Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and for a moment I feared that
she was about to faint.  She rallied however, on drinking a glass of
water which I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe upon
the side-table.  Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an
abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over his glittering eyes.
As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day he had
complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life.  Here at least was
a problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost.  Mr. Thaddeus
Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious pride at the
effect which his story had produced, and then continued between the
puffs of his overgrown pipe.

"My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may imagine, much excited as
to the treasure which my father had spoken of.  For weeks and for
months we dug and delved in every part of the garden, without
discovering its whereabouts.  It was maddening to think that the
hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment that he died.  We could
judge the splendor of the missing riches by the chaplet which he had
taken out.  Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had some
little discussion.  The pearls were evidently of great value, and he
was averse to part with them, for, between friends, my brother was
himself a little inclined to my father's fault.  He thought, too, that
if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip and finally
bring us into trouble.  It was all that I could do to persuade him to
let me find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a detached pearl at
fixed intervals, so that at least she might never feel destitute."

"It was a kindly thought," said our companion, earnestly.  "It was
extremely good of you."

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly.  "We were your trustees,"
he said.  "That was the view which I took of it, though Brother
Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light.  We had plenty
of money ourselves.  I desired no more. Besides, it would have been
such bad taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy a fashion. 'Le
mauvais gout mene au crime.'  The French have a very neat way of
putting these things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went so
far that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself:  so I left
Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with me.
Yesterday, however, I learn that an event of extreme importance has
occurred.  The treasure has been discovered.  I instantly communicated
with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive out to Norwood
and demand our share.  I explained my views last night to Brother
Bartholomew:  so we shall be expected, if not welcome, visitors."

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious settee.
We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new development
which the mysterious business had taken.  Holmes was the first to
spring to his feet.

"You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he.  "It is
possible that we may be able to make you some small return by throwing
some light upon that which is still dark to you.  But, as Miss Morstan
remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the matter through
without delay."

Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his
hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged
topcoat with Astrakhan collar and cuffs.  This he buttoned tightly up,
in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his attire
by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which covered the
ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile and peaky
face.  "My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked, as he led the way
down the passage.  "I am compelled to be a valetudinarian."

Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was evidently
prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace.
Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above
the rattle of the wheels.

"Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he.  "How do you think he found
out where the treasure was?  He had come to the conclusion that it was
somewhere indoors:  so he worked out all the cubic space of the house,
and made measurements everywhere, so that not one inch should be
unaccounted for.  Among other things, he found that the height of the
building was seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights of
all the separate rooms, and making every allowance for the space
between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the total
to more than seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted for.  These
could only be at the top of the building.  He knocked a hole,
therefore, in the lath-and-plaster ceiling of the highest room, and
there, sure enough, he came upon another little garret above it, which
had been sealed up and was known to no one.  In the centre stood the
treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters.  He lowered it through the
hole, and there it lies.  He computes the value of the jewels at not
less than half a million sterling."

At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another
open-eyed.  Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would change from
a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely it was the
place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news; yet I am ashamed to
say that selfishness took me by the soul, and that my heart turned as
heavy as lead within me.  I stammered out some few halting words of
congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my head drooped, deaf to
the babble of our new acquaintance.  He was clearly a confirmed
hypochondriac, and I was dreamily conscious that he was pouring forth
interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring information as to the
composition and action of innumerable quack nostrums, some of which he
bore about in a leather case in his pocket.  I trust that he may not
remember any of the answers which I gave him that night.  Holmes
declares that he overheard me caution him against the great danger of
taking more than two drops of castor oil, while I recommended
strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However that may be, I was
certainly relieved when our cab pulled up with a jerk and the coachman
sprang down to open the door.

"This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,
as he handed her out.



Chapter V

The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge

It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our
night's adventures.  We had left the damp fog of the great city behind
us, and the night was fairly fine.  A warm wind blew from the westward,
and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a moon peeping
occasionally through the rifts.  It was clear enough to see for some
distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the side-lamps from the
carriage to give us a better light upon our way.

Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round with a
very high stone wall topped with broken glass.  A single narrow
iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On this our guide
knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

"It is I, McMurdo.  You surely know my knock by this time."

There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys. The
door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the
opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his
protruded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.

"That you, Mr. Thaddeus?  But who are the others?  I had no orders
about them from the master."

"No, McMurdo?  You surprise me!  I told my brother last night that I
should bring some friends."

"He ain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no
orders.  You know very well that I must stick to regulations. I can let
you in, but your friends must just stop where they are."

This was an unexpected obstacle.  Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in a
perplexed and helpless manner.  "This is too bad of you, McMurdo!" he
said.  "If I guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is the young
lady, too.  She cannot wait on the public road at this hour."

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably.  "Folk may be
friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's.  He pays me well
to do my duty, and my duty I'll do.  I don't know none o' your friends."

"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially.  "I don't
think you can have forgotten me.  Don't you remember the amateur who
fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the night of your
benefit four years back?"

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter.  "God's truth! how
could I have mistook you?  If instead o' standin' there so quiet you
had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw,
I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that has wasted
your gifts, you have!  You might have aimed high, if you had joined the
fancy."

"You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the
scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing.  "Our friend
won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."

"In you come, sir, in you come,--you and your friends," he answered.
"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be
certain of your friends before I let them in."

Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump of
a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a
moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window.  The vast
size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck a
chill to the heart.  Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the
lantern quivered and rattled in his hand.

"I cannot understand it," he said.  "There must be some mistake. I
distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is no
light in his window.  I do not know what to make of it."

"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

"Yes; he has followed my father's custom.  He was the favorite son, you
know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more than
he ever told me.  That is Bartholomew's window up there where the
moonshine strikes.  It is quite bright, but there is no light from
within, I think."

"None," said Holmes.  "But I see the glint of a light in that little
window beside the door."

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room.  That is where old Mrs. Bernstone
sits.  She can tell us all about it.  But perhaps you would not mind
waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together and she
has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. But hush! what is that?"

He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light
flickered and wavered all round us.  Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and
we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great
black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest and most
pitiful of sounds,--the shrill, broken whimpering of a frightened woman.

"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto.  "She is the only woman in the
house.  Wait here.  I shall be back in a moment."  He hurried for the
door, and knocked in his peculiar way.  We could see a tall old woman
admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.

"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come!  I am so glad you
have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!"  We heard her reiterated rejoicings
until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled
monotone.

Our guide had left us the lantern.  Holmes swung it slowly round, and
peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which
cumbered the grounds.  Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand
was in mine.  A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two who
had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word or even
look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble
our hands instinctively sought for each other.  I have marvelled at it
since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I should
go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there was in her also
the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection.  So we stood
hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for
all the dark things that surrounded us.

"What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it.
I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat,
where the prospectors had been at work."

"And from the same cause," said Holmes.  "These are the traces of the
treasure-seekers.  You must remember that they were six years looking
for it.  No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit."

At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto
came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes.

"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried.  "I am
frightened!  My nerves cannot stand it."  He was, indeed, half
blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from
the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a
terrified child.

"Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.

"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto.  "I really do not feel equal to
giving directions."

We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the
left-hand side of the passage.  The old woman was pacing up and down
with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of Miss
Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her.

"God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob.
"It does me good to see you.  Oh, but I have been sorely tried this
day!"

Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few
words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the color back into the
others bloodless cheeks.

"Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained.
"All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be
alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went up
and peeped through the key-hole.  You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus,--you
must go up and look for yourself.  I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto
in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with such
a face on him as that."

Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto's
teeth were chattering in his head.  So shaken was he that I had to pass
my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees were
trembling under him.  Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his lens out
of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to me to be
mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting which served
as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step, holding the
lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left.  Miss Morstan had
remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some length,
with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it and three
doors upon the left.  Holmes advanced along it in the same slow and
methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our long black
shadows streaming backwards down the corridor.  The third door was that
which we were seeking.  Holmes knocked without receiving any answer,
and then tried to turn the handle and force it open.  It was locked on
the inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see
when we set our lamp up against it.  The key being turned, however, the
hole was not entirely closed.  Sherlock Holmes bent down to it, and
instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of the breath.

"There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved than
I had ever before seen him.  "What do you make of it?"

I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror.  Moonlight was streaming
into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty radiance.
Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the air, for all
beneath was in shadow, there hung a face,--the very face of our
companion Thaddeus.  There was the same high, shining head, the same
circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance.  The
features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural
grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more jarring to the
nerves than any scowl or contortion.  So like was the face to that of
our little friend that I looked round at him to make sure that he was
indeed with us.  Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned to us
that his brother and he were twins.

"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes.  "What is to be done?"

"The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he
put all his weight upon the lock.  It creaked and groaned, but did not
yield.  Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time it
gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within Bartholomew
Sholto's chamber.

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory.  A double
line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite the
door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners, test-tubes,
and retorts.  In the corners stood carboys of acid in wicker baskets.
One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken, for a stream of
dark-colored liquid had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy
with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor.  A set of steps stood at one
side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and
above them there was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man
to pass through.  At the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was
thrown carelessly together.

By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was seated
all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and that
ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face.  He was stiff and cold, and
had clearly been dead many hours.  It seemed to me that not only his
features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most
fantastic fashion.  By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar
instrument,--a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a
hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine.  Beside it was a torn sheet
of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it.  Holmes glanced at it,
and then handed it to me.

"You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The sign
of the four."

"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

"It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man.  "Ah, I
expected it.  Look here!"  He pointed to what looked like a long, dark
thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

"It looks like a thorn," said I.

"It is a thorn.  You may pick it out.  But be careful, for it is
poisoned."

I took it up between my finger and thumb.  It came away from the skin
so readily that hardly any mark was left behind.  One tiny speck of
blood showed where the puncture had been.

"This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I.  "It grows darker
instead of clearer."

"On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant.  I only
require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case."

We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the
chamber.  He was still standing in the door-way, the very picture of
terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly, however,
he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

"The treasure is gone!" he said.  "They have robbed him of the
treasure!  There is the hole through which we lowered it.  I helped him
to do it!  I was the last person who saw him!  I left him here last
night, and I heard him lock the door as I came down-stairs."

"What time was that?"

"It was ten o'clock.  And now he is dead, and the police will be called
in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I am
sure I shall.  But you don't think so, gentlemen? Surely you don't
think that it was I?  Is it likely that I would have brought you here
if it were I?  Oh, dear! oh, dear!  I know that I shall go mad!"  He
jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive frenzy.

"You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly, putting
his hand upon his shoulder.  "Take my advice, and drive down to the
station to report this matter to the police.  Offer to assist them in
every way.  We shall wait here until your return."

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him
stumbling down the stairs in the dark.



Chapter VI

Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour to
ourselves.  Let us make good use of it.  My case is, as I have told
you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of
over-confidence.  Simple as the case seems now, there may be something
deeper underlying it."

"Simple!" I ejaculated.

"Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor
expounding to his class.  "Just sit in the corner there, that your
footprints may not complicate matters.  Now to work!  In the first
place, how did these folk come, and how did they go?  The door has not
been opened since last night.  How of the window?"  He carried the lamp
across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but
addressing them to himself rather than to me.  "Window is snibbed on
the inner side. Framework is solid.  No hinges at the side.  Let us
open it.  No water-pipe near.  Roof quite out of reach.  Yet a man has
mounted by the window. It rained a little last night.  Here is the
print of a foot in mould upon the sill.  And here is a circular muddy
mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. See
here, Watson!  This is really a very pretty demonstration."

I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs.  "This is not a
footmark," said I.

"It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a
wooden stump.  You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot
with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the timber-toe."

"It is the wooden-legged man."

"Quite so.  But there has been some one else,--a very able and
efficient ally.  Could you scale that wall, doctor?"

I looked out of the open window.  The moon still shone brightly on that
angle of the house.  We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and,
look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice
in the brick-work.

"It is absolutely impossible," I answered.

"Without aid it is so.  But suppose you had a friend up here who
lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing
one end of it to this great hook in the wall.  Then, I think, if you
were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all.  You would
depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the
rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside,
and get away in the way that he originally came.  As a minor point it
may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our
wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional
sailor.  His hands were far from horny.  My lens discloses more than
one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I
gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin
off his hand."

"This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more
unintelligible than ever.  How about this mysterious ally?  How came he
into the room?"

"Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively.  "There are features of
interest about this ally.  He lifts the case from the regions of the
commonplace.  I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals
of crime in this country,--though parallel cases suggest themselves
from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia."

"How came he, then?"  I reiterated.  "The door is locked, the window is
inaccessible.  Was it through the chimney?"

"The grate is much too small," he answered.  "I had already considered
that possibility."

"How then?" I persisted.

"You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head.  "How often
have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible
whatever remains, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must be the truth?  We know that
he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney.  We also
know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no
concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?"

"He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.

"Of course he did.  He must have done so. If you will have the kindness
to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room
above,--the secret room in which the treasure was found."

He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung
himself up into the garret.  Then, lying on his face, he reached down
for the lamp and held it while I followed him.

The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and
six the other.  The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin
lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam
to beam.  The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell
of the true roof of the house.  There was no furniture of any sort, and
the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.

"Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against
the sloping wall.  "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof.
I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle
angle.  This, then, is the way by which Number One entered.  Let us see
if we can find any other traces of his individuality."

He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the
second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face.
For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes.
The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot,--clear,
well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an
ordinary man.

"Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing."

He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.  "I was staggered
for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural.  My memory
failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it.  There is nothing
more to be learned here.  Let us go down."

"What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly,
when we had regained the lower room once more.

"My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch
of impatience.  "You know my methods.  Apply them, and it will be
instructive to compare results."

"I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered.

"It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way.  "I
think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look."
He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room
on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose
only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and
deep-set like those of a bird.  So swift, silent, and furtive were his
movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent,
that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made
had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of
exerting them in its defense.  As he hunted about, he kept muttering to
himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight.

"We are certainly in luck," said he.  "We ought to have very little
trouble now.  Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the
creosote.  You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here
at the side of this evil-smelling mess.  The carboy has been cracked,
You see, and the stuff has leaked out."

"What then?" I asked.

"Why, we have got him, that's all," said he.  "I know a dog that would
follow that scent to the world's end.  If a pack can track a trailed
herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so
pungent a smell as this?  It sounds like a sum in the rule of three.
The answer should give us the--But halloo! here are the accredited
representatives of the law."

Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below, and
the hall door shut with a loud crash.

"Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor
fellow's arm, and here on his leg.  What do you feel?"

"The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.

"Quite so.  They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding
the usual rigor mortis.  Coupled with this distortion of the face, this
Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old writers called it,
what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?"

"Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered,--"some
strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."

"That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn
muscles of the face.  On getting into the room I at once looked for the
means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I
discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force
into the scalp.  You observe that the part struck was that which would
be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his
chair.  Now examine the thorn."

I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was
long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though
some gummy substance had dried upon it.  The blunt end had been trimmed
and rounded off with a knife.

"Is that an English thorn?" he asked.

"No, it certainly is not."

"With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference.
But here are the regulars:  so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat."

As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on
the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode heavily
into the room.  He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of
very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen
and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform,
and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.

"Here's a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here's a
pretty business!  But who are all these?  Why, the house seems to be as
full as a rabbit-warren!"

"I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes,
quietly.

"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed.  "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the
theorist.  Remember you!  I'll never forget how you lectured us all on
causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case.  It's
true you set us on the right track; but you'll own now that it was more
by good luck than good guidance."

"It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

"Oh, come, now, come!  Never be ashamed to own up.  But what is all
this?  Bad business!  Bad business!  Stern facts here,--no room for
theories.  How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another
case!  I was at the station when the message arrived.  What d'you think
the man died of?"

"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes, dryly.

"No, no.  Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
sometimes.  Dear me!  Door locked, I understand.  Jewels worth half a
million missing.  How was the window?"

"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

"Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do with
the matter.  That's common sense.  Man might have died in a fit; but
then the jewels are missing.  Ha!  I have a theory. These flashes come
upon me at times.--Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto.
Your friend can remain.--What do you think of this, Holmes?  Sholto
was, on his own confession, with his brother last night.  The brother
died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure.  How's
that?"

"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on
the inside."

"Hum!  There's a flaw there.  Let us apply common sense to the matter.
This Thaddeus Sholto WAS with his brother; there WAS a quarrel; so much
we know.  The brother is dead and the jewels are gone.  So much also we
know.  No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him.  His bed
had not been slept in.  Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state
of mind.  His appearance is--well, not attractive.  You see that I am
weaving my web round Thaddeus.  The net begins to close upon him."

"You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes. "This
splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be poisoned,
was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this card,
inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay this
rather curious stone-headed instrument.  How does all that fit into
your theory?"

"Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously.
"House is full of Indian curiosities.  Thaddeus brought this up, and if
this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous use
of it as any other man.  The card is some hocus-pocus,--a blind, as
like as not.  The only question is, how did he depart?  Ah, of course,
here is a hole in the roof."  With great activity, considering his
bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and
immediately afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he
had found the trap-door.

"He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders.  "He
has occasional glimmerings of reason.  _Il n'y a pas des sots si
incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!_"

"You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again.
"Facts are better than mere theories, after all.  My view of the case
is confirmed.  There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it
is partly open."

"It was I who opened it."

"Oh, indeed!  You did notice it, then?"  He seemed a little crestfallen
at the discovery.  "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our
gentleman got away.  Inspector!"

"Yes, sir," from the passage.

"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.--Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to inform
you that anything which you may say will be used against you.  I arrest
you in the queen's name as being concerned in the death of your
brother."

"There, now!  Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing
out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.

"Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes.  "I think
that I can engage to clear you of the charge."

"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist,--don't promise too much!"
snapped the detective.  "You may find it a harder matter than you
think."

"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free
present of the name and description of one of the two people who were
in this room last night.  His name, I have every reason to believe, is
Jonathan Small.  He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his
right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the
inner side.  His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron
band round the heel.  He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has
been a convict.  These few indications may be of some assistance to
you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing
from the palm of his hand.  The other man--"

"Ah! the other man--?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but
impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the
other's manner.

"Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his
heel.  "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair
of them.--A word with you, Watson."

He led me out to the head of the stair.  "This unexpected occurrence,"
he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of
our journey."

"I have just been thinking so," I answered.  "It is not right that Miss
Morstan should remain in this stricken house."

"No.  You must escort her home.  She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester,
in Lower Camberwell:  so it is not very far.  I will wait for you here
if you will drive out again.  Or perhaps you are too tired?"

"By no means.  I don't think I could rest until I know more of this
fantastic business.  I have seen something of the rough side of life,
but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises
to-night has shaken my nerve completely.  I should like, however, to
see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far."

"Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered.  "We shall
work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult
over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct.  When you have
dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down
near the water's edge at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand
side is a bird-stuffer's: Sherman is the name.  You will see a weasel
holding a young rabbit in the window.  Knock old Sherman up, and tell
him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once.  You will bring
Toby back in the cab with you."

"A dog, I suppose."

"Yes,--a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent.  I would
rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of
London."

"I shall bring him, then," said I.  "It is one now.  I ought to be back
before three, if I can get a fresh horse."

"And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs. Bernstone,
and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the
next garret.  Then I shall study the great Jones's methods and listen
to his not too delicate sarcasms. 'Wir sind gewohnt das die Menschen
verhoehnen was sie nicht verstehen.'  Goethe is always pithy."



Chapter VII

The Episode of the Barrel

The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss
Morstan back to her home.  After the angelic fashion of women, she had
borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker
than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the
side of the frightened housekeeper.  In the cab, however, she first
turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping,--so sorely had
she been tried by the adventures of the night.  She has told me since
that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey.  She little
guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint
which held me back.  My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as
my hand had in the garden.  I felt that years of the conventionalities
of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this
one day of strange experiences.  Yet there were two thoughts which
sealed the words of affection upon my lips.  She was weak and helpless,
shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a disadvantage to
obtrude love upon her at such a time.  Worse still, she was rich.  If
Holmes's researches were successful, she would be an heiress.  Was it
fair, was it honorable, that a half-pay surgeon should take such
advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought about?  Might she not
look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker?  I could not bear to risk
that such a thought should cross her mind.  This Agra treasure
intervened like an impassable barrier between us.

It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The
servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so
interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received that
she had sat up in the hope of her return.  She opened the door herself,
a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly
her arm stole round the other's waist and how motherly was the voice in
which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid dependant, but an
honored friend.  I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged
me to step in and tell her our adventures.  I explained, however, the
importance of my errand, and promised faithfully to call and report any
progress which we might make with the case.  As we drove away I stole a
glance back, and I still seem to see that little group on the step, the
two graceful, clinging figures, the half-opened door, the hall light
shining through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright
stair-rods.  It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a
tranquil English home in the midst of the wild, dark business which had
absorbed us.

And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it
grew.  I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I
rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets.  There was the original
problem:  that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain
Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the letter,--we
had had light upon all those events.  They had only led us, however, to
a deeper and far more tragic mystery.  The Indian treasure, the curious
plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange scene at Major Sholto's
death, the rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed by the
murder of the discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to the
crime, the footsteps, the remarkable weapons, the words upon the card,
corresponding with those upon Captain Morstan's chart,--here was indeed
a labyrinth in which a man less singularly endowed than my
fellow-lodger might well despair of ever finding the clue.

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the lower
quarter of Lambeth.  I had to knock for some time at No. 3 before I
could make my impression.  At last, however, there was the glint of a
candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper window.

"Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face.  "If you kick up any more
row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon you."

"If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.

"Go on!" yelled the voice.  "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in the
bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook it."

"But I want a dog," I cried.

"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman.  "Now stand clear, for
when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes--" I began, but the words had a most magical
effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute the
door was unbarred and open.  Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old man,
with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses.

"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he.  "Step in, sir.
Keep clear of the badger; for he bites.  Ah, naughty, naughty, would
you take a nip at the gentleman?"  This to a stoat which thrust its
wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage.  "Don't mind
that, sir:  it's only a slow-worm.  It hain't got no fangs, so I gives
it the run o' the room, for it keeps the beetles down.  You must not
mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I'm guyed at by
the children, and there's many a one just comes down this lane to knock
me up.  What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?"

"He wanted a dog of yours."

"Ah! that would be Toby."

"Yes, Toby was the name."

"Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here."  He moved slowly forward with
his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round
him.  In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there were
glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and
corner.  Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls,
who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as our voices
disturbed their slumbers.

Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel
and half lurcher, brown-and-white in color, with a very clumsy waddling
gait.  It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old
naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it
followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me.
It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back
once more at Pondicherry Lodge.  The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I
found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had
been marched off to the station.  Two constables guarded the narrow
gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the
detective's name.

Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets,
smoking his pipe.

"Ah, you have him there!" said he.  "Good dog, then!  Atheney Jones has
gone.  We have had an immense display of energy since you left.  He has
arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper,
and the Indian servant.  We have the place to ourselves, but for a
sergeant up-stairs.  Leave the dog here, and come up."

We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs.  The room
was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the
central figure.  A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner.

"Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion.  "Now tie this
bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you.
Now I must kick off my boots and stockings.--Just you carry them down
with you, Watson.  I am going to do a little climbing.  And dip my
handkerchief into the creasote.  That will do.  Now come up into the
garret with me for a moment."

We clambered up through the hole.  Holmes turned his light once more
upon the footsteps in the dust.

"I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you
observe anything noteworthy about them?"

"They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."

"Apart from their size, though.  Is there nothing else?"

"They appear to be much as other footmarks."

"Not at all.  Look here!  This is the print of a right foot in the
dust.  Now I make one with my naked foot beside it.  What is the chief
difference?"

"Your toes are all cramped together.  The other print has each toe
distinctly divided."

"Quite so.  That is the point.  Bear that in mind.  Now, would you
kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the
wood-work?  I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand."

I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry
smell.

"That is where he put his foot in getting out.  If YOU can trace him, I
should think that Toby will have no difficulty.  Now run down-stairs,
loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."

By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the
roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very
slowly along the ridge.  I lost sight of him behind a stack of
chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon
the opposite side.  When I made my way round there I found him seated
at one of the corner eaves.

"That you, Watson?" he cried.

"Yes."

"This is the place.  What is that black thing down there?"

"A water-barrel."

"Top on it?"

"Yes."

"No sign of a ladder?"

"No."

"Confound the fellow!  It's a most break-neck place.  I ought to be
able to come down where he could climb up.  The water-pipe feels pretty
firm.  Here goes, anyhow."

There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily
down the side of the wall.  Then with a light spring he came on to the
barrel, and from there to the earth.

"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and
boots.  "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he
had dropped this.  It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it."

The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out
of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it.  In
shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a
dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other,
like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

"They are hellish things," said he.  "Look out that you don't prick
yourself.  I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they
are all he has.  There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our
skin before long.  I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself.  Are
you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"

"Certainly," I answered.

"Your leg will stand it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Here you are, doggy!  Good old Toby!  Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He
pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the
creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical
cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of a famous
vintage.  Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened a
stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and led him to the foot of the
water-barrel.  The creature instantly broke into a succession of high,
tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground, and his tail in the
air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which strained his leash and
kept us at the top of our speed.

The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
distance in the cold gray light.  The square, massive house, with its
black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and forlorn,
behind us.  Our course led right across the grounds, in and out among
the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected.
The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs,
had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the black tragedy
which hung over it.

On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,
underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a
young beech.  Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been
loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the
lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder.
Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over
upon the other side.

"There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I mounted up
beside him.  "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white
plaster.  What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain
since yesterday!  The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their
eight-and-twenty hours' start."

I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great
traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval.  My
fears were soon appeased, however.  Toby never hesitated or swerved,
but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion.  Clearly, the pungent
smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents.

"Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this
case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot
in the chemical.  I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
them in many different ways.  This, however, is the readiest and, since
fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I neglected
it.  It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty
little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There
might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for this too
palpable clue."

"There is credit, and to spare," said I.  "I assure you, Holmes, that I
marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even
more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to me to
be deeper and more inexplicable.  How, for example, could you describe
with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"

"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself.  I don't wish to be
theatrical.  It is all patent and above-board.  Two officers who are in
command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried
treasure.  A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan
Small.  You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain
Morstan's possession.  He had signed it in behalf of himself and his
associates,--the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called
it.  Aided by this chart, the officers--or one of them--gets the
treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some
condition under which he received it unfulfilled.  Now, then, why did
not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself?  The answer is obvious.
The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close
association with convicts.  Jonathan Small did not get the treasure
because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not
get away."

"But that is mere speculation," said I.

"It is more than that.  It is the only hypothesis which covers the
facts.  Let us see how it fits in with the sequel.  Major Sholto
remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his
treasure.  Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a great
fright.  What was that?"

"A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free."

"Or had escaped.  That is much more likely, for he would have known
what their term of imprisonment was.  It would not have been a surprise
to him.  What does he do then?  He guards himself against a
wooden-legged man,--a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white
tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him.  Now, only one
white man's name is on the chart.  The others are Hindoos or
Mohammedans.  There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with
confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan Small.
Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?"

"No:  it is clear and concise."

"Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let us
look at it from his point of view.  He comes to England with the double
idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and of having
his revenge upon the man who had wronged him.  He found out where
Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications with some
one inside the house.  There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom we have not
seen.  Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character. Small could
not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever
knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died.  Suddenly
Small learns that the major is on his death-bed.  In a frenzy lest the
secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the
guards, makes his way to the dying man's window, and is only deterred
from entering by the presence of his two sons.  Mad with hate, however,
against the dead man, he enters the room that night, searches his
private papers in the hope of discovering some memorandum relating to
the treasure, and finally leaves a momento of his visit in the short
inscription upon the card.  He had doubtless planned beforehand that
should he slay the major he would leave some such record upon the body
as a sign that it was not a common murder, but, from the point of view
of the four associates, something in the nature of an act of justice.
Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this kind are common enough in the
annals of crime, and usually afford valuable indications as to the
criminal.  Do you follow all this?"

"Very clearly."

"Now, what could Jonathan Small do?  He could only continue to keep a
secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he
leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the
discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it.  We again
trace the presence of some confederate in the household.  Jonathan,
with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of
Bartholomew Sholto.  He takes with him, however, a rather curious
associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked foot into
creasote, whence comes Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay officer
with a damaged tendo Achillis."

"But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the crime."

"Quite so.  And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way he
stamped about when he got into the room.  He bore no grudge against
Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been
simply bound and gagged.  He did not wish to put his head in a halter.
There was no help for it, however:  the savage instincts of his
companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work:  so
Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the ground,
and followed it himself.  That was the train of events as far as I can
decipher them.  Of course as to his personal appearance he must be
middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in such an
oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from the length
of his stride, and we know that he was bearded.  His hairiness was the
one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus Sholto when he saw him
at the window.  I don't know that there is anything else."

"The associate?"

"Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that.  But you will know all
about it soon enough.  How sweet the morning air is!  See how that one
little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo.
Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London cloud-bank.
It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a
stranger errand than you and I. How small we feel with our petty
ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces
of nature!  Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"

"Fairly so.  I worked back to him through Carlyle."

"That was like following the brook to the parent lake.  He makes one
curious but profound remark.  It is that the chief proof of man's real
greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you
see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which is in itself a
proof of nobility.  There is much food for thought in Richter.  You
have not a pistol, have you?"

"I have my stick."

"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get
to their lair.  Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns
nasty I shall shoot him dead."  He took out his revolver as he spoke,
and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the
right-hand pocket of his jacket.

We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the
half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now,
however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where
laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were
taking down shutters and brushing door-steps.  At the square-topped
corner public houses business was just beginning, and rough-looking men
were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after their
morning wet.  Strange dogs sauntered up and stared wonderingly at us as
we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the right nor to
the left, but trotted onwards with his nose to the ground and an
occasional eager whine which spoke of a hot scent.

We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found
ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the
side-streets to the east of the Oval.  The men whom we pursued seemed
to have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of
escaping observation.  They had never kept to the main road if a
parallel side-street would serve their turn.  At the foot of Kennington
Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond Street and Miles
Street.  Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place, Toby ceased
to advance, but began to run backwards and forwards with one ear cocked
and the other drooping, the very picture of canine indecision.  Then he
waddled round in circles, looking up to us from time to time, as if to
ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.

"What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They
surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."

"Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested.

"Ah! it's all right.  He's off again," said my companion, in a tone of
relief.

He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again he suddenly made up
his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as he
had not yet shown.  The scent appeared to be much hotter than before,
for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged at his
leash and tried to break into a run.  I cold see by the gleam in
Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.

Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and
Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. Here the
dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side-gate into
the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work.  On the dog
raced through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a passage,
between two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp, sprang
upon a large barrel which still stood upon the hand-trolley on which it
had been brought.  With lolling tongue and blinking eyes, Toby stood
upon the cask, looking from one to the other of us for some sign of
appreciation.  The staves of the barrel and the wheels of the trolley
were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the
smell of creasote.

Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst
simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.



Chapter VIII

The Baker Street Irregulars

"What now?" I asked.  "Toby has lost his character for infallibility."

"He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down from
the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard.  "If you consider
how much creasote is carted about London in one day, it is no great
wonder that our trail should have been crossed.  It is much used now,
especially for the seasoning of wood.  Poor Toby is not to blame."

"We must get on the main scent again, I suppose."

"Yes.  And, fortunately, we have no distance to go.  Evidently what
puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that there were two
different trails running in opposite directions. We took the wrong one.
It only remains to follow the other."

There was no difficulty about this.  On leading Toby to the place where
he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle and finally
dashed off in a fresh direction.

"We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where the
creasote-barrel came from," I observed.

"I had thought of that.  But you notice that he keeps on the pavement,
whereas the barrel passed down the roadway.  No, we are on the true
scent now."

It tended down towards the river-side, running through Belmont Place
and Prince's Street.  At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to
the water's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf.  Toby led us to
the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the dark
current beyond.

"We are out of luck," said Holmes.  "They have taken to a boat here."
Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water and on the
edge of the wharf.  We took Toby round to each in turn, but, though he
sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a wooden
placard slung out through the second window.  "Mordecai Smith" was
printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to hire by
the hour or day."  A second inscription above the door informed us that
a steam launch was kept,--a statement which was confirmed by a great
pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes looked slowly round, and
his face assumed an ominous expression.

"This looks bad," said he.  "These fellows are sharper than I expected.
They seem to have covered their tracks.  There has, I fear, been
preconcerted management here."

He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a little,
curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a stoutish,
red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand.

"You come back and be washed, Jack," she shouted.  "Come back, you
young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that, he'll
let us hear of it."

"Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically.  "What a rosy-cheeked
young rascal!  Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?"

The youth pondered for a moment.  "I'd like a shillin'," said he.

"Nothing you would like better?"

"I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy answered, after some
thought.

"Here you are, then!  Catch!--A fine child, Mrs. Smith!"

"Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward.  He gets a'most too much
for me to manage, 'specially when my man is away days at a time."

"Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice.  "I am sorry for
that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith."

"He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, and, truth to tell, I am
beginnin' to feel frightened about him.  But if it was about a boat,
sir, maybe I could serve as well."

"I wanted to hire his steam launch."

"Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone.
That's what puzzles me; for I know there ain't more coals in her than
would take her to about Woolwich and back.  If he'd been away in the
barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many a time a job has taken him as
far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin' there he might ha'
stayed over.  But what good is a steam launch without coals?"

"He might have bought some at a wharf down the river."

"He might, sir, but it weren't his way.  Many a time I've heard him
call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don't
like that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face and outlandish talk.
What did he want always knockin' about here for?"

"A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise.

"Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that's called more'n once for my
old man.  It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what's more,
my man knew he was comin', for he had steam up in the launch.  I tell
you straight, sir, I don't feel easy in my mind about it."

"But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You
are frightening yourself about nothing.  How could you possibly tell
that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night?  I don't quite
understand how you can be so sure."

"His voice, sir.  I knew his voice, which is kind o' thick and foggy.
He tapped at the winder,--about three it would be.  'Show a leg,
matey,' says he:  'time to turn out guard.'  My old man woke up
Jim,--that's my eldest,--and away they went, without so much as a word
to me.  I could hear the wooden leg clackin' on the stones."

"And was this wooden-legged man alone?"

"Couldn't say, I am sure, sir.  I didn't hear no one else."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard
good reports of the--Let me see, what is her name?"

"The Aurora, sir."

"Ah!  She's not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in
the beam?"

"No, indeed.  She's as trim a little thing as any on the river. She's
been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."

"Thanks.  I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith.  I am going
down the river; and if I should see anything of the Aurora I shall let
him know that you are uneasy.  A black funnel, you say?"

"No, sir.  Black with a white band."

"Ah, of course.  It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs.
Smith.--There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson.  We shall take
it and cross the river.

"The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in
the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their
information can be of the slightest importance to you.  If you do, they
will instantly shut up like an oyster.  If you listen to them under
protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want."

"Our course now seems pretty clear," said I.

"What would you do, then?"

"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the
Aurora."

"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task.  She may have touched at
any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich.
Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for
miles.  It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set
about it alone."

"Employ the police, then."

"No.  I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is
not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would
injure him professionally.  But I have a fancy for working it out
myself, now that we have gone so far."

"Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?"

"Worse and worse!  Our men would know that the chase was hot at their
heels, and they would be off out of the country.  As it is, they are
likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly
safe they will be in no hurry.  Jones's energy will be of use to us
there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily
press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong
scent."

"What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank
Penitentiary.

"Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour's
sleep.  It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again.
Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby!  We will keep Toby, for he may be of
use to us yet."

We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes
despatched his wire.  "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we
resumed our journey.

"I am sure I don't know."

"You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force
whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?"

"Well," said I, laughing.

"This is just the case where they might be invaluable.  If they fail, I
have other resources; but I shall try them first.  That wire was to my
dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang
will be with us before we have finished our breakfast."

It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and I was conscious of a
strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was
limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body.  I had not the
professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look
at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem.  As far as the
death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and
could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers.  The treasure,
however, was a different matter.  That, or part of it, belonged
rightfully to Miss Morstan.  While there was a chance of recovering it
I was ready to devote my life to the one object.  True, if I found it
it would probably put her forever beyond my reach.  Yet it would be a
petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as
that.  If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold
stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.

A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up
wonderfully.  When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid
and Homes pouring out the coffee.

"Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper.
"The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up
between them.  But you have had enough of the case. Better have your
ham and eggs first."

I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed
"Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood."

"About twelve o'clock last night," said the Standard, "Mr. Bartholomew
Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room
under circumstances which point to foul play.  As far as we can learn,
no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr. Sholto's person, but a
valuable collection of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had
inherited from his father has been carried off.  The discovery was
first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, who had called at the
house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased.  By a singular
piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the well-known member of the
detective police force, happened to be at the Norwood Police Station,
and was on the ground within half an hour of the first alarm.  His
trained and experienced faculties were at once directed towards the
detection of the criminals, with the gratifying result that the
brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the
housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a
porter, or gatekeeper, named McMurdo.  It is quite certain that the
thief or thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones's
well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation
have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not
have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their way
across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into a room
which communicated with that in which the body was found.  This fact,
which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that it was
no mere haphazard burglary.  The prompt and energetic action of the
officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on such
occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind.  We cannot but think
that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our
detectives more decentralized, and so brought into closer and more
effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to investigate."

"Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup. "What
do you think of it?"

"I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested for
the crime."

"So do I.  I wouldn't answer for our safety now, if he should happen to
have another of his attacks of energy."

At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear Mrs.
Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of expostulation and
dismay.

"By heaven, Holmes," I said, half rising, "I believe that they are
really after us."

"No, it's not quite so bad as that.  It is the unofficial force,--the
Baker Street irregulars."

As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the
stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and
ragged little street-Arabs.  There was some show of discipline among
them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in
line and stood facing us with expectant faces.  One of their number,
taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of lounging
superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable little
scarecrow.

"Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 'em on sharp. Three bob
and a tanner for tickets."

"Here you are," said Holmes, producing some silver.  "In future they
can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me.  I cannot have the house
invaded in this way.  However, it is just as well that you should all
hear the instructions.  I want to find the whereabouts of a steam
launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai Smith, black with two red
streaks, funnel black with a white band.  She is down the river
somewhere.  I want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith's landing-stage
opposite Millbank to say if the boat comes back.  You must divide it
out among yourselves, and do both banks thoroughly.  Let me know the
moment you have news.  Is that all clear?"

"Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins.

"The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat.
Here's a day in advance.  Now off you go!"  He handed them a shilling
each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment
later streaming down the street.

"If the launch is above water they will find her," said Holmes, as he
rose from the table and lit his pipe.  "They can go everywhere, see
everything, overhear every one.  I expect to hear before evening that
they have spotted her.  In the mean while, we can do nothing but await
results.  We cannot pick up the broken trail until we find either the
Aurora or Mr. Mordecai Smith."

"Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say.  Are you going to bed,
Holmes?"

"No:  I am not tired.  I have a curious constitution.  I never remember
feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely.  I am
going to smoke and to think over this queer business to which my fair
client has introduced us.  If ever man had an easy task, this of ours
ought to be.  Wooden-legged men are not so common, but the other man
must, I should think, be absolutely unique."

"That other man again!"

"I have no wish to make a mystery of him,--to you, anyway.  But you
must have formed your own opinion.  Now, do consider the data.
Diminutive footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,
stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned darts.  What do
you make of all this?"

"A savage!" I exclaimed.  "Perhaps one of those Indians who were the
associates of Jonathan Small."

"Hardly that," said he.  "When first I saw signs of strange weapons I
was inclined to think so; but the remarkable character of the footmarks
caused me to reconsider my views.  Some of the inhabitants of the
Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such marks as
that.  The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet.  The sandal-wearing
Mohammedan has the great toe well separated from the others, because
the thong is commonly passed between.  These little darts, too, could
only be shot in one way. They are from a blow-pipe.  Now, then, where
are we to find our savage?"

"South American," I hazarded.

He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky volume from the shelf.
"This is the first volume of a gazetteer which is now being published.
It may be looked upon as the very latest authority.  What have we here?
'Andaman Islands, situated 340 miles to the north of Sumatra, in the
Bay of Bengal.'  Hum! hum! What's all this?  Moist climate, coral
reefs, sharks, Port Blair, convict-barracks, Rutland Island,
cottonwoods--Ah, here we are. 'The aborigines of the Andaman Islands
may perhaps claim the distinction of being the smallest race upon this
earth, though some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of Africa, the
Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fuegians.  The average
height is rather below four feet, although many full-grown adults may
be found who are very much smaller than this.  They are a fierce,
morose, and intractable people, though capable of forming most devoted
friendships when their confidence has once been gained.'  Mark that,
Watson.  Now, then, listen to this.  'They are naturally hideous,
having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes, and distorted
features.  Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably small.  So
intractable and fierce are they that all the efforts of the British
official have failed to win them over in any degree.  They have always
been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors with their
stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with their poisoned arrows.  These
massacres are invariably concluded by a cannibal feast.'  Nice, amiable
people, Watson!  If this fellow had been left to his own unaided
devices this affair might have taken an even more ghastly turn.  I
fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small would give a good deal not to
have employed him."

"But how came he to have so singular a companion?"

"Ah, that is more than I can tell.  Since, however, we had already
determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very
wonderful that this islander should be with him.  No doubt we shall
know all about it in time.  Look here, Watson; you look regularly done.
Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep."

He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he
began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air,--his own, no doubt, for
he had a remarkable gift for improvisation.  I have a vague remembrance
of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and fall of his bow.
Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound,
until I found myself in dream-land, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan
looking down upon me.



Chapter IX

A Break in the Chain

It was late in the afternoon before I woke, strengthened and refreshed.
Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him, save that he had
laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked across at me,
as I stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and troubled.

"You have slept soundly," he said.  "I feared that our talk would wake
you."

"I heard nothing," I answered.  "Have you had fresh news, then?"

"Unfortunately, no.  I confess that I am surprised and disappointed.  I
expected something definite by this time. Wiggins has just been up to
report.  He says that no trace can be found of the launch.  It is a
provoking check, for every hour is of importance."

"Can I do anything?  I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for
another night's outing."

"No, we can do nothing.  We can only wait.  If we go ourselves, the
message might come in our absence, and delay be caused.  You can do
what you will, but I must remain on guard."

"Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil
Forrester.  She asked me to, yesterday."

"On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile in
his eyes.

"Well, of course Miss Morstan too.  They were anxious to hear what
happened."

"I would not tell them too much," said Holmes.  "Women are never to be
entirely trusted,--not the best of them."

I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment.  "I shall be
back in an hour or two," I remarked.

"All right!  Good luck!  But, I say, if you are crossing the river you
may as well return Toby, for I don't think it is at all likely that we
shall have any use for him now."

I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a
half-sovereign, at the old naturalist's in Pinchin Lane.  At Camberwell
I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night's adventures, but
very eager to hear the news.  Mrs. Forrester, too, was full of
curiosity.  I told them all that we had done, suppressing, however, the
more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I spoke of Mr.
Sholto's death, I said nothing of the exact manner and method of it.
With all my omissions, however, there was enough to startle and amaze
them.

"It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester.  "An injured lady, half a
million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian.
They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl."

"And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a
bright glance at me.

"Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I don't
think that you are nearly excited enough.  Just imagine what it must be
to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"

It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no
sign of elation at the prospect.  On the contrary, she gave a toss of
her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small
interest.

"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing
else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most kindly
and honorably throughout.  It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful
and unfounded charge."

It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I
reached home.  My companion's book and pipe lay by his chair, but he
had disappeared.  I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but
there was none.

"I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs.
Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds.

"No, sir.  He has gone to his room, sir.  Do you know, sir," sinking
her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?"

"Why so, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, he's that strange, sir.  After you was gone he walked and he
walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound of
his footstep.  Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering, and
every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with 'What is
that, Mrs. Hudson?'  And now he has slammed off to his room, but I can
hear him walking away the same as ever.  I hope he's not going to be
ill, sir.  I ventured to say something to him about cooling medicine,
but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don't know how ever I
got out of the room."

"I don't think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I
answered.  "I have seen him like this before.  He has some small matter
upon his mind which makes him restless."  I tried to speak lightly to
our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through the
long night I still from time to time heard the dull sound of his tread,
and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this involuntary
inaction.

At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of
feverish color upon either cheek.

"You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked.  "I heard you
marching about in the night."

"No, I could not sleep," he answered.  "This infernal problem is
consuming me.  It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle,
when all else had been overcome.  I know the men, the launch,
everything; and yet I can get no news.  I have set other agencies at
work, and used every means at my disposal.  The whole river has been
searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith heard
of her husband.  I shall come to the conclusion soon that they have
scuttled the craft.  But there are objections to that."

"Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent."

"No, I think that may be dismissed.  I had inquiries made, and there is
a launch of that description."

"Could it have gone up the river?"

"I have considered that possibility too, and there is a search-party
who will work up as far as Richmond.  If no news comes to-day, I shall
start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather than the boat.
But surely, surely, we shall hear something."

We did not, however.  Not a word came to us either from Wiggins or from
the other agencies.  There were articles in most of the papers upon the
Norwood tragedy.  They all appeared to be rather hostile to the
unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto.  No fresh details were to be found,
however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the
following day.  I walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report
our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes dejected
and somewhat morose.  He would hardly reply to my questions, and busied
himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which involved
much heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at last in a
smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. Up to the small hours
of the morning I could hear the clinking of his test-tubes which told
me that he was still engaged in his malodorous experiment.

In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find him
standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress with a pea-jacket,
and a coarse red scarf round his neck.

"I am off down the river, Watson," said he.  "I have been turning it
over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it.  It is worth
trying, at all events."

"Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.

"No; you can be much more useful if you will remain here as my
representative.  I am loath to go, for it is quite on the cards that
some message may come during the day, though Wiggins was despondent
about it last night. I want you to open all notes and telegrams, and to
act on your own judgment if any news should come.  Can I rely upon you?"

"Most certainly."

"I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can hardly
tell yet where I may find myself.  If I am in luck, however, I may not
be gone so very long.  I shall have news of some sort or other before I
get back."

I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time.  On opening the Standard,
however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the business.
"With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy," it remarked, "we have
reason to believe that the matter promises to be even more complex and
mysterious than was originally supposed. Fresh evidence has shown that
it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto could have been in any
way concerned in the matter.  He and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone,
were both released yesterday evening.  It is believed, however, that
the police have a clue as to the real culprits, and that it is being
prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard, with all his
well-known energy and sagacity.  Further arrests may be expected at any
moment."

"That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I.  "Friend Sholto is
safe, at any rate.  I wonder what the fresh clue may be; though it
seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made a blunder."

I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye
caught an advertisement in the agony column.  It ran in this way:

"Lost.--Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son, Jim, left Smith's
Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning in the steam
launch Aurora, black with two red stripes, funnel black with a white
band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who can give
information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 221b Baker Street,
as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the launch Aurora."

This was clearly Holmes's doing.  The Baker Street address was enough
to prove that.  It struck me as rather ingenious, because it might be
read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the natural
anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.

It was a long day.  Every time that a knock came to the door, or a
sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes
returning or an answer to his advertisement.  I tried to read, but my
thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the ill-assorted
and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. Could there be, I wondered,
some radical flaw in my companion's reasoning.  Might he be suffering
from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible that his nimble and
speculative mind had built up this wild theory upon faulty premises?  I
had never known him to be wrong; and yet the keenest reasoner may
occasionally be deceived.  He was likely, I thought, to fall into error
through the over-refinement of his logic,--his preference for a subtle
and bizarre explanation when a plainer and more commonplace one lay
ready to his hand.  Yet, on the other hand, I had myself seen the
evidence, and I had heard the reasons for his deductions.  When I
looked back on the long chain of curious circumstances, many of them
trivial in themselves, but all tending in the same direction, I could
not disguise from myself that even if Holmes's explanation were
incorrect the true theory must be equally outre and startling.

At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell, an
authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a person
than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me.  Very different was he,
however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common sense who
had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood.  His
expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.

"Good-day, sir; good-day," said he.  "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I
understand."

"Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back.  But perhaps you would
care to wait.  Take that chair and try one of these cigars."

"Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a red
bandanna handkerchief.

"And a whiskey-and-soda?"

"Well, half a glass.  It is very hot for the time of year; and I have
had a good deal to worry and try me.  You know my theory about this
Norwood case?"

"I remember that you expressed one."

"Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it.  I had my net drawn
tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the
middle of it.  He was able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken.
From the time that he left his brother's room he was never out of sight
of some one or other.  So it could not be he who climbed over roofs and
through trap-doors.  It's a very dark case, and my professional credit
is at stake.  I should be very glad of a little assistance."

"We all need help sometimes," said I.

"Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he, in
a husky and confidential voice.  "He's a man who is not to be beat.  I
have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never saw
the case yet that he could not throw a light upon.  He is irregular in
his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, on
the whole, I think he would have made a most promising officer, and I
don't care who knows it.  I have had a wire from him this morning, by
which I understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto business.
Here is the message."

He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me.  It was
dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock.  "Go to Baker Street at once," it
said.  "If I have not returned, wait for me.  I am close on the track
of the Sholto gang.  You can come with us to-night if you want to be in
at the finish."

"This sounds well.  He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.

"Ah, then he has been at fault too," exclaimed Jones, with evident
satisfaction.  "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes.  Of
course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an
officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one at
the door.  Perhaps this is he."

A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and
rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or
twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at
last he made his way to our door and entered.  His appearance
corresponded to the sounds which we had heard.  He was an aged man,
clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his
throat.  His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing
was painfully asthmatic.  As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his
shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs.  He had
a colored scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face save
a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and long gray
side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a respectable
master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty.

"What is it, my man?" I asked.

He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age.

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he.

"No; but I am acting for him.  You can tell me any message you have for
him."

"It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he.

"But I tell you that I am acting for him.  Was it about Mordecai
Smith's boat?"

"Yes.  I knows well where it is.  An' I knows where the men he is after
are.  An' I knows where the treasure is.  I knows all about it."

"Then tell me, and I shall let him know."

"It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant
obstinacy of a very old man.

"Well, you must wait for him."

"No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to please no one.  If Mr.
Holmes ain't here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself.  I
don't care about the look of either of you, and I won't tell a word."

He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him.

"Wait a bit, my friend," said he.  "You have important information, and
you must not walk off.  We shall keep you, whether you like or not,
until our friend returns."

The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as Athelney Jones
put his broad back up against it, he recognized the uselessness of
resistance.

"Pretty sort o' treatment this!" he cried, stamping his stick. "I come
here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my life, seize
me and treat me in this fashion!"

"You will be none the worse," I said.  "We shall recompense you for the
loss of your time.  Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not have
long to wait."

He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face
resting on his hands.  Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk.
Suddenly, however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us.

"I think that you might offer me a cigar too," he said.

We both started in our chairs.  There was Holmes sitting close to us
with an air of quiet amusement.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed.  "You here!  But where is the old man?"

"Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair. "Here
he is,--wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all.  I thought my disguise was
pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that test."

"Ah, You rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted.  "You would have made
an actor, and a rare one.  You had the proper workhouse cough, and
those weak legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I thought I knew
the glint of your eye, though.  You didn't get away from us so easily,
You see."

"I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting his
cigar.  "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know
me,--especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my
cases:  so I can only go on the war-path under some simple disguise
like this.  You got my wire?"

"Yes; that was what brought me here."

"How has your case prospered?"

"It has all come to nothing.  I have had to release two of my
prisoners, and there is no evidence against the other two."

"Never mind.  We shall give you two others in the place of them. But
you must put yourself under my orders.  You are welcome to all the
official credit, but you must act on the line that I point out.  Is
that agreed?"

"Entirely, if you will help me to the men."

"Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat--a
steam launch--to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o'clock."

"That is easily managed.  There is always one about there; but I can
step across the road and telephone to make sure."

"Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance."

"There will be two or three in the boat.  What else?"

"When we secure the men we shall get the treasure.  I think that it
would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to the
young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs.  Let her be the first
to open it.--Eh, Watson?"

"It would be a great pleasure to me."

"Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head.
"However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must wink at
it.  The treasure must afterwards be handed over to the authorities
until after the official investigation."

"Certainly.  That is easily managed.  One other point.  I should much
like to have a few details about this matter from the lips of Jonathan
Small himself.  You know I like to work the detail of my cases out.
There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview with him,
either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is efficiently
guarded?"

"Well, you are master of the situation.  I have had no proof yet of the
existence of this Jonathan Small.  However, if you can catch him I
don't see how I can refuse you an interview with him."

"That is understood, then?"

"Perfectly.  Is there anything else?"

"Only that I insist upon your dining with us.  It will be ready in half
an hour.  I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a little
choice in white wines.--Watson, you have never yet recognized my merits
as a housekeeper."



Chapter X

The End of the Islander

Our meal was a merry one.  Holmes could talk exceedingly well when he
chose, and that night he did choose.  He appeared to be in a state of
nervous exaltation.  I have never known him so brilliant.  He spoke on
a quick succession of subjects,--on miracle-plays, on medieval pottery,
on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the
war-ships of the future,--handling each as though he had made a special
study of it.  His bright humor marked the reaction from his black
depression of the preceding days.  Athelney Jones proved to be a
sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and faced his dinner with the
air of a bon vivant.  For myself, I felt elated at the thought that we
were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of Holmes's
gaiety.  None of us alluded during dinner to the cause which had
brought us together.

When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at his watch, and filled up
three glasses with port.  "One bumper," said he, "to the success of our
little expedition.  And now it is high time we were off.  Have you a
pistol, Watson?"

"I have my old service-revolver in my desk."

"You had best take it, then.  It is well to be prepared.  I see that
the cab is at the door.  I ordered it for half-past six."

It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf, and
found our launch awaiting us.  Holmes eyed it critically.

"Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?"

"Yes,--that green lamp at the side."

"Then take it off."

The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were cast
off.  Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern.  There was one man at the
rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors
forward.

"Where to?" asked Jones.

"To the Tower.  Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson's Yard."

Our craft was evidently a very fast one.  We shot past the long lines
of loaded barges as though they were stationary.  Holmes smiled with
satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us.

"We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said.

"Well, hardly that.  But there are not many launches to beat us."

"We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has a name for being a
clipper.  I will tell you how the land lies, Watson.  You recollect how
annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?"

"Yes."

"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical
analysis.  One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work
is the best rest.  So it is.  When I had succeeded in dissolving the
hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the
Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again.  My boys had been up
the river and down the river without result.  The launch was not at any
landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned.  Yet it could hardly have
been scuttled to hide their traces,--though that always remained as a
possible hypothesis if all else failed.  I knew this man Small had a
certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of
anything in the nature of delicate finesse.  That is usually a product
of higher education.  I then reflected that since he had certainly been
in London some time--as we had evidence that he maintained a continual
watch over Pondicherry Lodge--he could hardly leave at a moment's
notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to
arrange his affairs.  That was the balance of probability, at any rate."

"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I.  "It is more probable
that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his
expedition."

"No, I hardly think so.  This lair of his would be too valuable a
retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that he
could do without it.  But a second consideration struck me.  Jonathan
Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his companion,
however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and
possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy.  He was quite sharp
enough to see that.  They had started from their head-quarters under
cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back before it was broad
light.  Now, it was past three o'clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when
they got the boat.  It would be quite bright, and people would be about
in an hour or so.  Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far.  They
paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the final
escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In a
couple of nights, when they had time to see what view the papers took,
and whether there was any suspicion, they would make their way under
cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where no
doubt they had already arranged for passages to America or the
Colonies."

"But the launch?  They could not have taken that to their lodgings."

"Quite so.  I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in spite
of its invisibility.  I then put myself in the place of Small, and
looked at it as a man of his capacity would.  He would probably
consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would
make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track.  How,
then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when wanted?
I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes.  I could
only think of one way of doing it.  I might land the launch over to
some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling
change in her.  She would then be removed to his shed or yard, and so
be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at a
few hours' notice."

"That seems simple enough."

"It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be
overlooked.  However, I determined to act on the idea.  I started at
once in this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all the yards down
the river.  I drew blank at fifteen, but at the
sixteenth--Jacobson's--I learned that the Aurora had been handed over
to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial
directions as to her rudder.  'There ain't naught amiss with her
rudder,' said the foreman.  'There she lies, with the red streaks.'  At
that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner?
He was rather the worse for liquor.  I should not, of course, have
known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his launch.  'I
want her to-night at eight o'clock,' said he,--'eight o'clock sharp,
mind, for I have two gentlemen who won't be kept waiting.'  They had
evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking
shillings about to the men.  I followed him some distance, but he
subsided into an ale-house:  so I went back to the yard, and, happening
to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over
the launch.  He is to stand at water's edge and wave his handkerchief
to us when they start.  We shall be lying off in the stream, and it
will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all."

"You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or
not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had
a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested them when they came
down."

"Which would have been never.  This man Small is a pretty shrewd
fellow.  He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him
suspicious lie snug for another week."

"But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their
hiding-place," said I.

"In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred
to one against Smith knowing where they live.  As long as he has liquor
and good pay, why should he ask questions?  They send him messages what
to do.  No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best."

While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the
long series of bridges which span the Thames.  As we passed the City
the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St.
Paul's.  It was twilight before we reached the Tower.

"That is Jacobson's Yard," said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts
and rigging on the Surrey side.  "Cruise gently up and down here under
cover of this string of lighters."  He took a pair of night-glasses
from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at
his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief."

"Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said
Jones, eagerly.  We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and
stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward.

"We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It
is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be
certain.  From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they
can hardly see us.  It will be a clear night and plenty of light.  We
must stay where we are.  See how the folk swarm over yonder in the
gaslight."

"They are coming from work in the yard."

"Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little
immortal spark concealed about him.  You would not think it, to look at
them.  There is no a priori probability about it.  A strange enigma is
man!"

"Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested.

"Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes.  "He remarks
that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate
he becomes a mathematical certainty.  You can, for example, never
foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what
an average number will be up to.  Individuals vary, but percentages
remain constant.  So says the statistician. But do I see a
handkerchief?  Surely there is a white flutter over yonder."

"Yes, it is your boy," I cried.  "I can see him plainly."

"And there is the Aurora," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the devil!
Full speed ahead, engineer.  Make after that launch with the yellow
light.  By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves to have
the heels of us!"

She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed behind two
or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up before we
saw her.  Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the shore,
going at a tremendous rate.  Jones looked gravely at her and shook his
head.

"She is very fast," he said.  "I doubt if we shall catch her."

"We MUST catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth.  "Heap it on,
stokers!  Make her do all she can!  If we burn the boat we must have
them!"

We were fairly after her now.  The furnaces roared, and the powerful
engines whizzed and clanked, like a great metallic heart.  Her sharp,
steep prow cut through the river-water and sent two rolling waves to
right and to left of us.  With every throb of the engines we sprang and
quivered like a living thing. One great yellow lantern in our bows
threw a long, flickering funnel of light in front of us.  Right ahead a
dark blur upon the water showed where the Aurora lay, and the swirl of
white foam behind her spoke of the pace at which she was going.  We
flashed past barges, steamers, merchant-vessels, in and out, behind
this one and round the other.  Voices hailed us out of the darkness,
but still the Aurora thundered on, and still we followed close upon her
track.

"Pile it on, men, pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into the
engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his eager,
aquiline face.  "Get every pound of steam you can."

"I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the Aurora.

"I am sure of it," said I.  "We shall be up with her in a very few
minutes."

At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug with
three barges in tow blundered in between us.  It was only by putting
our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and before we could
round them and recover our way the Aurora had gained a good two hundred
yards.  She was still, however, well in view, and the murky uncertain
twilight was setting into a clear starlit night.  Our boilers were
strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated and creaked with
the fierce energy which was driving us along.  We had shot through the
Pool, past the West India Docks, down the long Deptford Reach, and up
again after rounding the Isle of Dogs.  The dull blur in front of us
resolved itself now clearly enough into the dainty Aurora.  Jones
turned our search-light upon her, so that we could plainly see the
figures upon her deck.  One man sat by the stern, with something black
between his knees over which he stooped.  Beside him lay a dark mass
which looked like a Newfoundland dog.  The boy held the tiller, while
against the red glare of the furnace I could see old Smith, stripped to
the waist, and shovelling coals for dear life.  They may have had some
doubt at first as to whether we were really pursuing them, but now as
we followed every winding and turning which they took there could no
longer be any question about it.  At Greenwich we were about three
hundred paces behind them.  At Blackwall we could not have been more
than two hundred and fifty.  I have coursed many creatures in many
countries during my checkered career, but never did sport give me such
a wild thrill as this mad, flying man-hunt down the Thames.  Steadily
we drew in upon them, yard by yard.  In the silence of the night we
could hear the panting and clanking of their machinery.  The man in the
stern still crouched upon the deck, and his arms were moving as though
he were busy, while every now and then he would look up and measure
with a glance the distance which still separated us.  Nearer we came
and nearer. Jones yelled to them to stop.  We were not more than four
boat's lengths behind them, both boats flying at a tremendous pace.  It
was a clear reach of the river, with Barking Level upon one side and
the melancholy Plumstead Marshes upon the other.  At our hail the man
in the stern sprang up from the deck and shook his two clinched fists
at us, cursing the while in a high, cracked voice. He was a good-sized,
powerful man, and as he stood poising himself with legs astride I could
see that from the thigh downwards there was but a wooden stump upon the
right side.  At the sound of his strident, angry cries there was
movement in the huddled bundle upon the deck.  It straightened itself
into a little black man--the smallest I have ever seen--with a great,
misshapen head and a shock of tangled, dishevelled hair.  Holmes had
already drawn his revolver, and I whipped out mine at the sight of this
savage, distorted creature.  He was wrapped in some sort of dark ulster
or blanket, which left only his face exposed; but that face was enough
to give a man a sleepless night.  Never have I seen features so deeply
marked with all bestiality and cruelty.  His small eyes glowed and
burned with a sombre light, and his thick lips were writhed back from
his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with a half animal fury.

"Fire if he raises his hand," said Holmes, quietly.  We were within a
boat's-length by this time, and almost within touch of our quarry.  I
can see the two of them now as they stood, the white man with his legs
far apart, shrieking out curses, and the unhallowed dwarf with his
hideous face, and his strong yellow teeth gnashing at us in the light
of our lantern.

It was well that we had so clear a view of him.  Even as we looked he
plucked out from under his covering a short, round piece of wood, like
a school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang out
together.  He whirled round, threw up his arms, and with a kind of
choking cough fell sideways into the stream.  I caught one glimpse of
his venomous, menacing eyes amid the white swirl of the waters.  At the
same moment the wooden-legged man threw himself upon the rudder and put
it hard down, so that his boat made straight in for the southern bank,
while we shot past her stern, only clearing her by a few feet.  We were
round after her in an instant, but she was already nearly at the bank.
It was a wild and desolate place, where the moon glimmered upon a wide
expanse of marsh-land, with pools of stagnant water and beds of
decaying vegetation.  The launch with a dull thud ran up upon the
mud-bank, with her bow in the air and her stern flush with the water.
The fugitive sprang out, but his stump instantly sank its whole length
into the sodden soil.  In vain he struggled and writhed.  Not one step
could he possibly take either forwards or backwards.  He yelled in
impotent rage, and kicked frantically into the mud with his other foot,
but his struggles only bored his wooden pin the deeper into the sticky
bank.  When we brought our launch alongside he was so firmly anchored
that it was only by throwing the end of a rope over his shoulders that
we were able to haul him out, and to drag him, like some evil fish,
over our side.  The two Smiths, father and son, sat sullenly in their
launch, but came aboard meekly enough when commanded.  The Aurora
herself we hauled off and made fast to our stern.  A solid iron chest
of Indian workmanship stood upon the deck.  This, there could be no
question, was the same that had contained the ill-omened treasure of
the Sholtos.  There was no key, but it was of considerable weight, so
we transferred it carefully to our own little cabin.  As we steamed
slowly up-stream again, we flashed our search-light in every direction,
but there was no sign of the Islander.  Somewhere in the dark ooze at
the bottom of the Thames lie the bones of that strange visitor to our
shores.


"See here," said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway.  "We were
hardly quick enough with our pistols."  There, sure enough, just behind
where we had been standing, stuck one of those murderous darts which we
knew so well.  It must have whizzed between us at the instant that we
fired.  Holmes smiled at it and shrugged his shoulders in his easy
fashion, but I confess that it turned me sick to think of the horrible
death which had passed so close to us that night.



Chapter XI

The Great Agra Treasure

Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the iron box which he had done
so much and waited so long to gain.  He was a sunburned, reckless-eyed
fellow, with a net-work of lines and wrinkles all over his mahogany
features, which told of a hard, open-air life. There was a singular
prominence about his bearded chin which marked a man who was not to be
easily turned from his purpose. His age may have been fifty or
thereabouts, for his black, curly hair was thickly shot with gray.  His
face in repose was not an unpleasing one, though his heavy brows and
aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a terrible expression
when moved to anger.  He sat now with his handcuffed hands upon his
lap, and his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with his keen,
twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his ill-doings.
It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in his rigid and
contained countenance.  Once he looked up at me with a gleam of
something like humor in his eyes.

"Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry that
it has come to this."

"And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly.  "I don't believe that I can
swing over the job.  I give you my word on the book that I never raised
hand against Mr. Sholto.  It was that little hell-hound Tonga who shot
one of his cursed darts into him.  I had no part in it, sir.  I was as
grieved as if it had been my blood-relation.  I welted the little devil
with the slack end of the rope for it, but it was done, and I could not
undo it again."

"Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had best take a pull out of my
flask, for you are very wet.  How could you expect so small and weak a
man as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him while you
were climbing the rope?"

"You seem to know as much about it as if you were there, sir. The truth
is that I hoped to find the room clear.  I knew the habits of the house
pretty well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually went down to
his supper.  I shall make no secret of the business.  The best defence
that I can make is just the simple truth.  Now, if it had been the old
major I would have swung for him with a light heart.  I would have
thought no more of knifing him than of smoking this cigar.  But it's
cursed hard that I should be lagged over this young Sholto, with whom I
had no quarrel whatever."

"You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard.  He
is going to bring you up to my rooms, and I shall ask you for a true
account of the matter.  You must make a clean breast of it, for if you
do I hope that I may be of use to you. I think I can prove that the
poison acts so quickly that the man was dead before ever you reached
the room."

"That he was, sir.  I never got such a turn in my life as when I saw
him grinning at me with his head on his shoulder as I climbed through
the window.  It fairly shook me, sir.  I'd have half killed Tonga for
it if he had not scrambled off.  That was how he came to leave his
club, and some of his darts too, as he tells me, which I dare say
helped to put you on our track; though how you kept on it is more than
I can tell.  I don't feel no malice against you for it.  But it does
seem a queer thing," he added, with a bitter smile, "that I who have a
fair claim to nigh upon half a million of money should spend the first
half of my life building a breakwater in the Andamans, and am like to
spend the other half digging drains at Dartmoor.  It was an evil day
for me when first I clapped eyes upon the merchant Achmet and had to do
with the Agra treasure, which never brought anything but a curse yet
upon the man who owned it.  To him it brought murder, to Major Sholto
it brought fear and guilt, to me it has meant slavery for life."

At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad face and heavy shoulders
into the tiny cabin.  "Quite a family party," he remarked.  "I think I
shall have a pull at that flask, Holmes. Well, I think we may all
congratulate each other.  Pity we didn't take the other alive; but
there was no choice.  I say, Holmes, you must confess that you cut it
rather fine.  It was all we could do to overhaul her."

"All is well that ends well," said Holmes.  "But I certainly did not
know that the Aurora was such a clipper."

"Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on the river, and that
if he had had another man to help him with the engines we should never
have caught her.  He swears he knew nothing of this Norwood business."

"Neither he did," cried our prisoner,--"not a word.  I chose his launch
because I heard that she was a flier.  We told him nothing, but we paid
him well, and he was to get something handsome if we reached our
vessel, the Esmeralda, at Gravesend, outward bound for the Brazils."

"Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that no wrong comes to him.
If we are pretty quick in catching our men, we are not so quick in
condemning them."  It was amusing to notice how the consequential Jones
was already beginning to give himself airs on the strength of the
capture.  From the slight smile which played over Sherlock Holmes's
face, I could see that the speech had not been lost upon him.

"We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said Jones, "and shall land
you, Dr. Watson, with the treasure-box.  I need hardly tell you that I
am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in doing this.  It is
most irregular; but of course an agreement is an agreement.  I must,
however, as a matter of duty, send an inspector with you, since you
have so valuable a charge.  You will drive, no doubt?"

"Yes, I shall drive."

"It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory first.
You will have to break it open.  Where is the key, my man?"

"At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly.

"Hum!  There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble.  We have
had work enough already through you.  However, doctor, I need not warn
you to be careful.  Bring the box back with you to the Baker Street
rooms.  You will find us there, on our way to the station."

They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff,
genial inspector as my companion.  A quarter of an hour's drive brought
us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's.  The servant seemed surprised at so late
a visitor.  Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she
explained, and likely to be very late.  Miss Morstan, however, was in
the drawing-room:  so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving
the obliging inspector in the cab.

She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white
diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and
waist.  The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned
back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and
tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant
hair.  One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and
her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy.  At the
sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright
flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her pale cheeks.

"I heard a cab drive up," she said.  "I thought that Mrs. Forrester had
come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you.  What
news have you brought me?"

"I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the
box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my
heart was heavy within me.  "I have brought you something which is
worth all the news in the world.  I have brought you a fortune."

She glanced at the iron box.  "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked,
coolly enough.

"Yes, this is the great Agra treasure.  Half of it is yours and half is
Thaddeus Sholto's.  You will have a couple of hundred thousand each.
Think of that!  An annuity of ten thousand pounds.  There will be few
richer young ladies in England.  Is it not glorious?"

I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that
she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her
eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously.

"If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you."

"No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes.
With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue
which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly
lost it at the last moment."

"Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she.

I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her
last,--Holmes's new method of search, the discovery of the Aurora, the
appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the
wild chase down the Thames.  She listened with parted lips and shining
eyes to my recital of our adventures.  When I spoke of the dart which
had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she
was about to faint.

"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water.
"I am all right again.  It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed
my friends in such horrible peril."

"That is all over," I answered.  "It was nothing.  I will tell you no
more gloomy details.  Let us turn to something brighter. There is the
treasure.  What could be brighter than that?  I got leave to bring it
with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it."

"It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said.  There was no
eagerness in her voice, however.  It had struck her, doubtless, that it
might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which
had cost so much to win.

"What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it.  "This is Indian work,
I suppose?"

"Yes; it is Benares metal-work."

"And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it.  "The box alone must
be of some value.  Where is the key?"

"Small threw it into the Thames," I answered.  "I must borrow Mrs.
Forrester's poker."  There was in the front a thick and broad hasp,
wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha.  Under this I thrust the end
of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open
with a loud snap.  With trembling fingers I flung back the lid.  We
both stood gazing in astonishment.  The box was empty!

No wonder that it was heavy.  The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch
thick all round.  It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest
constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb
of metal or jewelry lay within it.  It was absolutely and completely
empty.

"The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly.

As I listened to the words and realized what they meant, a great shadow
seemed to pass from my soul.  I did not know how this Agra treasure had
weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed.  It was
selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realize nothing save
that the golden barrier was gone from between us.  "Thank God!" I
ejaculated from my very heart.

She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile.  "Why do you say
that?" she asked.

"Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She
did not withdraw it.  "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man
loved a woman.  Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips.
Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you.  That is why I
said, 'Thank God.'"

"Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, as I drew her to my
side.  Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained
one.



Chapter XII

The Strange Story of Jonathan Small

A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary
time before I rejoined him.  His face clouded over when I showed him
the empty box.

"There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily.  "Where there is no money
there is no pay.  This night's work would have been worth a tenner each
to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there."

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said.  "He will see that you are
rewarded, treasure or no."

The inspector shook his head despondently, however.  "It's a bad job,"
he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think."

His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank
enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They
had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had
changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon
the way.  My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual listless
expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden
leg cocked over his sound one.  As I exhibited the empty box he leaned
back in his chair and laughed aloud.

"This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily.

"Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he
cried, exultantly.  "It is my treasure; and if I can't have the loot
I'll take darned good care that no one else does.  I tell you that no
living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the
Andaman convict-barracks and myself.  I know now that I cannot have the
use of it, and I know that they cannot.  I have acted all through for
them as much as for myself. It's been the sign of four with us always.
Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and
throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin
of Sholto or of Morstan.  It was not to make them rich that we did for
Achmet.  You'll find the treasure where the key is, and where little
Tonga is.  When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot
away in a safe place.  There are no rupees for you this journey."

"You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly.  "If you
had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been
easier for you to have thrown box and all."

"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered,
with a shrewd, sidelong look.  "The man that was clever enough to hunt
me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a
river.  Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a
harder job.  It went to my heart to do it, though.  I was half mad when
you came up with us.  However, there's no good grieving over it.  I've
had ups in my life, and I've had downs, but I've learned not to cry
over spilled milk."

"This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective.  "If you
had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have
had a better chance at your trial."

"Justice!" snarled the ex-convict.  "A pretty justice!  Whose loot is
this, if it is not ours?  Where is the justice that I should give it up
to those who have never earned it?  Look how I have earned it!  Twenty
long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the
mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten
by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced
policeman who loved to take it out of a white man.  That was how I
earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I
cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may
enjoy it!  I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of
Tonga's darts in my hide, than live in a convict's cell and feel that
another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be
mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in
a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked
together with the impassioned movement of his hands.  I could
understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was
no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when
he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track.

"You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly.
"We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may
originally have been on your side."

"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that
I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists.  Still,
I bear no grudge for that.  It is all fair and above-board.  If you
want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you
is God's truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass
beside me here, and I'll put my lips to it if I am dry.

"I am a Worcestershire man myself,--born near Pershore.  I dare say you
would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look.  I
have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that
I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would
be so very glad to see me.  They were all steady, chapel-going folk,
small farmers, well known and respected over the country-side, while I
was always a bit of a rover.  At last, however, when I was about
eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a
girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the queen's shilling
and joining the 3d Buffs, which was just starting for India.

"I wasn't destined to do much soldiering, however.  I had just got past
the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool enough
to go swimming in the Ganges.  Luckily for me, my company sergeant,
John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was one of the
finest swimmers in the service.  A crocodile took me, just as I was
half-way across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a surgeon
could have done it, just above the knee.  What with the shock and the
loss of blood, I fainted, and should have drowned if Holder had not
caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months in
hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it with
this timber toe strapped to my stump I found myself invalided out of
the army and unfitted for any active occupation.

"I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for I
was a useless cripple though not yet in my twentieth year. However, my
misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man named
Abelwhite, who had come out there as an indigo-planter, wanted an
overseer to look after his coolies and keep them up to their work.  He
happened to be a friend of our colonel's, who had taken an interest in
me since the accident. To make a long story short, the colonel
recommended me strongly for the post and, as the work was mostly to be
done on horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough knee
left to keep good grip on the saddle.  What I had to do was to ride
over the plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they worked, and to
report the idlers.  The pay was fair, I had comfortable quarters, and
altogether I was content to spend the remainder of my life in
indigo-planting.  Mr. Abelwhite was a kind man, and he would often drop
into my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for white folk out
there feel their hearts warm to each other as they never do here at
home.

"Well, I was never in luck's way long.  Suddenly, without a note of
warning, the great mutiny broke upon us.  One month India lay as still
and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there were
two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and the country was a
perfect hell.  Of course you know all about it, gentlemen,--a deal more
than I do, very like, since reading is not in my line.  I only know
what I saw with my own eyes.  Our plantation was at a place called
Muttra, near the border of the Northwest Provinces.  Night after night
the whole sky was alight with the burning bungalows, and day after day
we had small companies of Europeans passing through our estate with
their wives and children, on their way to Agra, where were the nearest
troops.  Mr. Abelwhite was an obstinate man.  He had it in his head
that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it would blow over as
suddenly as it had sprung up.  There he sat on his veranda, drinking
whiskey-pegs and smoking cheroots, while the country was in a blaze
about him.  Of course we stuck by him, I and Dawson, who, with his
wife, used to do the book-work and the managing.  Well, one fine day
the crash came.  I had been away on a distant plantation, and was
riding slowly home in the evening, when my eye fell upon something all
huddled together at the bottom of a steep nullah.  I rode down to see
what it was, and the cold struck through my heart when I found it was
Dawson's wife, all cut into ribbons, and half eaten by jackals and
native dogs.  A little further up the road Dawson himself was lying on
his face, quite dead, with an empty revolver in his hand and four
Sepoys lying across each other in front of him.  I reined up my horse,
wondering which way I should turn, but at that moment I saw thick smoke
curling up from Abelwhite's bungalow and the flames beginning to burst
through the roof.  I knew then that I could do my employer no good, but
would only throw my own life away if I meddled in the matter.  From
where I stood I could see hundreds of the black fiends, with their red
coats still on their backs, dancing and howling round the burning
house.  Some of them pointed at me, and a couple of bullets sang past
my head; so I broke away across the paddy-fields, and found myself late
at night safe within the walls at Agra.

"As it proved, however, there was no great safety there, either. The
whole country was up like a swarm of bees.  Wherever the English could
collect in little bands they held just the ground that their guns
commanded.  Everywhere else they were helpless fugitives.  It was a
fight of the millions against the hundreds; and the cruellest part of
it was that these men that we fought against, foot, horse, and gunners,
were our own picked troops, whom we had taught and trained, handling
our own weapons, and blowing our own bugle-calls.  At Agra there were
the 3d Bengal Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of horse, and a battery
of artillery.  A volunteer corps of clerks and merchants had been
formed, and this I joined, wooden leg and all.  We went out to meet the
rebels at Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them back for a time,
but our powder gave out, and we had to fall back upon the city.
Nothing but the worst news came to us from every side,--which is not to
be wondered at, for if you look at the map you will see that we were
right in the heart of it.  Lucknow is rather better than a hundred
miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as far to the south.  From every
point on the compass there was nothing but torture and murder and
outrage.

"The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with fanatics and fierce
devil-worshippers of all sorts.  Our handful of men were lost among the
narrow, winding streets.  Our leader moved across the river, therefore,
and took up his position in the old fort at Agra.  I don't know if any
of you gentlemen have ever read or heard anything of that old fort.  It
is a very queer place,--the queerest that ever I was in, and I have
been in some rum corners, too.  First of all, it is enormous in size.
I should think that the enclosure must be acres and acres.  There is a
modern part, which took all our garrison, women, children, stores, and
everything else, with plenty of room over.  But the modern part is
nothing like the size of the old quarter, where nobody goes, and which
is given over to the scorpions and the centipedes.  It is all full of
great deserted halls, and winding passages, and long corridors twisting
in and out, so that it is easy enough for folk to get lost in it.  For
this reason it was seldom that any one went into it, though now and
again a party with torches might go exploring.

"The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so protects it,
but on the sides and behind there are many doors, and these had to be
guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in that which was
actually held by our troops.  We were short-handed, with hardly men
enough to man the angles of the building and to serve the guns.  It was
impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong guard at every one of
the innumerable gates.  What we did was to organize a central
guard-house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate under the
charge of one white man and two or three natives.  I was selected to
take charge during certain hours of the night of a small isolated door
upon the southwest side of the building.  Two Sikh troopers were placed
under my command, and I was instructed if anything went wrong to fire
my musket, when I might rely upon help coming at once from the central
guard.  As the guard was a good two hundred paces away, however, and as
the space between was cut up into a labyrinth of passages and
corridors, I had great doubts as to whether they could arrive in time
to be of any use in case of an actual attack.

"Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me, since
I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that.  For two nights I
kept the watch with my Punjaubees.  They were tall, fierce-looking
chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah Khan by name, both old fighting-men
who had borne arms against us at Chilian-wallah.  They could talk
English pretty well, but I could get little out of them.  They
preferred to stand together and jabber all night in their queer Sikh
lingo.  For myself, I used to stand outside the gate-way, looking down
on the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights of the great
city.  The beating of drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and the yells and
howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bang, were enough to
remind us all night of our dangerous neighbors across the stream.
Every two hours the officer of the night used to come round to all the
posts, to make sure that all was well.

"The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small, driving
rain.  It was dreary work standing in the gate-way hour after hour in
such weather.  I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk, but
without much success.  At two in the morning the rounds passed, and
broke for a moment the weariness of the night. Finding that my
companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe, and
laid down my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two Sikhs
were upon me.  One of them snatched my firelock up and levelled it at
my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat and swore
between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a step.

"My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the
rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault.  If our door
were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women and
children be treated as they were in Cawnpore.  Maybe you gentlemen
think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my
word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the knife
at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a scream,
if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard.  The man who
held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to it,
he whispered, 'Don't make a noise.  The fort is safe enough.  There are
no rebel dogs on this side of the river.'  There was the ring of truth
in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a dead man.
I could read it in the fellow's brown eyes.  I waited, therefore, in
silence, to see what it was that they wanted from me.

"'Listen to me, Sahib,' said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the
one whom they called Abdullah Khan.  'You must either be with us now or
you must be silenced forever.  The thing is too great a one for us to
hesitate.  Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on the
cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into
the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army.
There is no middle way.  Which is it to be, death or life?  We can only
give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must
be done before the rounds come again.'

"'How can I decide?' said I.  'You have not told me what you want of
me.  But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of
the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your knife
and welcome.'

"'It is nothing against the fort,' said he.  'We only ask you to do
that which your countrymen come to this land for.  We ask you to be
rich.  If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon
the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever known
to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot.  A quarter
of the treasure shall be yours.  We can say no fairer.'

"'But what is the treasure, then?' I asked.  'I am as ready to be rich
as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done.'

"'You will swear, then,' said he, 'by the bones of your father, by the
honor of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no hand and
speak no word against us, either now or afterwards?'

"'I will swear it,' I answered, 'provided that the fort is not
endangered.'

"'Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of the
treasure which shall be equally divided among the four of us.'

"'There are but three,' said I.

"'No; Dost Akbar must have his share.  We can tell the tale to you
while we await them.  Do you stand at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and give
notice of their coming.  The thing stands thus, Sahib, and I tell it to
you because I know that an oath is binding upon a Feringhee, and that
we may trust you.  Had you been a lying Hindoo, though you had sworn by
all the gods in their false temples, your blood would have been upon
the knife, and your body in the water.  But the Sikh knows the
Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh.  Hearken, then, to what
I have to say.

"'There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has much wealth,
though his lands are small.  Much has come to him from his father, and
more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and hoards
his gold rather than spend it.  When the troubles broke out he would be
friends both with the lion and the tiger,--with the Sepoy and with the
Company's Raj.  Soon, however, it seemed to him that the white men's
day was come, for through all the land he could hear of nothing but of
their death and their overthrow.  Yet, being a careful man, he made
such plans that, come what might, half at least of his treasure should
be left to him.  That which was in gold and silver he kept by him in
the vaults of his palace, but the most precious stones and the choicest
pearls that he had he put in an iron box, and sent it by a trusty
servant who, under the guise of a merchant, should take it to the fort
at Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace. Thus, if the rebels
won he would have his money, but if the Company conquered his jewels
would be saved to him.  Having thus divided his hoard, he threw himself
into the cause of the Sepoys, since they were strong upon his borders.
By doing this, mark you, Sahib, his property becomes the due of those
who have been true to their salt.

"'This pretended merchant, who travels under the name of Achmet, is now
in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the fort.  He has
with him as travelling-companion my foster-brother Dost Akbar, who
knows his secret.  Dost Akbar has promised this night to lead him to a
side-postern of the fort, and has chosen this one for his purpose.
Here he will come presently, and here he will find Mahomet Singh and
myself awaiting him.  The place is lonely, and none shall know of his
coming.  The world shall know of the merchant Achmet no more, but the
great treasure of the rajah shall be divided among us.  What say you to
it, Sahib?'

"In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great and a sacred thing;
but it is very different when there is fire and blood all round you and
you have been used to meeting death at every turn. Whether Achmet the
merchant lived or died was a thing as light as air to me, but at the
talk about the treasure my heart turned to it, and I thought of what I
might do in the old country with it, and how my folk would stare when
they saw their ne'er-do-well coming back with his pockets full of gold
moidores.  I had, therefore, already made up my mind.  Abdullah Khan,
however, thinking that I hesitated, pressed the matter more closely.

"'Consider, Sahib,' said he, 'that if this man is taken by the
commandant he will be hung or shot, and his jewels taken by the
government, so that no man will be a rupee the better for them. Now,
since we do the taking of him, why should we not do the rest as well?
The jewels will be as well with us as in the Company's coffers.  There
will be enough to make every one of us rich men and great chiefs.  No
one can know about the matter, for here we are cut off from all men.
What could be better for the purpose? Say again, then, Sahib, whether
you are with us, or if we must look upon you as an enemy.'

"'I am with you heart and soul,' said I.

"'It is well,' he answered, handing me back my firelock.  'You see that
we trust you, for your word, like ours, is not to be broken.  We have
now only to wait for my brother and the merchant.'

"'Does your brother know, then, of what you will do?' I asked.

"'The plan is his.  He has devised it.  We will go to the gate and
share the watch with Mahomet Singh.'

"The rain was still falling steadily, for it was just the beginning of
the wet season.  Brown, heavy clouds were drifting across the sky, and
it was hard to see more than a stone-cast.  A deep moat lay in front of
our door, but the water was in places nearly dried up, and it could
easily be crossed.  It was strange to me to be standing there with
those two wild Punjaubees waiting for the man who was coming to his
death.

"Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded lantern at the other side
of the moat.  It vanished among the mound-heaps, and then appeared
again coming slowly in our direction.

"'Here they are!' I exclaimed.

"'You will challenge him, Sahib, as usual,' whispered Abdullah. 'Give
him no cause for fear.  Send us in with him, and we shall do the rest
while you stay here on guard.  Have the lantern ready to uncover, that
we may be sure that it is indeed the man.'

"The light had flickered onwards, now stopping and now advancing, until
I could see two dark figures upon the other side of the moat.  I let
them scramble down the sloping bank, splash through the mire, and climb
half-way up to the gate, before I challenged them.

"'Who goes there?' said I, in a subdued voice.

"'Friends,' came the answer.  I uncovered my lantern and threw a flood
of light upon them.  The first was an enormous Sikh, with a black beard
which swept nearly down to his cummerbund.  Outside of a show I have
never seen so tall a man.  The other was a little, fat, round fellow,
with a great yellow turban, and a bundle in his hand, done up in a
shawl.  He seemed to be all in a quiver with fear, for his hands
twitched as if he had the ague, and his head kept turning to left and
right with two bright little twinkling eyes, like a mouse when he
ventures out from his hole.  It gave me the chills to think of killing
him, but I thought of the treasure, and my heart set as hard as a flint
within me.  When he saw my white face he gave a little chirrup of joy
and came running up towards me.

"'Your protection, Sahib,' he panted,--'your protection for the unhappy
merchant Achmet.  I have travelled across Rajpootana that I might seek
the shelter of the fort at Agra.  I have been robbed and beaten and
abused because I have been the friend of the Company.  It is a blessed
night this when I am once more in safety,--I and my poor possessions.'

"'What have you in the bundle?' I asked.

"'An iron box,' he answered, 'which contains one or two little family
matters which are of no value to others, but which I should be sorry to
lose.  Yet I am not a beggar; and I shall reward you, young Sahib, and
your governor also, if he will give me the shelter I ask.'

"I could not trust myself to speak longer with the man.  The more I
looked at his fat, frightened face, the harder did it seem that we
should slay him in cold blood.  It was best to get it over.

"'Take him to the main guard,' said I.  The two Sikhs closed in upon
him on each side, and the giant walked behind, while they marched in
through the dark gate-way.  Never was a man so compassed round with
death.  I remained at the gate-way with the lantern.

"I could hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding through
the lonely corridors.  Suddenly it ceased, and I heard voices, and a
scuffle, with the sound of blows.  A moment later there came, to my
horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my direction, with the loud
breathing of a running man.  I turned my lantern down the long,
straight passage, and there was the fat man, running like the wind,
with a smear of blood across his face, and close at his heels, bounding
like a tiger, the great black-bearded Sikh, with a knife flashing in
his hand.  I have never seen a man run so fast as that little merchant.
He was gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if he once passed me
and got to the open air he would save himself yet.  My heart softened
to him, but again the thought of his treasure turned me hard and
bitter.  I cast my firelock between his legs as he raced past, and he
rolled twice over like a shot rabbit.  Ere he could stagger to his feet
the Sikh was upon him, and buried his knife twice in his side.  The man
never uttered moan nor moved muscle, but lay were he had fallen.  I
think myself that he may have broken his neck with the fall.  You see,
gentlemen, that I am keeping my promise.  I am telling you every work
of the business just exactly as it happened, whether it is in my favor
or not."

He stopped, and held out his manacled hands for the whiskey-and-water
which Holmes had brewed for him.  For myself, I confess that I had now
conceived the utmost horror of the man, not only for this cold-blooded
business in which he had been concerned, but even more for the somewhat
flippant and careless way in which he narrated it.  Whatever punishment
was in store for him, I felt that he might expect no sympathy from me.
Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat with their hands upon their knees, deeply
interested in the story, but with the same disgust written upon their
faces. He may have observed it, for there was a touch of defiance in
his voice and manner as he proceeded.

"It was all very bad, no doubt," said he.  "I should like to know how
many fellows in my shoes would have refused a share of this loot when
they knew that they would have their throats cut for their pains.
Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in the fort.  If he had
got out, the whole business would come to light, and I should have been
court-martialled and shot as likely as not; for people were not very
lenient at a time like that."

"Go on with your story," said Holmes, shortly.

"Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I.  A fine weight he
was, too, for all that he was so short.  Mahomet Singh was left to
guard the door.  We took him to a place which the Sikhs had already
prepared.  It was some distance off, where a winding passage leads to a
great empty hall, the brick walls of which were all crumbling to
pieces.  The earth floor had sunk in at one place, making a natural
grave, so we left Achmet the merchant there, having first covered him
over with loose bricks.  This done, we all went back to the treasure.

"It lay where he had dropped it when he was first attacked.  The box
was the same which now lies open upon your table.  A key was hung by a
silken cord to that carved handle upon the top.  We opened it, and the
light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection of gems such as I have
read of and thought about when I was a little lad at Pershore.  It was
blinding to look upon them.  When we had feasted our eyes we took them
all out and made a list of them.  There were one hundred and
forty-three diamonds of the first water, including one which has been
called, I believe, 'the Great Mogul' and is said to be the second
largest stone in existence.  Then there were ninety-seven very fine
emeralds, and one hundred and seventy rubies, some of which, however,
were small.  There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and ten
sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of beryls, onyxes,
cats'-eyes, turquoises, and other stones, the very names of which I did
not know at the time, though I have become more familiar with them
since.  Besides this, there were nearly three hundred very fine pearls,
twelve of which were set in a gold coronet.  By the way, these last had
been taken out of the chest and were not there when I recovered it.

"After we had counted our treasures we put them back into the chest and
carried them to the gate-way to show them to Mahomet Singh.  Then we
solemnly renewed our oath to stand by each other and be true to our
secret.  We agreed to conceal our loot in a safe place until the
country should be at peace again, and then to divide it equally among
ourselves.  There was no use dividing it at present, for if gems of
such value were found upon us it would cause suspicion, and there was
no privacy in the fort nor any place where we could keep them.  We
carried the box, therefore, into the same hall where we had buried the
body, and there, under certain bricks in the best-preserved wall, we
made a hollow and put our treasure.  We made careful note of the place,
and next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and put the sign of
the four of us at the bottom, for we had sworn that we should each
always act for all, so that none might take advantage.  That is an oath
that I can put my hand to my heart and swear that I have never broken.

"Well, there's no use my telling you gentlemen what came of the Indian
mutiny.  After Wilson took Delhi and Sir Colin relieved Lucknow the
back of the business was broken.  Fresh troops came pouring in, and
Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the frontier. A flying column under
Colonel Greathed came round to Agra and cleared the Pandies away from
it.  Peace seemed to be settling upon the country, and we four were
beginning to hope that the time was at hand when we might safely go off
with our shares of the plunder.  In a moment, however, our hopes were
shattered by our being arrested as the murderers of Achmet.

"It came about in this way.  When the rajah put his jewels into the
hands of Achmet he did it because he knew that he was a trusty man.
They are suspicious folk in the East, however:  so what does this rajah
do but take a second even more trusty servant and set him to play the
spy upon the first?  This second man was ordered never to let Achmet
out of his sight, and he followed him like his shadow.  He went after
him that night and saw him pass through the doorway.  Of course he
thought he had taken refuge in the fort, and applied for admission
there himself next day, but could find no trace of Achmet.  This seemed
to him so strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of guides, who
brought it to the ears of the commandant.  A thorough search was
quickly made, and the body was discovered.  Thus at the very moment
that we thought that all was safe we were all four seized and brought
to trial on a charge of murder,--three of us because we had held the
gate that night, and the fourth because he was known to have been in
the company of the murdered man.  Not a word about the jewels came out
at the trial, for the rajah had been deposed and driven out of India:
so no one had any particular interest in them.  The murder, however,
was clearly made out, and it was certain that we must all have been
concerned in it.  The three Sikhs got penal servitude for life, and I
was condemned to death, though my sentence was afterwards commuted into
the same as the others.

"It was rather a queer position that we found ourselves in then. There
we were all four tied by the leg and with precious little chance of
ever getting out again, while we each held a secret which might have
put each of us in a palace if we could only have made use of it.  It
was enough to make a man eat his heart out to have to stand the kick
and the cuff of every petty jack-in-office, to have rice to eat and
water to drink, when that gorgeous fortune was ready for him outside,
just waiting to be picked up.  It might have driven me mad; but I was
always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on and bided my time.

"At last it seemed to me to have come.  I was changed from Agra to
Madras, and from there to Blair Island in the Andamans.  There are very
few white convicts at this settlement, and, as I had behaved well from
the first, I soon found myself a sort of privileged person.  I was
given a hut in Hope Town, which is a small place on the slopes of Mount
Harriet, and I was left pretty much to myself.  It is a dreary,
fever-stricken place, and all beyond our little clearings was infested
with wild cannibal natives, who were ready enough to blow a poisoned
dart at us if they saw a chance.  There was digging, and ditching, and
yam-planting, and a dozen other things to be done, so we were busy
enough all day; though in the evening we had a little time to
ourselves.  Among other things, I learned to dispense drugs for the
surgeon, and picked up a smattering of his knowledge.  All the time I
was on the lookout for a chance of escape; but it is hundreds of miles
from any other land, and there is little or no wind in those seas:  so
it was a terribly difficult job to get away.

"The surgeon, Dr. Somerton, was a fast, sporting young chap, and the
other young officers would meet in his rooms of an evening and play
cards.  The surgery, where I used to make up my drugs, was next to his
sitting-room, with a small window between us. Often, if I felt
lonesome, I used to turn out the lamp in the surgery, and then,
standing there, I could hear their talk and watch their play.  I am
fond of a hand at cards myself, and it was almost as good as having one
to watch the others.  There was Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and
Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who were in command of the native troops, and
there was the surgeon himself, and two or three prison-officials,
crafty old hands who played a nice sly safe game.  A very snug little
party they used to make.

"Well, there was one thing which very soon struck me, and that was that
the soldiers used always to lose and the civilians to win.  Mind, I
don't say that there was anything unfair, but so it was.  These
prison-chaps had done little else than play cards ever since they had
been at the Andamans, and they knew each other's game to a point, while
the others just played to pass the time and threw their cards down
anyhow.  Night after night the soldiers got up poorer men, and the
poorer they got the more keen they were to play.  Major Sholto was the
hardest hit.  He used to pay in notes and gold at first, but soon it
came to notes of hand and for big sums.  He sometimes would win for a
few deals, just to give him heart, and then the luck would set in
against him worse than ever.  All day he would wander about as black as
thunder, and he took to drinking a deal more than was good for him.

"One night he lost even more heavily than usual.  I was sitting in my
hut when he and Captain Morstan came stumbling along on the way to
their quarters.  They were bosom friends, those two, and never far
apart.  The major was raving about his losses.

"'It's all up, Morstan,' he was saying, as they passed my hut. 'I shall
have to send in my papers.  I am a ruined man.'

"'Nonsense, old chap!' said the other, slapping him upon the shoulder.
'I've had a nasty facer myself, but--'  That was all I could hear, but
it was enough to set me thinking.

"A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling on the beach: so I
took the chance of speaking to him.

"'I wish to have your advice, major,' said I.

"'Well, Small, what is it?' he asked, taking his cheroot from his lips.

"'I wanted to ask you, sir,' said I, 'who is the proper person to whom
hidden treasure should be handed over.  I know where half a million
worth lies, and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought perhaps the best
thing that I could do would be to hand it over to the proper
authorities, and then perhaps they would get my sentence shortened for
me.'

"'Half a million, Small?' he gasped, looking hard at me to see if I was
in earnest.

"'Quite that, sir,--in jewels and pearls.  It lies there ready for any
one.  And the queer thing about it is that the real owner is outlawed
and cannot hold property, so that it belongs to the first comer.'

"'To government, Small,' he stammered,--'to government.'  But he said
it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had got him.

"'You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the
Governor-General?' said I, quietly.

"'Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might repent.
Let me hear all about it, Small.  Give me the facts.'

"I told him the whole story, with small changes so that he could not
identify the places.  When I had finished he stood stock still and full
of thought.  I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was a
struggle going on within him.

"'This is a very important matter, Small,' he said, at last. 'You must
not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again soon.'

"Two nights later he and his friend Captain Morstan came to my hut in
the dead of the night with a lantern.

"'I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your own
lips, Small,' said he.

"I repeated it as I had told it before.

"'It rings true, eh?' said he.  'It's good enough to act upon?'

"Captain Morstan nodded.

"'Look here, Small,' said the major.  'We have been talking it over, my
friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this secret
of yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but is a private
concern of your own, which of course you have the power of disposing of
as you think best.  Now, the question is, what price would you ask for
it?  We might be inclined to take it up, and at least look into it, if
we could agree as to terms.'  He tried to speak in a cool, careless
way, but his eyes were shining with excitement and greed.

"'Why, as to that, gentlemen,' I answered, trying also to be cool, but
feeling as excited as he did, 'there is only one bargain which a man in
my position can make.  I shall want you to help me to my freedom, and
to help my three companions to theirs. We shall then take you into
partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide between you.'

"'Hum!' said he.  'A fifth share!  That is not very tempting.'

"'It would come to fifty thousand apiece,' said I.

"'But how can we gain your freedom?  You know very well that you ask an
impossibility.'

"'Nothing of the sort,' I answered.  'I have thought it all out to the
last detail.  The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat fit
for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time.  There
are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras which would
serve our turn well.  Do you bring one over. We shall engage to get
aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any part of the Indian
coast you will have done your part of the bargain.'

"'If there were only one,' he said.

"'None or all,' I answered.  'We have sworn it.  The four of us must
always act together.'

"'You see, Morstan,' said he, 'Small is a man of his word.  He does not
flinch from his friend.  I think we may very well trust him.'

"'It's a dirty business,' the other answered.  'Yet, as you say, the
money would save our commissions handsomely.'

"'Well, Small,' said the major, 'we must, I suppose, try and meet you.
We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. Tell me where
the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back to India
in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair.'

"'Not so fast,' said I, growing colder as he got hot.  'I must have the
consent of my three comrades.  I tell you that it is four or none with
us.'

"'Nonsense!' he broke in.  'What have three black fellows to do with
our agreement?'

"'Black or blue,' said I, 'they are in with me, and we all go together.'

"Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mahomet Singh,
Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present.  We talked the matter
over again, and at last we came to an arrangement.  We were to provide
both the officers with charts of the part of the Agra fort and mark the
place in the wall where the treasure was hid.  Major Sholto was to go
to India to test our story.  If he found the box he was to leave it
there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a voyage, which was to
lie off Rutland Island, and to which we were to make our way, and
finally to return to his duties.  Captain Morstan was then to apply for
leave of absence, to meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a final
division of the treasure, he taking the major's share as well as his
own.  All this we sealed by the most solemn oaths that the mind could
think or the lips utter.  I sat up all night with paper and ink, and by
the morning I had the two charts all ready, signed with the sign of
four,--that is, of Abdullah, Akbar, Mahomet, and myself.

"Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story, and I know that my
friend Mr. Jones is impatient to get me safely stowed in chokey.  I'll
make it as short as I can.  The villain Sholto went off to India, but
he never came back again.  Captain Morstan showed me his name among a
list of passengers in one of the mail-boats very shortly afterwards.
His uncle had died, leaving him a fortune, and he had left the army,
yet he could stoop to treat five men as he had treated us.  Morstan
went over to Agra shortly afterwards, and found, as we expected, that
the treasure was indeed gone.  The scoundrel had stolen it all, without
carrying out one of the conditions on which we had sold him the secret.
From that day I lived only for vengeance.  I thought of it by day and I
nursed it by night.  It became an overpowering, absorbing passion with
me.  I cared nothing for the law,--nothing for the gallows.  To escape,
to track down Sholto, to have my hand upon his throat,--that was my one
thought.  Even the Agra treasure had come to be a smaller thing in my
mind than the slaying of Sholto.

"Well, I have set my mind on many things in this life, and never one
which I did not carry out.  But it was weary years before my time came.
I have told you that I had picked up something of medicine.  One day
when Dr. Somerton was down with a fever a little Andaman Islander was
picked up by a convict-gang in the woods.  He was sick to death, and
had gone to a lonely place to die.  I took him in hand, though he was
as venomous as a young snake, and after a couple of months I got him
all right and able to walk.  He took a kind of fancy to me then, and
would hardly go back to his woods, but was always hanging about my hut.
I learned a little of his lingo from him, and this made him all the
fonder of me.

"Tonga--for that was his name--was a fine boatman, and owned a big,
roomy canoe of his own.  When I found that he was devoted to me and
would do anything to serve me, I saw my chance of escape. I talked it
over with him.  He was to bring his boat round on a certain night to an
old wharf which was never guarded, and there he was to pick me up.  I
gave him directions to have several gourds of water and a lot of yams,
cocoa-nuts, and sweet potatoes.

"He was stanch and true, was little Tonga.  No man ever had a more
faithful mate.  At the night named he had his boat at the wharf.  As it
chanced, however, there was one of the convict-guard down there,--a
vile Pathan who had never missed a chance of insulting and injuring me.
I had always vowed vengeance, and now I had my chance.  It was as if
fate had placed him in my way that I might pay my debt before I left
the island.  He stood on the bank with his back to me, and his carbine
on his shoulder.  I looked about for a stone to beat out his brains
with, but none could I see.  Then a queer thought came into my head and
showed me where I could lay my hand on a weapon.  I sat down in the
darkness and unstrapped my wooden leg.  With three long hops I was on
him.  He put his carbine to his shoulder, but I struck him full, and
knocked the whole front of his skull in.  You can see the split in the
wood now where I hit him.  We both went down together, for I could not
keep my balance, but when I got up I found him still lying quiet
enough.  I made for the boat, and in an hour we were well out at sea.
Tonga had brought all his earthly possessions with him, his arms and
his gods.  Among other things, he had a long bamboo spear, and some
Andaman cocoa-nut matting, with which I made a sort of sail.  For ten
days we were beating about, trusting to luck, and on the eleventh we
were picked up by a trader which was going from Singapore to Jiddah
with a cargo of Malay pilgrims.  They were a rum crowd, and Tonga and I
soon managed to settle down among them.  They had one very good
quality:  they let you alone and asked no questions.

"Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that my little chum and
I went through, you would not thank me, for I would have you here until
the sun was shining.  Here and there we drifted about the world,
something always turning up to keep us from London.  All the time,
however, I never lost sight of my purpose. I would dream of Sholto at
night.  A hundred times I have killed him in my sleep.  At last,
however, some three or four years ago, we found ourselves in England.
I had no great difficulty in finding where Sholto lived, and I set to
work to discover whether he had realized the treasure, or if he still
had it.  I made friends with someone who could help me,--I name no
names, for I don't want to get any one else in a hole,--and I soon
found that he still had the jewels.  Then I tried to get at him in many
ways; but he was pretty sly, and had always two prize-fighters, besides
his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him.

"One day, however, I got word that he was dying.  I hurried at once to
the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that, and,
looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his sons
on each side of him.  I'd have come through and taken my chance with
the three of them, only even as I looked at him his jaw dropped, and I
knew that he was gone.  I got into his room that same night, though,
and I searched his papers to see if there was any record of where he
had hidden our jewels.  There was not a line, however:  so I came away,
bitter and savage as a man could be.  Before I left I bethought me that
if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a satisfaction to know
that I had left some mark of our hatred:  so I scrawled down the sign
of the four of us, as it had been on the chart, and I pinned it on his
bosom.  It was too much that he should be taken to the grave without
some token from the men whom he had robbed and befooled.

"We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs
and other such places as the black cannibal.  He would eat raw meat and
dance his war-dance:  so we always had a hatful of pennies after a
day's work.  I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and for
some years there was no news to hear, except that they were hunting for
the treasure.  At last, however, came what we had waited for so long.
The treasure had been found.  It was up at the top of the house, in Mr.
Bartholomew Sholto's chemical laboratory.  I came at once and had a
look at the place, but I could not see how with my wooden leg I was to
make my way up to it.  I learned, however, about a trap-door in the
roof, and also about Mr. Sholto's supper-hour.  It seemed to me that I
could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I brought him out with me
with a long rope wound round his waist. He could climb like a cat, and
he soon made his way through the roof, but, as ill luck would have it,
Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his cost.  Tonga thought
he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by
the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock.  Very much
surprised was he when I made at him with the rope's end and cursed him
for a little blood-thirsty imp.  I took the treasure-box and let it
down, and then slid down myself, having first left the sign of the four
upon the table, to show that the jewels had come back at last to those
who had most right to them.  Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the
window, and made off the way that he had come.

"I don't know that I have anything else to tell you.  I had heard a
waterman speak of the speed of Smith's launch the Aurora, so I thought
she would be a handy craft for our escape.  I engaged with old Smith,
and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship.  He knew,
no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our
secrets.  All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it
is not to amuse you,--for you have not done me a very good turn,--but
it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold
back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been
served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son."

"A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes.  "A fitting wind-up
to an extremely interesting case.  There is nothing at all new to me in
the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own
rope.  That I did not know.  By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had
lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat."

"He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe
at the time."

"Ah, of course," said Holmes.  "I had not thought of that."

"Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the
convict, affably.

"I think not, thank you," my companion answered.

"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humored, and
we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and
I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me.  I
shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under
lock and key.  The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors
down-stairs.  I am much obliged to you both for your assistance.  Of
course you will be wanted at the trial.  Good-night to you."

"Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small.

"You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room.
"I'll take particular care that you don't club me with your wooden leg,
whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles."

"Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we
had set some time smoking in silence.  "I fear that it may be the last
investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your
methods.  Miss Morstan has done me the honor to accept me as a husband
in prospective."

He gave a most dismal groan.  "I feared as much," said he.  "I really
cannot congratulate you."

I was a little hurt.  "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my
choice?" I asked.

"Not at all.  I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I
ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been
doing.  She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she
preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father.  But
love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to
that true cold reason which I place above all things.  I should never
marry myself, lest I bias my judgment."

"I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal.
But you look weary."

"Yes, the reaction is already upon me.  I shall be as limp as a rag for
a week."

"Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call
laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigor."

"Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer
and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow.  I often think of those lines
of old Goethe,--

  Schade dass die Natur nur EINEN Mensch aus Dir schuf,
  Denn zum wuerdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.

"By the way, a propos of this Norwood business, you see that they had,
as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other than
Lal Rao, the butler:  so Jones actually has the undivided honor of
having caught one fish in his great haul."

"The division seems rather unfair," I remarked.  "You have done all the
work in this business.  I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit,
pray what remains for you?"

"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the
cocaine-bottle."  And he stretched his long white hand up for it.









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