Full Text

ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

[Illustration:

“THE GENTLEMAN IN THE PEW HANDED IT UP TO HER”

[Page 238

]

ADVENTURES

OF

SHERLOCK HOLMES

BY

A. CONAN DOYLE

AUTHOR OF “MICAH CLARKE” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE

Copyright, 1892, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

_All rights reserved._

CONTENTS

PAGE

I.—A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA 3

II.—THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 29

III.—A CASE OF IDENTITY 56

IV.—THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY 76

V.—THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS 104

VI.—THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP 126

VII.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE 153

VIII.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND 176

IX.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER’S THUMB 205

X.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR 229

XI.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET 253

XII.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES 280

ILLUSTRATIONS

“THE GENTLEMAN IN THE PEW HANDED IT UP TO HER” _Frontispiece_

“A MAN ENTERED” _Facing p._ 8

“THE DOOR WAS SHUT AND LOCKED” ″   40

“ALL AFTERNOON HE SAT IN THE STALLS” ″   46

“SHERLOCK HOLMES WELCOMED HER” ″   60

“GLANCING ABOUT HIM LIKE A RAT IN A TRAP” ″   72

“THEY FOUND THE BODY” ″   80

“THE MAID SHOWED US THE BOOTS” ″   92

“‘HOLMES,’ I CRIED, ‘YOU ARE TOO LATE’” ″   122

“AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS SHE MET THIS LASCAR

SCOUNDREL” ″   134

“‘HAVE MERCY!’ HE SHRIEKED” ″   172

“‘GOOD-BYE, AND BE BRAVE’” ″   196

“‘NOT A WORD TO A SOUL’” ″   214

“‘I WILL WISH YOU ALL A VERY GOOD NIGHT’” ″   250

“I CLAPPED A PISTOL TO HIS HEAD” ″   278

“‘I AM SO DELIGHTED THAT YOU HAVE COME’” ″   292

ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

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 20th 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 arisen 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 arm-chair, 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 some one 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 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 arm-chair. “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,

endeavoring 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 arm-chair, 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.

[Illustration: “A MAN ENTERED”]

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-colored silk, and

secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming

beryl. Boots which extended half-way 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 honor 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 honor

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 arm-chair 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 I 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 neighborhood 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 that 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 mustached—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

Edgware 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’s succinct description, but the locality appeared to

be less private that I expected. On the contrary, for a small street

in a quiet neighborhood, 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 any one

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 Edgware 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 that 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 every one 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 some one 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 hinderance 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 honor 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 honorable

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 arm-chair and putting

his finger-tips 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 every-day 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 great-coat. 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 endeavored, 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 gray 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’s 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 labor, 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 labor. 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 half-way 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, Pa., U.S.A., there is now

another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League

to a salary of £4 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 develope 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 color, 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 color. 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 color they were—straw, lemon, orange,

brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were

not many who had the real vivid flame-colored 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 favorable 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 favor 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

shall 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 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 “Encyclopædia 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 any one

could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing

anything so simple as copying out the ‘Encyclopædia 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 Armor 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 card-board 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 card-board 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.

[Illustration: “THE DOOR WAS SHUT AND LOCKED”]

“‘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, 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 endeavor 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 gypsy 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 mantel-piece.

“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 pokey, 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 convey 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 foot-paths were black

with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realize

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 arm-chair 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 enrapt 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.

[Illustration: “ALL AFTERNOON HE SAT IN THE STALLS”]

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, 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 “Encyclopædia” 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 recognized

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; 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 Farringdon 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 bull-dog, and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his

claws upon any one. 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 2000 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 mean time, 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’s 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 up-stairs, 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 whiskey-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 ‘Encyclopædia,’ 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 color of his accomplice’s hair. The £4 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 that 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 Georges 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 you 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 splendor 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 fidgetted 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 cœur_. 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 arm-chair, 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 type-writing?”

“I did at first,” she answered, “but now I know where the letters

are without looking.” Then, suddenly realizing the full purport of

his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and

astonishment upon her broad, good-humored 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 every one 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 step-father, surely, since the name

is different.”

“Yes, my step-father. 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 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.”

[Illustration: “SHERLOCK HOLMES WELCOMED HER”]

“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 type-writing. 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 mean time, 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

type-write 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 type-written 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 step-father, 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

favor 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 any

one 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! 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 finger-tips 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

realize 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-colored, 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 color, with a little purple plush at the neck and

sleeves. Her gloves were grayish, and were worn through at the right

forefinger. Her boots I didn’t observe. She had small, round, hanging

gold ear-rings, 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 color. 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 type-writist 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 type-writing, which seemed to surprise her.”

“It surprised me.”

“But, surely, it was very 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 14th, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About 5 ft. 7

in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little

bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and mustache; tinted

glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in

black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain,

and gray Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided

boots. Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street.

Anybody bringing,” etc., etc.

“That will do,” said Holmes. “As to the letters,” he continued,

glancing over them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clew

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 type-written,” I remarked.

“Not only that, but the signature is type-written. 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 step-father, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he

could meet us here at six o’clock to-morrow 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 demeanor 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 clews 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

arm-chair. 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 step-father, 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

gray 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

type-written 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 type-writer 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 type-writer 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 type-written. 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 mantel-piece, 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 step-father 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

step-father 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 mustache 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.”

[Illustration: “GLANCING ABOUT HIM LIKE A RAT IN A TRAP”]

“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

step-father 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 any one 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 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 step-father. 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 type-writing his signature, which, of course, inferred that his

handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognize 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 type-writer, and I wrote to the man

himself at his business address, asking him if he would come here. As

I expected, his reply was type-written, 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.

_Voila 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’s 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 gray 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 some one 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 clew.

The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult is

it 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 neighboring 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 neighborhood. 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 3, 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 at 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 neighborhood, however, and

among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighboring land-owner,

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

characterizes 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 well 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.”

[Illustration: “THEY FOUND THE BODY”]

“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 gray in color, 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

favor. 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 recognizing 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 had 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 any one 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 favor of such a union?”

“No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favor 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 fiction 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 was 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 favor 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’s 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 gray 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’s 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 every one 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 some one at the

Pool, and that the some one 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 wide-spread, comfortable-looking building,

two-storied, slate roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon

the gray 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’s

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.

[Illustration: “THE MAID SHOWED US THE BOOTS.”]

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 recognize 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 whip-cord 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 _détour_ 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 land-owner’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

neighborhood. 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 high-road, where all

traces were lost.

“It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked, returning

to his natural manner. “I fancy that this gray 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 gray cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses

a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt penknife 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 neighborhood.”

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 quite

know 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 favor 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

ear-shot. 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 some one 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?” he asked.

“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 gray 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 gray 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 observance 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 enabled

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 jail.”

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 sixties 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 death-beds,

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 bark _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 recognize the presence of

those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars

of his civilization, 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 new-comer 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 steaming 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 favor 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 it, little to do with this awful business. It is an

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 the

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 key-hole, 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 color 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 cash-box, 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 were 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, 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 latter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later,

upon the night of May 2d.”

“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-a-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 civilized

land here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the

thing come from?’

“‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the post-mark.

“‘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 neighborhood, 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 wellnigh 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 post-mark 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 said; “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 discolored, 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

color. 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 have 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 utilize 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 encyclopædias, 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 endeavored 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 Encyclopædia 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 some one

or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear

of some one 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 post-marks 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 clew. 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 sent 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 terrorizing 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

recognized 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 organization 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 organization 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 mean time 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

river-side 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!”

[Illustration: “‘HOLMES,’ I CRIED, ‘YOU ARE TOO LATE’”]

“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 clew?”

“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, Bark

_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 the

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 bark _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-colored 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 seemed 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 arm-chair 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 new-comer. 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 neighbor. 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 color. 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’s 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 favored 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 clew in the incoherent ramblings of these

sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognized 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?”

“Aye, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £1000 for every

poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest

murder-trap on the whole river-side, 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 some one 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

neighborhood, 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 10_s._, while

he has £220 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 offices

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 neighborhood 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.

[Illustration: “AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS SHE MET THIS LASCAR

SCOUNDREL.”]

“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 realize 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

window-sill, 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 blood-stains 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 defense 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 bull-dog chin, and a

pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast

to the color 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

clew.

“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 down-stairs 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 horde,

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 galvanized.

“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 post-mark, 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 grayish color, 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, 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 up-stairs 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 any one 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 arm-chairs. 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 bath-room,” 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 down-stairs 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 colored

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 realizing 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, aye, 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 school-master 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 greenroom 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-colored plaster. Then with a red

head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the

busiest 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

26_s._ 4_d._

“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. I was at my wits’ 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 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

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 recognized

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.

“As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,

and eventually married, without any one 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 any one from coming up to me. I heard her voice

down-stairs, 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.”

Adventure 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 arm-chair 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 clew 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 discolored. 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

discolored 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 disk 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 endeavored 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 odor of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not

the gritty, gray dust of the street, but the fluffy brown dust of the

house, showing that it has been hung up in-doors 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 up-stairs 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 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 22d, 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 22d 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 fails, 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 every one

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 crystallized 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’s room.

“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his arm-chair, 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’s 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 any one 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 clew 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 500 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 sha’n’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 22. Twenty-four geese at 7_s._ 6_d._’”

“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”

“‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the ‘Alpha,’ at 12_s._’”

“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 dare say that if I had put £100 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 gaslight

that every vestige of color 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 endeavoring 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 cosey room rather than in this windswept

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 mantel-piece 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 color 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.”

[Illustration: “‘HAVE MERCY!’ HE SHRIEKED”]

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’s 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 jail now, and you make him a jail-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.”

Adventure 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 wide-spread

rumors 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 mantel-piece 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 gray, 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 gray, 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 step-father, 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

step-father, 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 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 step-father about this time.

Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbors, 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 step-father’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 gypsies, 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 step-father 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 any one 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 gypsies 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 recognized 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 step-father, 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 matchbox.”

“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 gypsies 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 gypsies 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 honor to ask my hand in marriage.

His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr. Armitage,

of Crane Water, near Reading. My step-father 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 step-father.”

“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 colored 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 step-father?”

“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 house-keeper

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 gypsies 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 step-daughter’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

which secured the shutters falling back into their place, I think that

there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along

those lines.”

“But what, then, did the gypsies 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 step-daughter 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, is now,

through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £750. Each

daughter can claim an income of £250, 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

way-side 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 gray 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 some one 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 gray, 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 any one 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, endeavored 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 discolored 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 house-keeper’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 arm-chair

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 step-father’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 dare

say. 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. “Hello! 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 whip-cord.

“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 step-father 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.”

[Illustration: “‘GOOD-BYE, AND BE BRAVE’”]

“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—for 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’s 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 cat-like 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. Some one 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

gray 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 head-gear 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 gypsies, 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 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 whip-cord were enough to finally dispel any doubts

which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was

obviously caused by her step-father 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.”

Adventure 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 summarize. 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 forego 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 endeavoring 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 down-stairs. 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

blood-stains. 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 (3d 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

blushing hotly.

“I have been making a fool of myself,” he gasped.

“Not at all. Drink this.” I dashed some brandy into the water, and the

color 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 carbolized 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 clews 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 up-stairs, 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

dottels left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried

and collected on the corner of the mantel-piece. 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 arm-chair 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 an 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 every one 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 10_s._ 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 understood 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

neighbors. 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 neighboring fields. This we have now been doing for some time, and

in order to help us in our operations we erected an 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 an 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 any one 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.

[Illustration: “‘NOT A WORD TO A SOUL’”]

“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 color?”

“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 were 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 new-comers 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 up-stairs 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 any one 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 gray

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. ‘Hello!’

I yelled. ‘Hello! 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

wits’ 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 savior 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 endeavored 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 high-road, 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, an 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 neighborhood, 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 wide-spread 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’s fears came to be realized, 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’s ingenuity failed ever to

discover the least clew 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.”

Adventure 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 in-doors 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 persistency. 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 mantel-piece. “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 Undersecretary 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 rumor 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 honey-moon

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

honey-moon; 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

rumors 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 endeavored 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 into 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 rumors 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-colored

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

eye-glasses.

“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 any one 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 school-master. 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 honor 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

dishonorable 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 has 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 endeavored 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 honor my head by putting it

on a level with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think

that I shall have a whiskey-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, hello, 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 clew 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 discolored 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 neighborhood 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 8_s._, breakfast 2_s._ 6_d._, cocktail 1_s._, lunch 2_s._

6_d._, glass sherry, 8_d._’ 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 and put on his

overcoat. “There is something in what the fellow says about out-door

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 morning 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 stand-point.”

“I fail to see that any one 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 new-comers 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 any one 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 honor 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.”

[Illustration: “‘I WILL WISH YOU ALL A VERY GOOD NIGHT.’”]

“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 any one when she was out, for she had been in the company

of the bridegroom. Had she seen some one, then? If she had, it must

be some one from America, because she had spent so short a time in

this country that she could hardly have allowed any one 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 favor 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 eight-pence 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.”

Adventure 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 arm-chair 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 gray 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-gray 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 recognize 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 honor, 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 do so when the security is good,’ I answered.

“‘It is absolutely essential to me,’ said he, ‘that I should have

£50,000 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 business-like 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-colored velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewelry 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 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 up-stairs 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 honor. 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 house-keeper, 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 any one 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—for ever 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?’

“‘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 dishonored 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 some one; 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 endeavoring 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 dishonored me for ever! Where are the jewels

which you have stolen?’

“‘Stolen!’ he cried.

“‘Yes, you 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 realizing the dreadful position in which I

was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my honor, 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