PART II

As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the building

which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could see

the shadow of a head, a woman’s head, gazing tensely, rigidly, out into

the night, waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal of that

interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street flats a man,

muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the railing. He

started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.

“Holmes!” he cried.

“Why, Gregson!” said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland

Yard detective. “Journeys end with lovers’ meetings. What brings you

here?”

“The same reasons that bring you, I expect,” said Gregson. “How you got

on to it I can’t imagine.”

“Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I’ve been taking

the signals.”

“Signals?”

“Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came over to

see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see no object in

continuing this business.”

“Wait a bit!” cried Gregson eagerly. “I’ll do you this justice, Mr.

Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn’t feel stronger for

having you on my side. There’s only the one exit to these flats, so we

have him safe.”

“Who is he?”

“Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give us

best this time.” He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on which

a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered over from a four-wheeler

which stood on the far side of the street. “May I introduce you to Mr.

Sherlock Holmes?” he said to the cabman. “This is Mr. Leverton, of

Pinkerton’s American Agency.”

“The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?” said Holmes. “Sir, I am

pleased to meet you.”

The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a clean-shaven,

hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation. “I am on the

trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “If I can get Gorgiano—”

“What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?”

“Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we’ve learned all about him

in America. We _know_ he is at the bottom of fifty murders, and yet we

have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from New

York, and I’ve been close to him for a week in London, waiting some

excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him to

ground in that big tenement house, and there’s only one door, so he

can’t slip us. There’s three folk come out since he went in, but I’ll

swear he wasn’t one of them.”

“Mr. Holmes talks of signals,” said Gregson. “I expect, as usual, he

knows a good deal that we don’t.”

In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had appeared

to us. The American struck his hands together with vexation.

“He’s on to us!” he cried.

“Why do you think so?”

“Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out

messages to an accomplice—there are several of his gang in London. Then

suddenly, just as by your own account he was telling them that there

was danger, he broke short off. What could it mean except that from the

window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the street, or in

some way come to understand how close the danger was, and that he must

act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes?”

“That we go up at once and see for ourselves.”

“But we have no warrant for his arrest.”

“He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances,” said

Gregson. “That is good enough for the moment. When we have him by the

heels we can see if New York can’t help us to keep him. I’ll take the

responsibility of arresting him now.”

Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence, but

never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrest this

desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and businesslike

bearing with which he would have ascended the official staircase of

Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past him, but

Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the privilege

of the London force.

The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing

ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute silence and

darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective’s lantern. As I did

so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of

surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floor there was outlined

a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and led away

from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson flung it open

and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we all peered

eagerly over his shoulders.

In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the figure of

an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely horrible in

its contortion and his head encircled by a ghastly crimson halo of

blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the white woodwork. His knees

were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and from the centre of

his broad, brown, upturned throat there projected the white haft of a

knife driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as he was, the man must

have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside

his right hand a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay

upon the floor, and near it a black kid glove.

“By George! it’s Black Gorgiano himself!” cried the American detective.

“Someone has got ahead of us this time.”

“Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson. “Why,

whatever are you doing?”

Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it

backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he peered into the

darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor.

“I rather think that will be helpful,” said he. He came over and stood

in deep thought while the two professionals were examining the body.

“You say that three people came out from the flat while you were

waiting downstairs,” said he at last. “Did you observe them closely?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle size?”

“Yes; he was the last to pass me.”

“That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and we have

a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be enough for

you.”

“Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London.”

“Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady to your

aid.”

We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a

tall and beautiful woman—the mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly

she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension,

her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze riveted upon the dark

figure on the floor.

“You have killed him!” she muttered. “Oh, _Dio mio_, you have killed

him!” Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she sprang

into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she danced,

her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted wonder, and a

thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her lips. It was

terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed with joy at such

a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all with a questioning

stare.

“But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe

Gorgiano. Is it not so?”

“We are police, madam.”

She looked round into the shadows of the room.

“But where, then, is Gennaro?” she asked. “He is my husband, Gennaro

Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is

Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and I ran with all

my speed.”

“It was I who called,” said Holmes.

“You! How could you call?”

“Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was

desirable. I knew that I had only to flash ‘_Vieni_’ and you would

surely come.”

The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.

“I do not understand how you know these things,” she said. “Giuseppe

Gorgiano—how did he—” She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up

with pride and delight. “Now I see it! My Gennaro! My splendid,

beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm, he did it,

with his own strong hand he killed the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how

wonderful you are! What woman could ever be worthy of such a man?”

“Well, Mrs. Lucca,” said the prosaic Gregson, laying his hand upon the

lady’s sleeve with as little sentiment as if she were a Notting Hill

hooligan, “I am not very clear yet who you are or what you are; but

you’ve said enough to make it very clear that we shall want you at the

Yard.”

“One moment, Gregson,” said Holmes. “I rather fancy that this lady may

be as anxious to give us information as we can be to get it. You

understand, madam, that your husband will be arrested and tried for the

death of the man who lies before us? What you say may be used in

evidence. But if you think that he has acted from motives which are not

criminal, and which he would wish to have known, then you cannot serve

him better than by telling us the whole story.”

“Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing,” said the lady. “He was a

devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the world who would

punish my husband for having killed him.”

“In that case,” said Holmes, “my suggestion is that we lock this door,

leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her room, and form

our opinion after we have heard what it is that she has to say to us.”

Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small sitting-room

of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative of those

sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced to witness. She

spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional English, which, for

the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.

“I was born in Posilippo, near Naples,” said she, “and was the daughter

of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the deputy of

that part. Gennaro was in my father’s employment, and I came to love

him, as any woman must. He had neither money nor position—nothing but

his beauty and strength and energy—so my father forbade the match. We

fled together, were married at Bari, and sold my jewels to gain the

money which would take us to America. This was four years ago, and we

have been in New York ever since.

“Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do a service

to an Italian gentleman—he saved him from some ruffians in the place

called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name was Tito

Castalotte, and he was the senior partner of the great firm of

Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruit importers of New York.

Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has all power

within the firm, which employs more than three hundred men. He took my

husband into his employment, made him head of a department, and showed

his good-will towards him in every way. Signor Castalotte was a

bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro was his son, and

both my husband and I loved him as if he were our father. We had taken

and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and our whole future seemed

assured when that black cloud appeared which was soon to overspread our

sky.

“One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a

fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and he had come

also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can testify, for you

have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body that of a giant but

everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and terrifying. His voice

was like thunder in our little house. There was scarce room for the

whirl of his great arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions, his

passions, all were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked, or rather

roared, with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed

with the mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at you and held you at

his mercy. He was a terrible and wonderful man. I thank God that he is

dead!

“He came again and again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro was no more

happy than I was in his presence. My poor husband would sit pale and

listless, listening to the endless raving upon politics and upon social

questions which made up our visitor’s conversation. Gennaro said

nothing, but I, who knew him so well, could read in his face some

emotion which I had never seen there before. At first I thought that it

was dislike. And then, gradually, I understood that it was more than

dislike. It was fear—a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That night—the

night that I read his terror—I put my arms round him and I implored him

by his love for me and by all that he held dear to hold nothing from

me, and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed him so.

“He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened. My poor

Gennaro, in his wild and fiery days, when all the world seemed against

him and his mind was driven half mad by the injustices of life, had

joined a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle, which was allied to the

old Carbonari. The oaths and secrets of this brotherhood were

frightful, but once within its rule no escape was possible. When we had

fled to America Gennaro thought that he had cast it all off forever.

What was his horror one evening to meet in the streets the very man who

had initiated him in Naples, the giant Gorgiano, a man who had earned

the name of ‘Death’ in the south of Italy, for he was red to the elbow

in murder! He had come to New York to avoid the Italian police, and he

had already planted a branch of this dreadful society in his new home.

All this Gennaro told me and showed me a summons which he had received

that very day, a Red Circle drawn upon the head of it telling him that

a lodge would be held upon a certain date, and that his presence at it

was required and ordered.

“That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed for some

time that when Gorgiano came to us, as he constantly did, in the

evening, he spoke much to me; and even when his words were to my

husband those terrible, glaring, wild-beast eyes of his were always

turned upon me. One night his secret came out. I had awakened what he

called ‘love’ within him—the love of a brute—a savage. Gennaro had not

yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me in his

mighty arms, hugged me in his bear’s embrace, covered me with kisses,

and implored me to come away with him. I was struggling and screaming

when Gennaro entered and attacked him. He struck Gennaro senseless and

fled from the house which he was never more to enter. It was a deadly

enemy that we made that night.

“A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned from it with a

face which told me that something dreadful had occurred. It was worse

than we could have imagined possible. The funds of the society were

raised by blackmailing rich Italians and threatening them with violence

should they refuse the money. It seems that Castalotte, our dear friend

and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused to yield to

threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It was resolved

now that such an example should be made of them as would prevent any

other victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was arranged that he and

his house should be blown up with dynamite. There was a drawing of lots

as to who should carry out the deed. Gennaro saw our enemy’s cruel face

smiling at him as he dipped his hand in the bag. No doubt it had been

prearranged in some fashion, for it was the fatal disc with the Red

Circle upon it, the mandate for murder, which lay upon his palm. He was

to kill his best friend, or he was to expose himself and me to the

vengeance of his comrades. It was part of their fiendish system to

punish those whom they feared or hated by injuring not only their own

persons but those whom they loved, and it was the knowledge of this

which hung as a terror over my poor Gennaro’s head and drove him nearly

crazy with apprehension.

“All that night we sat together, our arms round each other, each

strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. The very next

evening had been fixed for the attempt. By midday my husband and I were

on our way to London, but not before he had given our benefactor full

warning of this danger, and had also left such information for the

police as would safeguard his life for the future.

“The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We were sure that our

enemies would be behind us like our own shadows. Gorgiano had his

private reasons for vengeance, but in any case we knew how ruthless,

cunning, and untiring he could be. Both Italy and America are full of

stories of his dreadful powers. If ever they were exerted it would be

now. My darling made use of the few clear days which our start had

given us in arranging for a refuge for me in such a fashion that no

possible danger could reach me. For his own part, he wished to be free

that he might communicate both with the American and with the Italian

police. I do not myself know where he lived, or how. All that I learned

was through the columns of a newspaper. But once as I looked through my

window, I saw two Italians watching the house, and I understood that in

some way Gorgiano had found our retreat. Finally Gennaro told me,

through the paper, that he would signal to me from a certain window,

but when the signals came they were nothing but warnings, which were

suddenly interrupted. It is very clear to me now that he knew Gorgiano

to be close upon him, and that, thank God! he was ready for him when he

came. And now, gentleman, I would ask you whether we have anything to

fear from the law, or whether any judge upon earth would condemn my

Gennaro for what he has done?”

“Well, Mr. Gregson,” said the American, looking across at the official,

“I don’t know what your British point of view may be, but I guess that

in New York this lady’s husband will receive a pretty general vote of

thanks.”

“She will have to come with me and see the chief,” Gregson answered.

“If what she says is corroborated, I do not think she or her husband

has much to fear. But what I can’t make head or tail of, Mr. Holmes, is

how on earth _you_ got yourself mixed up in the matter.”

“Education, Gregson, education. Still seeking knowledge at the old

university. Well, Watson, you have one more specimen of the tragic and

grotesque to add to your collection. By the way, it is not eight

o’clock, and a Wagner night at Covent Garden! If we hurry, we might be

in time for the second act.”

The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax

“But why Turkish?” asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fixedly at my

boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the moment, and my

protruded feet had attracted his ever-active attention.

“English,” I answered in some surprise. “I got them at Latimer’s, in

Oxford Street.”

Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.

“The bath!” he said; “the bath! Why the relaxing and expensive Turkish

rather than the invigorating home-made article?”

“Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic and old. A

Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in medicine—a fresh

starting-point, a cleanser of the system.

“By the way, Holmes,” I added, “I have no doubt the connection between

my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly self-evident one to a

logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to you if you would indicate

it.”

“The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson,” said Holmes with

a mischievous twinkle. “It belongs to the same elementary class of

deduction which I should illustrate if I were to ask you who shared

your cab in your drive this morning.”

“I don’t admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation,” said I

with some asperity.

“Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance. Let me see,

what were the points? Take the last one first—the cab. You observe that

you have some splashes on the left sleeve and shoulder of your coat.

Had you sat in the centre of a hansom you would probably have had no

splashes, and if you had they would certainly have been symmetrical.

Therefore it is clear that you sat at the side. Therefore it is equally

clear that you had a companion.”

“That is very evident.”

“Absurdly commonplace, is it not?”

“But the boots and the bath?”

“Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots in a

certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an elaborate

double bow, which is not your usual method of tying them. You have,

therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A bootmaker—or the boy at

the bath. It is unlikely that it is the bootmaker, since your boots are

nearly new. Well, what remains? The bath. Absurd, is it not? But, for

all that, the Turkish bath has served a purpose.”

“What is that?”

“You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let me suggest

that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear Watson—first-class

tickets and all expenses paid on a princely scale?”

“Splendid! But why?”

Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook from his

pocket.

“One of the most dangerous classes in the world,” said he, “is the

drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless and often the

most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable inciter of crime in

others. She is helpless. She is migratory. She has sufficient means to

take her from country to country and from hotel to hotel. She is lost,

as often as not, in a maze of obscure _pensions_ and boardinghouses.

She is a stray chicken in a world of foxes. When she is gobbled up she

is hardly missed. I much fear that some evil has come to the Lady

Frances Carfax.”

I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the

particular. Holmes consulted his notes.

“Lady Frances,” he continued, “is the sole survivor of the direct

family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you may

remember, in the male line. She was left with limited means, but with

some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver and curiously cut

diamonds to which she was fondly attached—too attached, for she refused

to leave them with her banker and always carried them about with her. A

rather pathetic figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in

fresh middle age, and yet, by a strange change, the last derelict of

what only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet.”

“What has happened to her, then?”

“Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or dead? There

is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits, and for four years it

has been her invariable custom to write every second week to Miss

Dobney, her old governess, who has long retired and lives in

Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has consulted me. Nearly five

weeks have passed without a word. The last letter was from the Hôtel

National at Lausanne. Lady Frances seems to have left there and given

no address. The family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy

no sum will be spared if we can clear the matter up.”

“Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she had other

correspondents?”

“There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is the

bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are compressed

diaries. She banks at Silvester’s. I have glanced over her account. The

last check but one paid her bill at Lausanne, but it was a large one

and probably left her with cash in hand. Only one check has been drawn

since.”

“To whom, and where?”

“To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where the check was

drawn. It was cashed at the Crédit Lyonnais at Montpellier less than

three weeks ago. The sum was fifty pounds.”

“And who is Miss Marie Devine?”

“That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine was the maid

of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have paid her this check we have

not yet determined. I have no doubt, however, that your researches will

soon clear the matter up.”

“_My_ researches!”

“Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know that I cannot

possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in such mortal terror of

his life. Besides, on general principles it is best that I should not

leave the country. Scotland Yard feels lonely without me, and it causes

an unhealthy excitement among the criminal classes. Go, then, my dear

Watson, and if my humble counsel can ever be valued at so extravagant a

rate as two pence a word, it waits your disposal night and day at the

end of the Continental wire.”

Two days later found me at the Hôtel National at Lausanne, where I

received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the well-known

manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there for several

weeks. She had been much liked by all who met her. Her age was not more

than forty. She was still handsome and bore every sign of having in her

youth been a very lovely woman. M. Moser knew nothing of any valuable

jewellery, but it had been remarked by the servants that the heavy

trunk in the lady’s bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie

Devine, the maid, was as popular as her mistress. She was actually

engaged to one of the head waiters in the hotel, and there was no

difficulty in getting her address. It was 11, Rue de Trajan,

Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that Holmes himself could

not have been more adroit in collecting his facts.

Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I

possessed could clear up the cause for the lady’s sudden departure. She

was very happy at Lausanne. There was every reason to believe that she

intended to remain for the season in her luxurious rooms overlooking

the lake. And yet she had left at a single day’s notice, which involved

her in the useless payment of a week’s rent. Only Jules Vibart, the

lover of the maid, had any suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden

departure with the visit to the hotel a day or two before of a tall,

dark, bearded man. “_Un sauvage—un veritable sauvage!_” cried Jules

Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere in the town. He had been seen

talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade by the lake. Then he had

called. She had refused to see him. He was English, but of his name

there was no record. Madame had left the place immediately afterwards.

Jules Vibart, and, what was of more importance, Jules Vibart’s

sweetheart, thought that this call and the departure were cause and

effect. Only one thing Jules would not discuss. That was the reason why

Marie had left her mistress. Of that he could or would say nothing. If

I wished to know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her.

So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was devoted to the

place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought when she left Lausanne.

Concerning this there had been some secrecy, which confirmed the idea

that she had gone with the intention of throwing someone off her track.

Otherwise why should not her luggage have been openly labelled for

Baden? Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous

route. This much I gathered from the manager of Cook’s local office. So

to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes an account of all my

proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram of half-humorous

commendation.

At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances had stayed

at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she had made the

acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a missionary from South

America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady Frances found her comfort and

occupation in religion. Dr. Shlessinger’s remarkable personality, his

whole hearted devotion, and the fact that he was recovering from a

disease contracted in the exercise of his apostolic duties affected her

deeply. She had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the

convalescent saint. He spent his day, as the manager described it to

me, upon a lounge-chair on the veranda, with an attendant lady upon

either side of him. He was preparing a map of the Holy Land, with

special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites, upon which he was

writing a monograph. Finally, having improved much in health, he and

his wife had returned to London, and Lady Frances had started thither

in their company. This was just three weeks before, and the manager had

heard nothing since. As to the maid, Marie, she had gone off some days

beforehand in floods of tears, after informing the other maids that she

was leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the

whole party before his departure.

“By the way,” said the landlord in conclusion, “you are not the only

friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her just now. Only

a week or so ago we had a man here upon the same errand.”

“Did he give a name?” I asked.

“None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual type.”

“A savage?” said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my

illustrious friend.

“Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded,

sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in a

farmers’ inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I should

think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend.”

Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow clearer

with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious lady pursued

from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting figure. She feared

him, or she would not have fled from Lausanne. He had still followed.

Sooner or later he would overtake her. Had he already overtaken her?

Was _that_ the secret of her continued silence? Could the good people

who were her companions not screen her from his violence or his

blackmail? What horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind this

long pursuit? There was the problem which I had to solve.

To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got down to the

roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking for a description

of Dr. Shlessinger’s left ear. Holmes’s ideas of humour are strange and

occasionally offensive, so I took no notice of his ill-timed

jest—indeed, I had already reached Montpellier in my pursuit of the

maid, Marie, before his message came.

I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all that

she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only left her

mistress because she was sure that she was in good hands, and because

her own approaching marriage made a separation inevitable in any case.

Her mistress had, as she confessed with distress, shown some

irritability of temper towards her during their stay in Baden, and had

even questioned her once as if she had suspicions of her honesty, and

this had made the parting easier than it would otherwise have been.

Lady Frances had given her fifty pounds as a wedding-present. Like me,

Marie viewed with deep distrust the stranger who had driven her

mistress from Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen him seize the

lady’s wrist with great violence on the public promenade by the lake.

He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that it was out of dread

of him that Lady Frances had accepted the escort of the Shlessingers to

London. She had never spoken to Marie about it, but many little signs

had convinced the maid that her mistress lived in a state of continual

nervous apprehension. So far she had got in her narrative, when

suddenly she sprang from her chair and her face was convulsed with

surprise and fear. “See!” she cried. “The miscreant follows still!

There is the very man of whom I speak.”

Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man with a

bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of the street and

staring eagerly at the numbers of the houses. It was clear that, like

myself, he was on the track of the maid. Acting upon the impulse of the

moment, I rushed out and accosted him.

“You are an Englishman,” I said.

“What if I am?” he asked with a most villainous scowl.

“May I ask what your name is?”

“No, you may not,” said he with decision.

The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the best.

“Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?” I asked.

He stared at me with amazement.

“What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I insist upon

an answer!” said I.

The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. I

have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a grip of iron and

the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat and my senses were

nearly gone before an unshaven French _ouvrier_ in a blue blouse darted

out from a _cabaret_ opposite, with a cudgel in his hand, and struck my

assailant a sharp crack over the forearm, which made him leave go his

hold. He stood for an instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether he

should not renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me

and entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to thank

my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “a very pretty hash you have made of it! I

rather think you had better come back with me to London by the night

express.”

An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and style, was

seated in my private room at the hotel. His explanation of his sudden

and opportune appearance was simplicity itself, for, finding that he

could get away from London, he determined to head me off at the next

obvious point of my travels. In the disguise of a workingman he had sat

in the _cabaret_ waiting for my appearance.

“And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my dear

Watson,” said he. “I cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder

which you have omitted. The total effect of your proceeding has been to

give the alarm everywhere and yet to discover nothing.”

“Perhaps you would have done no better,” I answered bitterly.

“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. I _have_ done better. Here is the Hon.

Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel, and we may

find him the starting-point for a more successful investigation.”

A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the same bearded

ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He started when he saw me.

“What is this, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “I had your note and I have come.

But what has this man to do with the matter?”

“This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is helping us in

this affair.”

The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few words of

apology.

“I hope I didn’t harm you. When you accused me of hurting her I lost my

grip of myself. Indeed, I’m not responsible in these days. My nerves

are like live wires. But this situation is beyond me. What I want to

know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is, how in the world you came to

hear of my existence at all.”

“I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances’s governess.”

“Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well.”

“And she remembers you. It was in the days before—before you found it

better to go to South Africa.”

“Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing from you. I

swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in this world a man who

loved a woman with a more wholehearted love than I had for Frances. I

was a wild youngster, I know—not worse than others of my class. But her

mind was pure as snow. She could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So,

when she came to hear of things that I had done, she would have no more

to say to me. And yet she loved me—that is the wonder of it!—loved me

well enough to remain single all her sainted days just for my sake

alone. When the years had passed and I had made my money at Barberton I

thought perhaps I could seek her out and soften her. I had heard that

she was still unmarried, I found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew.

She weakened, I think, but her will was strong, and when next I called

she had left the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after a time

heard that her maid was here. I’m a rough fellow, fresh from a rough

life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as he did I lost hold of myself

for a moment. But for God’s sake tell me what has become of the Lady

Frances.”

“That is for us to find out,” said Sherlock Holmes with peculiar

gravity. “What is your London address, Mr. Green?”

“The Langham Hotel will find me.”

“Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand in case I

should want you? I have no desire to encourage false hopes, but you may

rest assured that all that can be done will be done for the safety of

Lady Frances. I can say no more for the instant. I will leave you this

card so that you may be able to keep in touch with us. Now, Watson, if

you will pack your bag I will cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her

best efforts for two hungry travellers at 7:30 to-morrow.”

A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street rooms,

which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and threw across to

me. “Jagged or torn,” was the message, and the place of origin, Baden.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It is everything,” Holmes answered. “You may remember my seemingly

irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman’s left ear. You did

not answer it.”

“I had left Baden and could not inquire.”

“Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of the

Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here.”

“What does it show?”

“It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an exceptionally

astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from

South America, is none other than Holy Peters, one of the most

unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever evolved—and for a young

country it has turned out some very finished types. His particular

specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by playing upon their

religious feelings, and his so-called wife, an Englishwoman named

Fraser, is a worthy helpmate. The nature of his tactics suggested his

identity to me, and this physical peculiarity—he was badly bitten in a

saloon-fight at Adelaide in ’89—confirmed my suspicion. This poor lady

is in the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick at nothing,

Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely supposition. If not,

she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement and unable to write to

Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is always possible that she never

reached London, or that she has passed through it, but the former is

improbable, as, with their system of registration, it is not easy for

foreigners to play tricks with the Continental police; and the latter

is also unlikely, as these rogues could not hope to find any other

place where it would be as easy to keep a person under restraint. All

my instincts tell me that she is in London, but as we have at present

no possible means of telling where, we can only take the obvious steps,

eat our dinner, and possess our souls in patience. Later in the evening

I will stroll down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland

Yard.”

But neither the official police nor Holmes’s own small but very

efficient organisation sufficed to clear away the mystery. Amid the

crowded millions of London the three persons we sought were as

completely obliterated as if they had never lived. Advertisements were

tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and led to nothing. Every

criminal resort which Shlessinger might frequent was drawn in vain. His

old associates were watched, but they kept clear of him. And then

suddenly, after a week of helpless suspense there came a flash of

light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been

pawned at Bovington’s, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large,

clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address were

demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the description was

surely that of Shlessinger.

Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called for news—the

third time within an hour of this fresh development. His clothes were

getting looser on his great body. He seemed to be wilting away in his

anxiety. “If you will only give me something to do!” was his constant

wail. At last Holmes could oblige him.

“He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now.”

“But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady Frances?”

Holmes shook his head very gravely.

“Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is clear that

they cannot let her loose without their own destruction. We must

prepare for the worst.”

“What can I do?”

“These people do not know you by sight?”

“No.”

“It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the future.

In that case, we must begin again. On the other hand, he has had a fair

price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of ready-money he

will probably come back to Bovington’s. I will give you a note to them,

and they will let you wait in the shop. If the fellow comes you will

follow him home. But no indiscretion, and, above all, no violence. I

put you on your honour that you will take no step without my knowledge

and consent.”

For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention, the son of

the famous admiral of that name who commanded the Sea of Azof fleet in

the Crimean War) brought us no news. On the evening of the third he

rushed into our sitting-room, pale, trembling, with every muscle of his

powerful frame quivering with excitement.

“We have him! We have him!” he cried.

He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a few words

and thrust him into an armchair.

“Come, now, give us the order of events,” said he.

“She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but the pendant

she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall, pale woman,

with ferret eyes.”

“That is the lady,” said Holmes.

“She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the Kennington

Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into a shop. Mr.

Holmes, it was an undertaker’s.”

My companion started. “Well?” he asked in that vibrant voice which told

of the fiery soul behind the cold grey face.

“She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered as well.

‘It is late,’ I heard her say, or words to that effect. The woman was

excusing herself. ‘It should be there before now,’ she answered. ‘It

took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ They both stopped and looked

at me, so I asked some questions and then left the shop.”

“You did excellently well. What happened next?”

“The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway. Her suspicions

had been aroused, I think, for she looked round her. Then she called a

cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get another and so to follow her.

She got down at last at No. 36, Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past,

left my cab at the corner of the square, and watched the house.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower floor. The

blind was down, and I could not see in. I was standing there, wondering

what I should do next, when a covered van drove up with two men in it.

They descended, took something out of the van, and carried it up the

steps to the hall door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin.”

“Ah!”

“For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had been

opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the woman who had

opened it. But as I stood there she caught a glimpse of me, and I think

that she recognised me. I saw her start, and she hastily closed the

door. I remembered my promise to you, and here I am.”

“You have done excellent work,” said Holmes, scribbling a few words

upon a half-sheet of paper. “We can do nothing legal without a warrant,

and you can serve the cause best by taking this note down to the

authorities and getting one. There may be some difficulty, but I should

think that the sale of the jewellery should be sufficient. Lestrade

will see to all details.”

“But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the coffin mean,

and for whom could it be but for her?”

“We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will be lost.

Leave it in our hands. Now, Watson,” he added as our client hurried

away, “he will set the regular forces on the move. We are, as usual,

the irregulars, and we must take our own line of action. The situation

strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures are

justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to Poultney Square.

“Let us try to reconstruct the situation,” said he as we drove swiftly

past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge. “These

villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London, after first

alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has written any letters

they have been intercepted. Through some confederate they have engaged

a furnished house. Once inside it, they have made her a prisoner, and

they have become possessed of the valuable jewellery which has been

their object from the first. Already they have begun to sell part of

it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have no reason to think

that anyone is interested in the lady’s fate. When she is released she

will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be released.

But they cannot keep her under lock and key forever. So murder is their

only solution.”

“That seems very clear.”

“Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two

separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of

intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will start now,

not from the lady but from the coffin and argue backward. That incident

proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead. It points also

to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of medical certificate

and official sanction. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would

have buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open and

regular. What does this mean? Surely that they have done her to death

in some way which has deceived the doctor and simulated a natural

end—poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange that they should ever let a

doctor approach her unless he were a confederate, which is hardly a

credible proposition.”

“Could they have forged a medical certificate?”

“Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing that.

Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker’s, for we have just

passed the pawnbroker’s. Would you go in, Watson? Your appearance

inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney Square funeral takes

place to-morrow.”

The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was to be

at eight o’clock in the morning. “You see, Watson, no mystery;

everything above-board! In some way the legal forms have undoubtedly

been complied with, and they think that they have little to fear. Well,

there’s nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack. Are you armed?”

“My stick!”

“Well, well, we shall be strong enough. ‘Thrice is he armed who hath

his quarrel just.’ We simply can’t afford to wait for the police or to

keep within the four corners of the law. You can drive off, cabby. Now,

Watson, we’ll just take our luck together, as we have occasionally in

the past.”

He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the centre of

Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the figure of a tall

woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked sharply, peering at us through the

darkness.

“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes.

“There is no such person here,” she answered, and tried to close the

door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.

“Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call

himself,” said Holmes firmly.

She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. “Well, come in!” said she.

“My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world.” She closed the

door behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the right side of

the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. “Mr. Peters will be with

you in an instant,” she said.

Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look around

the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves before

the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man stepped lightly

into the room. He had a large red face, with pendulous cheeks, and a

general air of superficial benevolence which was marred by a cruel,

vicious mouth.

“There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,” he said in an unctuous,

make-everything-easy voice. “I fancy that you have been misdirected.

Possibly if you tried farther down the street—”

“That will do; we have no time to waste,” said my companion firmly.

“You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of

Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as that my own name is

Sherlock Holmes.”

Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his

formidable pursuer. “I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.

Holmes,” said he coolly. “When a man’s conscience is easy you can’t

rattle him. What is your business in my house?”

“I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax, whom

you brought away with you from Baden.”

“I’d be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,” Peters

answered coolly. “I’ve a bill against her for nearly a hundred pounds,

and nothing to show for it but a couple of trumpery pendants that the

dealer would hardly look at. She attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me

at Baden—it is a fact that I was using another name at the time—and she

stuck on to us until we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket.

Once in London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these

out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and I’m

your debtor.”

“I _mean_ to find her,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I’m going through this

house till I do find her.”

“Where is your warrant?”

Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. “This will have to serve

till a better one comes.”

“Why, you’re a common burglar.”

“So you might describe me,” said Holmes cheerfully. “My companion is

also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your

house.”

Our opponent opened the door.

“Fetch a policeman, Annie!” said he. There was a whisk of feminine

skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.

“Our time is limited, Watson,” said Holmes. “If you try to stop us,

Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin which

was brought into your house?”

“What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body in

it.”

“I must see the body.”

“Never with my consent.”

“Then without it.” With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to

one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened stood immediately

before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the table, under a

half-lit chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes turned up the gas and

raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of the coffin lay an

emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above beat down upon an

aged and withered face. By no possible process of cruelty, starvation,

or disease could this worn-out wreck be the still beautiful Lady

Frances. Holmes’s face showed his amazement, and also his relief.

“Thank God!” he muttered. “It’s someone else.”

“Ah, you’ve blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said

Peters, who had followed us into the room.

“Who is the dead woman?”

“Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife’s, Rose

Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse Infirmary. We

brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13, Firbank

Villas—mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes—and had her carefully

tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she died—certificate

says senile decay—but that’s only the doctor’s opinion, and of course

you know better. We ordered her funeral to be carried out by Stimson

and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight o’clock

to-morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You’ve

made a silly blunder, and you may as well own up to it. I’d give

something for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled

aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax and only found

a poor old woman of ninety.”

Holmes’s expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of his

antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.

“I am going through your house,” said he.

“Are you, though!” cried Peters as a woman’s voice and heavy steps

sounded in the passage. “We’ll soon see about that. This way, officers,

if you please. These men have forced their way into my house, and I

cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out.”

A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his card

from his case.

“This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“Bless you, sir, we know you very well,” said the sergeant, “but you

can’t stay here without a warrant.”

“Of course not. I quite understand that.”

“Arrest him!” cried Peters.

“We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is wanted,”

said the sergeant majestically, “but you’ll have to go, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.”

A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was as cool as

ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The sergeant had

followed us.

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that’s the law.”

“Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise.”

“I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If there is

anything I can do—”

“It’s a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that house. I

expect a warrant presently.”

“Then I’ll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything comes

along, I will surely let you know.”

It was only nine o’clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail at

once. First we drove to Brixton Workhouse Infirmary, where we found

that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple had called some

days before, that they had claimed an imbecile old woman as a former

servant, and that they had obtained permission to take her away with

them. No surprise was expressed at the news that she had since died.

The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found the

woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass away, and had

signed the certificate in due form. “I assure you that everything was

perfectly normal and there was no room for foul play in the matter,”

said he. Nothing in the house had struck him as suspicious save that

for people of their class it was remarkable that they should have no

servant. So far and no further went the doctor.

Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been difficulties

of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay was inevitable. The

magistrate’s signature might not be obtained until next morning. If

Holmes would call about nine he could go down with Lestrade and see it

acted upon. So ended the day, save that near midnight our friend, the

sergeant, called to say that he had seen flickering lights here and

there in the windows of the great dark house, but that no one had left

it and none had entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for

the morrow.

Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too restless for

sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, dark brows knotted

together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping upon the arms of his

chair, as he turned over in his mind every possible solution of the

mystery. Several times in the course of the night I heard him prowling

about the house. Finally, just after I had been called in the morning,

he rushed into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale,

hollow-eyed face told me that his night had been a sleepless one.

“What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?” he asked eagerly.

“Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has become of any

brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick! It’s life or death—a

hundred chances on death to one on life. I’ll never forgive myself,

never, if we are too late!”

Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom down

Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we passed Big

Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton Road. But others were

late as well as we. Ten minutes after the hour the hearse was still

standing at the door of the house, and even as our foaming horse came

to a halt the coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the

threshold. Holmes darted forward and barred their way.

“Take it back!” he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the

foremost. “Take it back this instant!”

“What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your

warrant?” shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring over the

farther end of the coffin.

“The warrant is on its way. The coffin shall remain in the house until

it comes.”

The authority in Holmes’s voice had its effect upon the bearers. Peters

had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed these new orders.

“Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-driver!” he shouted as the

coffin was replaced upon the table. “Here’s one for you, my man! A

sovereign if the lid comes off in a minute! Ask no questions—work away!

That’s good! Another! And another! Now pull all together! It’s giving!

It’s giving! Ah, that does it at last.”

With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so there

came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of chloroform.

A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton-wool, which had been

soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it off and disclosed the

statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual woman of middle age. In an

instant he had passed his arm round the figure and raised her to a

sitting position.

“Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not too

late!”

For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual suffocation,

and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform, the Lady Frances

seemed to have passed the last point of recall. And then, at last, with

artificial respiration, with injected ether, and with every device that

science could suggest, some flutter of life, some quiver of the

eyelids, some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the slowly returning life.

A cab had driven up, and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it.

“Here is Lestrade with his warrant,” said he. “He will find that his

birds have flown. And here,” he added as a heavy step hurried along the

passage, “is someone who has a better right to nurse this lady than we

have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that the sooner we can move the

Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the

poor old woman who still lies in that coffin may go to her last

resting-place alone.”

“Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,” said

Holmes that evening, “it can only be as an example of that temporary

eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be exposed. Such slips

are common to all mortals, and the greatest is he who can recognise and

repair them. To this modified credit I may, perhaps, make some claim.

My night was haunted by the thought that somewhere a clue, a strange

sentence, a curious observation, had come under my notice and had been

too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the grey of the morning, the

words came back to me. It was the remark of the undertaker’s wife, as

reported by Philip Green. She had said, ‘It should be there before now.

It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ It was the coffin of which

she spoke. It had been out of the ordinary. That could only mean that

it had been made to some special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an

instant I remembered the deep sides, and the little wasted figure at

the bottom. Why so large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room

for another body. Both would be buried under the one certificate. It

had all been so clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At

eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to stop the

coffin before it left the house.

“It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it _was_ a

chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to my knowledge,

done a murder. They might shrink from actual violence at the last. They

could bury her with no sign of how she met her end, and even if she

were exhumed there was a chance for them. I hoped that such

considerations might prevail with them. You can reconstruct the scene

well enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had

been kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her with their

chloroform, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to insure

against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever device,

Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If our ex-missionary

friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some

brilliant incidents in their future career.”

The Adventure of the Dying Detective

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering

woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by

throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkable

lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which must

have sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, his

addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practice

within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments,

and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him made

him the very worst tenant in London. On the other hand, his payments

were princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased

at the price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I

was with him.

The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to

interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She

was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy

in his dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he

was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regard

for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms in

the second year of my married life and told me of the sad condition to

which my poor friend was reduced.

“He’s dying, Dr. Watson,” said she. “For three days he has been

sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get a

doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face and

his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it. ‘With

your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very

hour,’ said I. ‘Let it be Watson, then,’ said he. I wouldn’t waste an

hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him alive.”

I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say

that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked for the

details.

“There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case

down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has brought

this illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon

and has never moved since. For these three days neither food nor drink

has passed his lips.”

“Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?”

“He wouldn’t have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn’t dare

to disobey him. But he’s not long for this world, as you’ll see for

yourself the moment that you set eyes on him.”

He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy

November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,

wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my heart.

His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush upon

either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands upon

the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and

spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of me

brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.

“Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days,” said he in a

feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.

“My dear fellow!” I cried, approaching him.

“Stand back! Stand right back!” said he with the sharp imperiousness

which I had associated only with moments of crisis. “If you approach

me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.”

“But why?”

“Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?”

Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was

pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.

“I only wished to help,” I explained.

“Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told.”

“Certainly, Holmes.”

He relaxed the austerity of his manner.

“You are not angry?” he asked, gasping for breath.

Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a plight

before me?

“It’s for your own sake, Watson,” he croaked.

“For _my_ sake?”

“I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from

Sumatra—a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they

have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is

infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious.”

He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and

jerking as he motioned me away.

“Contagious by touch, Watson—that’s it, by touch. Keep your distance

and all is well.”

“Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs

with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a

stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so

old a friend?”

Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger.

“If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leave the

room.”

I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes that

I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood

them. But now all my professional instincts were aroused. Let him be my

master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room.

“Holmes,” said I, “you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child, and

so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your

symptoms and treat you for them.”

He looked at me with venomous eyes.

“If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have

someone in whom I have confidence,” said he.

“Then you have none in me?”

“In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and, after

all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience

and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things,

but you leave me no choice.”

I was bitterly hurt.

“Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me very clearly the

state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me I would

not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose

Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you _must_ have,

and that is final. If you think that I am going to stand here and see

you die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to

help you, then you have mistaken your man.”

“You mean well, Watson,” said the sick man with something between a sob

and a groan. “Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you know,

pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formosa

corruption?”

“I have never heard of either.”

“There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological

possibilities, in the East, Watson.” He paused after each sentence to

collect his failing strength. “I have learned so much during some

recent researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was in the

course of them that I contracted this complaint. You can do nothing.”

“Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr. Ainstree, the greatest

living authority upon tropical disease, is now in London. All

remonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch him.”

I turned resolutely to the door.

Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with a tiger-spring, the

dying man had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key.

The next moment he had staggered back to his bed, exhausted and panting

after his one tremendous outflame of energy.

“You won’t take the key from me by force, Watson. I’ve got you, my

friend. Here you are, and here you will stay until I will otherwise.

But I’ll humour you.” (All this in little gasps, with terrible

struggles for breath between.) “You’ve only my own good at heart. Of

course I know that very well. You shall have your way, but give me time

to get my strength. Not now, Watson, not now. It’s four o’clock. At six

you can go.”

“This is insanity, Holmes.”

“Only two hours, Watson. I promise you will go at six. Are you content

to wait?”

“I seem to have no choice.”

“None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no help in arranging the

clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now, Watson, there is one

other condition that I would make. You will seek help, not from the man

you mention, but from the one that I choose.”

“By all means.”

“The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you entered

this room, Watson. You will find some books over there. I am somewhat

exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into

a non-conductor? At six, Watson, we resume our conversation.”

But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and in

circumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused by his

spring to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking at the silent

figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by the clothes and he

appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle down to reading, I walked

slowly round the room, examining the pictures of celebrated criminals

with which every wall was adorned. Finally, in my aimless

perambulation, I came to the mantelpiece. A litter of pipes,

tobacco-pouches, syringes, penknives, revolver-cartridges, and other

_débris_ was scattered over it. In the midst of these was a small black

and white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing, and

I had stretched out my hand to examine it more closely, when——

It was a dreadful cry that he gave—a yell which might have been heard

down the street. My skin went cold and my hair bristled at that

horrible scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a convulsed face and

frantic eyes. I stood paralysed, with the little box in my hand.

“Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson—this instant, I say!” His head

sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I

replaced the box upon the mantelpiece. “I hate to have my things

touched, Watson. You know that I hate it. You fidget me beyond

endurance. You, a doctor—you are enough to drive a patient into an

asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my rest!”

The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind. The

violent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of speech,

so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep was the

disorganisation of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a noble mind is the

most deplorable. I sat in silent dejection until the stipulated time

had passed. He seemed to have been watching the clock as well as I, for

it was hardly six before he began to talk with the same feverish

animation as before.

“Now, Watson,” said he. “Have you any change in your pocket?”

“Yes.”

“Any silver?”

“A good deal.”

“How many half-crowns?”

“I have five.”

“Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate, Watson! However, such as

they are you can put them in your watchpocket. And all the rest of your

money in your left trouser pocket. Thank you. It will balance you so

much better like that.”

This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a sound between

a cough and a sob.

“You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful that

not for one instant shall it be more than half on. I implore you to be

careful, Watson. Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need not draw

the blind. Now you will have the kindness to place some letters and

papers upon this table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of that

litter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson! There is a sugar-tongs

there. Kindly raise that small ivory box with its assistance. Place it

here among the papers. Good! You can now go and fetch Mr. Culverton

Smith, of 13, Lower Burke Street.”

To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened,

for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous to

leave him. However, he was as eager now to consult the person named as

he had been obstinate in refusing.

“I never heard the name,” said I.

“Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to know that the man

upon earth who is best versed in this disease is not a medical man, but

a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known resident of Sumatra, now

visiting London. An outbreak of the disease upon his plantation, which

was distant from medical aid, caused him to study it himself, with some

rather far-reaching consequences. He is a very methodical person, and I

did not desire you to start before six, because I was well aware that

you would not find him in his study. If you could persuade him to come

here and give us the benefit of his unique experience of this disease,

the investigation of which has been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubt

that he could help me.”

I gave Holmes’s remarks as a consecutive whole and will not attempt to

indicate how they were interrupted by gaspings for breath and those

clutchings of his hands which indicated the pain from which he was

suffering. His appearance had changed for the worse during the few

hours that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were more

pronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and a

cold sweat glimmered upon his brow. He still retained, however, the

jaunty gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he would always be the

master.

“You will tell him exactly how you have left me,” said he. “You will

convey the very impression which is in your own mind—a dying man—a

dying and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed of

the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures

seem. Ah, I am wandering! Strange how the brain controls the brain!

What was I saying, Watson?”

“My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him, Watson.

There is no good feeling between us. His nephew, Watson—I had

suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to see it. The boy died

horribly. He has a grudge against me. You will soften him, Watson. Beg

him, pray him, get him here by any means. He can save me—only he!”

“I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it.”

“You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. And

then you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so as not to come

with him. Don’t forget, Watson. You won’t fail me. You never did fail

me. No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increase of the

creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the world,

then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible! You’ll convey all that

is in your mind.”

I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect babbling

like a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and with a happy

thought I took it with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs. Hudson

was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage. Behind me as I

passed from the flat I heard Holmes’s high, thin voice in some

delirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came on

me through the fog.

“How is Mr. Holmes, sir?” he asked.

It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard, dressed

in unofficial tweeds.

“He is very ill,” I answered.

He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not been too

fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showed

exultation in his face.

“I heard some rumour of it,” said he.

The cab had driven up, and I left him.

Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the

vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular

one at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and demure

respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive

folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keeping with a

solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a tinted

electrical light behind him.

“Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very good, sir, I will

take up your card.”

My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton Smith.

Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.

“Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how often

have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?”

There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.

“Well, I won’t see him, Staples. I can’t have my work interrupted like

this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in the morning if he

really must see me.”

Again the gentle murmur.

“Well, well, give him that message. He can come in the morning, or he

can stay away. My work must not be hindered.”

I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting the

minutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him. It was not a time to

stand upon ceremony. His life depended upon my promptness. Before the

apologetic butler had delivered his message I had pushed past him and

was in the room.

With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair beside the

fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with heavy,

double-chin, and two sullen, menacing grey eyes which glared at me from

under tufted and sandy brows. A high bald head had a small velvet

smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one side of its pink curve. The

skull was of enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw to my

amazement that the figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in

the shoulders and back like one who has suffered from rickets in his

childhood.

“What’s this?” he cried in a high, screaming voice. “What is the

meaning of this intrusion? Didn’t I send you word that I would see you

to-morrow morning?”

“I am sorry,” said I, “but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr. Sherlock

Holmes—”

The mention of my friend’s name had an extraordinary effect upon the

little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face. His

features became tense and alert.

“Have you come from Holmes?” he asked.

“I have just left him.”

“What about Holmes? How is he?”

“He is desperately ill. That is why I have come.”

The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own. As he did

so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I

could have sworn that it was set in a malicious and abominable smile.

Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been some nervous contraction

which I had surprised, for he turned to me an instant later with

genuine concern upon his features.

“I am sorry to hear this,” said he. “I only know Mr. Holmes through

some business dealings which we have had, but I have every respect for

his talents and his character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am of

disease. For him the villain, for me the microbe. There are my

prisons,” he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which

stood upon a side table. “Among those gelatine cultivations some of the

very worst offenders in the world are now doing time.”

“It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes desired to

see you. He has a high opinion of you and thought that you were the one

man in London who could help him.”

The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor.

“Why?” he asked. “Why should Mr. Holmes think that I could help him in

his trouble?”

“Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases.”

“But why should he think that this disease which he has contracted is

Eastern?”

“Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working among

Chinese sailors down in the docks.”

Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up his smoking-cap.

“Oh, that’s it—is it?” said he. “I trust the matter is not so grave as

you suppose. How long has he been ill?”

“About three days.”

“Is he delirious?”

“Occasionally.”

“Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to answer his

call. I very much resent any interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, but

this case is certainly exceptional. I will come with you at once.”

I remembered Holmes’s injunction.

“I have another appointment,” said I.

“Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of Mr. Holmes’s address. You

can rely upon my being there within half an hour at most.”

It was with a sinking heart that I reentered Holmes’s bedroom. For all

that I knew the worst might have happened in my absence. To my enormous

relief, he had improved greatly in the interval. His appearance was as

ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium had left him and he spoke in

a feeble voice, it is true, but with even more than his usual crispness

and lucidity.

“Well, did you see him, Watson?”

“Yes; he is coming.”

“Admirable, Watson! Admirable! You are the best of messengers.”

“He wished to return with me.”

“That would never do, Watson. That would be obviously impossible. Did

he ask what ailed me?”

“I told him about the Chinese in the East End.”

“Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that a good friend could. You

can now disappear from the scene.”

“I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes.”

“Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose that this opinion

would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines that we are

alone. There is just room behind the head of my bed, Watson.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room does not lend itself

to concealment, which is as well, as it is the less likely to arouse

suspicion. But just there, Watson, I fancy that it could be done.”

Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness upon his haggard face.

“There are the wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if you love me! And don’t

budge, whatever happens—whatever happens, do you hear? Don’t speak!

Don’t move! Just listen with all your ears.” Then in an instant his

sudden access of strength departed, and his masterful, purposeful talk

droned away into the low, vague murmurings of a semi-delirious man.

From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled I heard

the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the closing of the

bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a long silence, broken

only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of the sick man. I could

imagine that our visitor was standing by the bedside and looking down

at the sufferer. At last that strange hush was broken.

“Holmes!” he cried. “Holmes!” in the insistent tone of one who awakens

a sleeper. “Can’t you hear me, Holmes?” There was a rustling, as if he

had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.

“Is that you, Mr. Smith?” Holmes whispered. “I hardly dared hope that

you would come.”

The other laughed.

“I should imagine not,” he said. “And yet, you see, I am here. Coals of

fire, Holmes—coals of fire!”

“It is very good of you—very noble of you. I appreciate your special

knowledge.”

Our visitor sniggered.

“You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do you

know what is the matter with you?”

“The same,” said Holmes.

“Ah! You recognise the symptoms?”

“Only too well.”

“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn’t be surprised if it

_were_ the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead

man on the fourth day—a strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly,

as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an

out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London—a disease, too,

of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence,

Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to

suggest that it was cause and effect.”

“I knew that you did it.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn’t prove it, anyhow. But what do

you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then

crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of a

game is that—eh?”

I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. “Give me the

water!” he gasped.

“You’re precious near your end, my friend, but I don’t want you to go

till I have had a word with you. That’s why I give you water. There,

don’t slop it about! That’s right. Can you understand what I say?”

Holmes groaned.

“Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones,” he whispered. “I’ll

put the words out of my head—I swear I will. Only cure me, and I’ll

forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Well, about Victor Savage’s death. You as good as admitted just now

that you had done it. I’ll forget it.”

“You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don’t see you in

the witnessbox. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you.

It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It’s

not him we are talking about. It’s you.”

“Yes, yes.”

“The fellow who came for me—I’ve forgotten his name—said that you

contracted it down in the East End among the sailors.”

“I could only account for it so.”

“You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself

smart, don’t you? You came across someone who was smarter this time.

Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you

could have got this thing?”

“I can’t think. My mind is gone. For heaven’s sake help me!”

“Yes, I will help you. I’ll help you to understand just where you are

and how you got there. I’d like you to know before you die.”

“Give me something to ease my pain.”

“Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the

end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy.”

“Yes, yes; it is cramp.”

“Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember

any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms

began?”

“No, no; nothing.”

“Think again.”

“I’m too ill to think.”

“Well, then, I’ll help you. Did anything come by post?”

“By post?”

“A box by chance?”

“I’m fainting—I’m gone!”

“Listen, Holmes!” There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying man,

and it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my hiding-place.

“You must hear me. You _shall_ hear me. Do you remember a box—an ivory

box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it—do you remember?”

“Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke—”

“It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would

have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had

left me alone I would not have hurt you.”

“I remember,” Holmes gasped. “The spring! It drew blood. This box—this

on the table.”

“The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in my

pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth

now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You

knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share

it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will

watch you die.”

Holmes’s voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

“What is that?” said Smith. “Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin to

fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better.”

He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. “Is there any

other little service that I can do you, my friend?”

“A match and a cigarette.”

I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in his

natural voice—a little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew. There

was a long pause, and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing in

silent amazement looking down at his companion.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I heard him say at last in a dry, rasping

tone.

“The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it,” said Holmes.

“I give you my word that for three days I have tasted neither food nor

drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass of water.

But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here _are_ some

cigarettes.” I heard the striking of a match. “That is very much

better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a friend?”

There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and Inspector Morton

appeared.

“All is in order and this is your man,” said Holmes.

The officer gave the usual cautions.

“I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage,” he

concluded.

“And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes,”

remarked my friend with a chuckle. “To save an invalid trouble,

Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by

turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the

right-hand pocket of his coat which it would be as well to remove.

Thank you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down here.

It may play its part in the trial.”

There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron

and a cry of pain.

“You’ll only get yourself hurt,” said the inspector. “Stand still, will

you?” There was the click of the closing handcuffs.

“A nice trap!” cried the high, snarling voice. “It will bring _you_

into the dock, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him. I

was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I

have said anything which he may invent which will corroborate his

insane suspicions. You can lie as you like, Holmes. My word is always

as good as yours.”

“Good heavens!” cried Holmes. “I had totally forgotten him. My dear

Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. To think that I should have

overlooked you! I need not introduce you to Mr. Culverton Smith, since

I understand that you met somewhat earlier in the evening. Have you the

cab below? I will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be of some

use at the station.

“I never needed it more,” said Holmes as he refreshed himself with a

glass of claret and some biscuits in the intervals of his toilet.

“However, as you know, my habits are irregular, and such a feat means

less to me than to most men. It was very essential that I should

impress Mrs. Hudson with the reality of my condition, since she was to

convey it to you, and you in turn to him. You won’t be offended,

Watson? You will realise that among your many talents dissimulation

finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never

have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his

presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his

vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look

upon his handiwork.”

“But your appearance, Holmes—your ghastly face?”

“Three days of absolute fast does not improve one’s beauty, Watson. For

the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure. With vaseline

upon one’s forehead, belladonna in one’s eyes, rouge over the

cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax round one’s lips, a very satisfying

effect can be produced. Malingering is a subject upon which I have

sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little occasional talk

about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous subject produces a

pleasing effect of delirium.”

“But why would you not let me near you, since there was in truth no

infection?”

“Can you ask, my dear Watson? Do you imagine that I have no respect for

your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment would

pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or

temperature? At four yards, I could deceive you. If I failed to do so,

who would bring my Smith within my grasp? No, Watson, I would not touch

that box. You can just see if you look at it sideways where the sharp

spring like a viper’s tooth emerges as you open it. I dare say it was

by some such device that poor Savage, who stood between this monster

and a reversion, was done to death. My correspondence, however, is, as

you know, a varied one, and I am somewhat upon my guard against any

packages which reach me. It was clear to me, however, that by

pretending that he had really succeeded in his design I might surprise

a confession. That pretence I have carried out with the thoroughness of

the true artist. Thank you, Watson, you must help me on with my coat.

When we have finished at the police-station I think that something

nutritious at Simpson’s would not be out of place.”

His Last Bow: The War Service of Sherlock Holmes

It was nine o’clock at night upon the second of August—the most

terrible August in the history of the world. One might have thought

already that God’s curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for there

was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the sultry and

stagnant air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash like an open

wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were shining

brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay.

The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden

walk, with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them, and they

looked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great

chalk cliff in which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perched

himself four years before. They stood with their heads close together,

talking in low, confidential tones. From below the two glowing ends of

their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes of some malignant

fiend looking down in the darkness.

A remarkable man this Von Bork—a man who could hardly be matched among

all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was his talents which had

first recommended him for the English mission, the most important

mission of all, but since he had taken it over those talents had become

more and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the world who were

really in touch with the truth. One of these was his present companion,

Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of the legation, whose huge

100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as it waited to

waft its owner back to London.

“So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably be back

in Berlin within the week,” the secretary was saying. “When you get

there, my dear Von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcome

you will receive. I happen to know what is thought in the highest

quarters of your work in this country.” He was a huge man, the

secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of speech

which had been his main asset in his political career.

Von Bork laughed.

“They are not very hard to deceive,” he remarked. “A more docile,

simple folk could not be imagined.”

“I don’t know about that,” said the other thoughtfully. “They have

strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface

simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One’s first

impression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon

something very hard, and you know that you have reached the limit and

must adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for example, their insular

conventions which simply _must_ be observed.”

“Meaning ‘good form’ and that sort of thing?” Von Bork sighed as one

who had suffered much.

“Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As an

example I may quote one of my own worst blunders—I can afford to talk

of my blunders, for you know my work well enough to be aware of my

successes. It was on my first arrival. I was invited to a week-end

gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The conversation

was amazingly indiscreet.”

Von Bork nodded. “I’ve been there,” said he dryly.

“Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a résumé of the information to Berlin.

Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy-handed in these

matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed that he was aware of

what had been said. This, of course, took the trail straight up to me.

You’ve no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing soft about

our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I was two years

living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours—”

“No, no, don’t call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This is

quite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it.”

“Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them, you

hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game, your

four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heard that you go

the length of boxing with the young officers. What is the result?

Nobody takes you seriously. You are a ‘good old sport’ ‘quite a decent

fellow for a German,’ a hard-drinking, night-club, knock-about-town,

devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this quiet country house

of yours is the centre of half the mischief in England, and the

sporting squire the most astute secret-service man in Europe. Genius,

my dear Von Bork—genius!”

“You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim my four years in this

country have not been unproductive. I’ve never shown you my little

store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?”

The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. Von Bork

pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch of the

electric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky form which

followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the latticed

window. Only when all these precautions had been taken and tested did

he turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.

“Some of my papers have gone,” said he. “When my wife and the household

left yesterday for Flushing they took the less important with them. I

must, of course, claim the protection of the embassy for the others.”

“Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite. There

will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course, it is just

possible that we may not have to go. England may leave France to her

fate. We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them.”

“And Belgium?”

“Yes, and Belgium, too.”

Von Bork shook his head. “I don’t see how that could be. There is a

definite treaty there. She could never recover from such a

humiliation.”

“She would at least have peace for the moment.”

“But her honour?”

“Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is a mediæval

conception. Besides England is not ready. It is an inconceivable thing,

but even our special war tax of fifty million, which one would think

made our purpose as clear as if we had advertised it on the front page

of the _Times_, has not roused these people from their slumbers. Here

and there one hears a question. It is my business to find an answer.

Here and there also there is an irritation. It is my business to soothe

it. But I can assure you that so far as the essentials go—the storage

of munitions, the preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements

for making high explosives—nothing is prepared. How, then, can England

come in, especially when we have stirred her up such a devil’s brew of

Irish civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep her

thoughts at home.”

“She must think of her future.”

“Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future we have our own

very definite plans about England, and that your information will be

very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If he

prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shall be

more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with

allies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is

their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers.” He sat in

the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head, while he

puffed sedately at his cigar.

The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in the

further corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brass-bound

safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain, and after

some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy

door.

“Look!” said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.

The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of the

embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed

pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeon-hole had its

label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of such

titles as “Fords,” “Harbour-defences,” “Aeroplanes,” “Ireland,”

“Egypt,” “Portsmouth forts,” “The Channel,” “Rosythe,” and a score of

others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.

“Colossal!” said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly

clapped his fat hands.

“And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the

hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my collection

is coming and there is the setting all ready for it.” He pointed to a

space over which “Naval Signals” was printed.

“But you have a good dossier there already.”

“Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm

and every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron—the worst setback

in my whole campaign. But thanks to my check-book and the good Altamont

all will be well to-night.”

The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation of

disappointment.

“Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are

moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have all to be at our

posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news of your great coup. Did

Altamont name no hour?”

Von Bork pushed over a telegram.

Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.—ALTAMONT.

“Sparking plugs, eh?”

“You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our

code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If he

talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and

so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals.”

“From Portsmouth at midday,” said the secretary, examining the

superscription. “By the way, what do you give him?”

“Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of course he has a salary

as well.”

“The greedy rogue. They are useful, these traitors, but I grudge them

their blood money.”

“I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful worker. If I pay him

well, at least he delivers the goods, to use his own phrase. Besides he

is not a traitor. I assure you that our most pan-Germanic Junker is a

sucking dove in his feelings towards England as compared with a real

bitter Irish-American.”

“Oh, an Irish-American?”

“If you heard him talk you would not doubt it. Sometimes I assure you I

can hardly understand him. He seems to have declared war on the King’s

English as well as on the English king. Must you really go? He may be

here any moment.”

“No. I’m sorry, but I have already overstayed my time. We shall expect

you early to-morrow, and when you get that signal book through the

little door on the Duke of York’s steps you can put a triumphant Finis

to your record in England. What! Tokay!” He indicated a heavily sealed

dust-covered bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a salver.

“May I offer you a glass before your journey?”

“No, thanks. But it looks like revelry.”

“Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to my Tokay.

He is a touchy fellow and needs humouring in small things. I have to

study him, I assure you.” They had strolled out on to the terrace

again, and along it to the further end where at a touch from the

Baron’s chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled. “Those are the

lights of Harwich, I suppose,” said the secretary, pulling on his dust

coat. “How still and peaceful it all seems. There may be other lights

within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place! The

heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful if all that the good Zepplin

promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?”

Only one window showed a light behind them; in it there stood a lamp,

and beside it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in a

country cap. She was bending over her knitting and stopping

occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside her.

“That is Martha, the only servant I have left.”

The secretary chuckled.

“She might almost personify Britannia,” said he, “with her complete

self-absorption and general air of comfortable somnolence. Well, au

revoir, Von Bork!” With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the

car, and a moment later the two golden cones from the headlights shot

through the darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of the

luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so full of the impending

European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round

the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the

opposite direction.

Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the last gleams of the

motor lamps had faded into the distance. As he passed he observed that

his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired. It was a new

experience to him, the silence and darkness of his widespread house,

for his family and household had been a large one. It was a relief to

him, however, to think that they were all in safety and that, but for

that one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen, he had the whole

place to himself. There was a good deal of tidying up to do inside his

study and he set himself to do it until his keen, handsome face was

flushed with the heat of the burning papers. A leather valise stood

beside his table, and into this he began to pack very neatly and

systematically the precious contents of his safe. He had hardly got

started with the work, however, when his quick ears caught the sounds

of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction,

strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it, and hurried out on to

the terrace. He was just in time to see the lights of a small car come

to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang out of it and advanced

swiftly towards him, while the chauffeur, a heavily built, elderly man

with a grey moustache, settled down like one who resigns himself to a

long vigil.

“Well?” asked Von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet his visitor.

For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly above

his head.

“You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister,” he cried. “I’m

bringing home the bacon at last.”

“The signals?”

“Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp

code, Marconi—a copy, mind you, not the original. That was too

dangerous. But it’s the real goods, and you can lay to that.” He

slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity from

which the other winced.

“Come in,” he said. “I’m all alone in the house. I was only waiting for

this. Of course a copy is better than the original. If an original were

missing they would change the whole thing. You think it’s all safe

about the copy?”

The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs

from the armchair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut

features and a small goatee beard which gave him a general resemblance

to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half-smoked, sodden cigar hung from

the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck a match and relit

it. “Making ready for a move?” he remarked as he looked round him.

“Say, mister,” he added, as his eyes fell upon the safe from which the

curtain was now removed, “you don’t tell me you keep your papers in

that?”

“Why not?”

“Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you to be

some spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be into that with a can-opener. If

I’d known that any letter of mine was goin’ to lie loose in a thing

like that I’d have been a mug to write to you at all.”

“It would puzzle any crook to force that safe,” Von Bork answered. “You

won’t cut that metal with any tool.”

“But the lock?”

“No, it’s a double combination lock. You know what that is?”

“Search me,” said the American.

“Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures before you can get

the lock to work.” He rose and showed a double-radiating disc round the

keyhole. “This outer one is for the letters, the inner one for the

figures.”

“Well, well, that’s fine.”

“So it’s not quite as simple as you thought. It was four years ago that

I had it made, and what do you think I chose for the word and figures?”

“It’s beyond me.”

“Well, I chose August for the word, and 1914 for the figures, and here

we are.”

The American’s face showed his surprise and admiration.

“My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine thing.”

“Yes, a few of us even then could have guessed the date. Here it is,

and I’m shutting down to-morrow morning.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to fix me up also. I’m not staying in this

goldarned country all on my lonesome. In a week or less, from what I

see, John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair ramping. I’d rather

watch him from over the water.”

“But you’re an American citizen?”

“Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he’s doing time in

Portland all the same. It cuts no ice with a British copper to tell him

you’re an American citizen. ‘It’s British law and order over here,’

says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack James, it seems to me you

don’t do much to cover your men.”

“What do you mean?” Von Bork asked sharply.

“Well, you are their employer, ain’t you? It’s up to you to see that

they don’t fall down. But they do fall down, and when did you ever pick

them up? There’s James—”

“It was James’s own fault. You know that yourself. He was too

self-willed for the job.”

“James was a bonehead—I give you that. Then there was Hollis.”

“The man was mad.”

“Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It’s enough to make a man

bug-house when he has to play a part from morning to night with a

hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there is

Steiner—”

Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade paler.

“What about Steiner?”

“Well, they’ve got him, that’s all. They raided his store last night,

and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail. You’ll go off and he,

poor devil, will have to stand the racket, and lucky if he gets off

with his life. That’s why I want to get over the water as soon as you

do.”

Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to see that

the news had shaken him.

“How could they have got on to Steiner?” he muttered. “That’s the worst

blow yet.”

“Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe they are not far off

me.”

“You don’t mean that!”

“Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries, and when

I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle. But what I want

to know, mister, is how the coppers know these things? Steiner is the

fifth man you’ve lost since I signed on with you, and I know the name

of the sixth if I don’t get a move on. How do you explain it, and ain’t

you ashamed to see your men go down like this?”

Von Bork flushed crimson.

“How dare you speak in such a way!”

“If I didn’t dare things, mister, I wouldn’t be in your service. But

I’ll tell you straight what is in my mind. I’ve heard that with you

German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not sorry to

see him put away.”

Von Bork sprang to his feet.

“Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents!”

“I don’t stand for that, mister, but there’s a stool pigeon or a cross

somewhere, and it’s up to you to find out where it is. Anyhow I am

taking no more chances. It’s me for little Holland, and the sooner the

better.”

Von Bork had mastered his anger.

“We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of

victory,” he said. “You’ve done splendid work and taken risks, and I

can’t forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can get a boat

from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be safe a week from now.

I’ll take that book and pack it with the rest.”

The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to

give it up.

“What about the dough?” he asked.

“The what?”

“The boodle. The reward. The £500. The gunner turned damned nasty at

the last, and I had to square him with an extra hundred dollars or it

would have been nitsky for you and me. ‘Nothin’ doin’!’ says he, and he

meant it, too, but the last hundred did it. It’s cost me two hundred

pound from first to last, so it isn’t likely I’d give it up without

gettin’ my wad.”

Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. “You don’t seem to have a very

high opinion of my honour,” said he, “you want the money before you

give up the book.”

“Well, mister, it is a business proposition.”

“All right. Have your way.” He sat down at the table and scribbled a

check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it to

his companion. “After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr.

Altamont,” said he, “I don’t see why I should trust you any more than

you trust me. Do you understand?” he added, looking back over his

shoulder at the American. “There’s the check upon the table. I claim

the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up.”

The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a winding of

string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment in

silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across the

cover was printed in golden letters _Practical Handbook of Bee

Culture_. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this

strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back

of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in

front of his writhing face.

“Another glass, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the

bottle of Imperial Tokay.

The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table, pushed

forward his glass with some eagerness.

“It is a good wine, Holmes.”

“A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured me

that it is from Franz Josef’s special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace.

Might I trouble you to open the window, for chloroform vapour does not

help the palate.”

The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of it was removing

dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then packing it

neatly in Von Bork’s valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping

stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and another round his

legs.

“We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe from interruption.

Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one in the house except

old Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the

situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you will be

glad to hear that all is well.”

The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed with a

smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension at the figure

upon the sofa.

“It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at all.”

“I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights he has been a

kind master. He wanted me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday, but

that would hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?”

“No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my mind. We

waited some time for your signal to-night.”

“It was the secretary, sir.”

“I know. His car passed ours.”

“I thought he would never go. I knew that it would not suit your plans,

sir, to find him here.”

“No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half an hour or so

until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was clear. You can

report to me to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge’s Hotel.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I suppose you have everything ready to leave.”

“Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I have the addresses as

usual.”

“Very good, Martha. I will look into them to-morrow. Good-night. These

papers,” he continued as the old lady vanished, “are not of very great

importance, for, of course, the information which they represent has

been sent off long ago to the German government. These are the

originals which could not safely be got out of the country.”

“Then they are of no use.”

“I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They will at least show

our people what is known and what is not. I may say that a good many of

these papers have come through me, and I need not add are thoroughly

untrustworthy. It would brighten my declining years to see a German

cruiser navigating the Solent according to the mine-field plans which I

have furnished. But you, Watson”—he stopped his work and took his old

friend by the shoulders—“I’ve hardly seen you in the light yet. How

have the years used you? You look the same blithe boy as ever.”

“I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so happy as

when I got your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich with the car. But

you, Holmes—you have changed very little—save for that horrible

goatee.”

“These are the sacrifices one makes for one’s country, Watson,” said

Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. “To-morrow it will be but a

dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes I

shall no doubt reappear at Claridge’s to-morrow as I was before this

American stunt—I beg your pardon, Watson, my well of English seems to

be permanently defiled—before this American job came my way.”

“But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of a

hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South

Downs.”

“Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum

opus of my latter years!” He picked up the volume from the table and

read out the whole title, _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some

Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen_. “Alone I did it.

Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days when I watched

the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of

London.”

“But how did you get to work again?”

“Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The Foreign Minister alone I

could have withstood, but when the Premier also deigned to visit my

humble roof—! The fact is, Watson, that this gentleman upon the sofa

was a bit too good for our people. He was in a class by himself. Things

were going wrong, and no one could understand why they were going

wrong. Agents were suspected or even caught, but there was evidence of

some strong and secret central force. It was absolutely necessary to

expose it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look into the matter.

It has cost me two years, Watson, but they have not been devoid of

excitement. When I say that I started my pilgrimage at Chicago,

graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave serious trouble

to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and so eventually caught the eye of

a subordinate agent of Von Bork, who recommended me as a likely man,

you will realise that the matter was complex. Since then I have been

honoured by his confidence, which has not prevented most of his plans

going subtly wrong and five of his best agents being in prison. I

watched them, Watson, and I picked them as they ripened. Well, sir, I

hope that you are none the worse!”

The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself, who after much

gasping and blinking had lain quietly listening to Holmes’s statement.

He broke out now into a furious stream of German invective, his face

convulsed with passion. Holmes continued his swift investigation of

documents while his prisoner cursed and swore.

“Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of all languages,” he

observed when Von Bork had stopped from pure exhaustion. “Hullo!

Hullo!” he added as he looked hard at the corner of a tracing before

putting it in the box. “This should put another bird in the cage. I had

no idea that the paymaster was such a rascal, though I have long had an

eye upon him. Mister Von Bork, you have a great deal to answer for.”

The prisoner had raised himself with some difficulty upon the sofa and

was staring with a strange mixture of amazement and hatred at his

captor.

“I shall get level with you, Altamont,” he said, speaking with slow

deliberation. “If it takes me all my life I shall get level with you!”

“The old sweet song,” said Holmes. “How often have I heard it in days

gone by. It was a favorite ditty of the late lamented Professor

Moriarty. Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it. And

yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs.”

“Curse you, you double traitor!” cried the German, straining against

his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes.

“No, no, it is not so bad as that,” said Holmes, smiling. “As my speech

surely shows you, Mr. Altamont of Chicago had no existence in fact. I

used him and he is gone.”

“Then who are you?”

“It is really immaterial who I am, but since the matter seems to

interest you, Mr. Von Bork, I may say that this is not my first

acquaintance with the members of your family. I have done a good deal

of business in Germany in the past and my name is probably familiar to

you.”

“I would wish to know it,” said the Prussian grimly.

“It was I who brought about the separation between Irene Adler and the

late King of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial Envoy.

It was I also who saved from murder, by the Nihilist Klopman, Count Von

und Zu Grafenstein, who was your mother’s elder brother. It was I—”

Von Bork sat up in amazement.

“There is only one man,” he cried.

“Exactly,” said Holmes.

Von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa. “And most of that

information came through you,” he cried. “What is it worth? What have I

done? It is my ruin forever!”

“It is certainly a little untrustworthy,” said Holmes. “It will require

some checking and you have little time to check it. Your admiral may

find the new guns rather larger than he expects, and the cruisers

perhaps a trifle faster.”

Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair.

“There are a good many other points of detail which will, no doubt,

come to light in good time. But you have one quality which is very rare

in a German, Mr. Von Bork: you are a sportsman and you will bear me no

ill-will when you realise that you, who have outwitted so many other

people, have at last been outwitted yourself. After all, you have done

your best for your country, and I have done my best for mine, and what

could be more natural? Besides,” he added, not unkindly, as he laid his

hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man, “it is better than to fall

before some ignoble foe. These papers are now ready, Watson. If you

will help me with our prisoner, I think that we may get started for

London at once.”

It was no easy task to move Von Bork, for he was a strong and a

desperate man. Finally, holding either arm, the two friends walked him

very slowly down the garden walk which he had trod with such proud

confidence when he received the congratulations of the famous

diplomatist only a few hours before. After a short, final struggle he

was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, into the spare seat of the

little car. His precious valise was wedged in beside him.

“I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances permit,” said

Holmes when the final arrangements were made. “Should I be guilty of a

liberty if I lit a cigar and placed it between your lips?”

But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German.

“I suppose you realise, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said he, “that if your

government bears you out in this treatment it becomes an act of war.”

“What about your government and all this treatment?” said Holmes,

tapping the valise.

“You are a private individual. You have no warrant for my arrest. The

whole proceeding is absolutely illegal and outrageous.”

“Absolutely,” said Holmes.

“Kidnapping a German subject.”

“And stealing his private papers.”

“Well, you realise your position, you and your accomplice here. If I

were to shout for help as we pass through the village—”

“My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you would probably enlarge

the two limited titles of our village inns by giving us ‘The Dangling

Prussian’ as a signpost. The Englishman is a patient creature, but at

present his temper is a little inflamed, and it would be as well not to

try him too far. No, Mr. Von Bork, you will go with us in a quiet,

sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you can send for your friend,

Baron Von Herling, and see if even now you may not fill that place

which he has reserved for you in the ambassadorial suite. As to you,

Watson, you are joining us with your old service, as I understand, so

London won’t be out of your way. Stand with me here upon the terrace,

for it may be the last quiet talk that we shall ever have.”

The two friends chatted in intimate converse for a few minutes,

recalling once again the days of the past, while their prisoner vainly

wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As they turned to the car

Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful head.

“There’s an east wind coming, Watson.”

“I think not, Holmes. It is very warm.”

“Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age.

There’s an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on

England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us

may wither before its blast. But it’s God’s own wind none the less, and

a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the

storm has cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it’s time that we were on

our way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which should be cashed

early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping it if he can.”