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THE CASE-BOOK OF

SHERLOCK HOLMES

BY ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

LONDON

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

_First Published 1927_

PREFACE

I fear that Mr. Sherlock Holmes may become like one of those popular

tenors who, having outlived their time, are still tempted to make

repeated farewell bows to their indulgent audiences. This must cease

and he must go the way of all flesh, material or imaginary. One likes

to think that there is some fantastic limbo for the children of

imagination, some strange, impossible place where the beaux of Fielding

may still make love to the belles of Richardson, where Scott's heroes

still may strut, Dickens's delightful Cockneys still raise a laugh, and

Thackeray's worldlings continue to carry on their reprehensible

careers. Perhaps in some humble corner of such a Valhalla, Sherlock

and his Watson may for a time find a place, while some more astute

sleuth with some even less astute comrade may fill the stage which they

have vacated.

His career has been a long one--though it is possible to exaggerate it;

decrepit gentlemen who approach me and declare that his adventures

formed the reading of their boyhood do not meet the response from me

which they seem to expect. One is not anxious to have one's personal

dates handled so unkindly. As a matter of cold fact Holmes made his

_début_ in _A Study in Scarlet_ and in _The Sign of Four_, two small

booklets which appeared between 1887 and 1889. It was in 1891 that "A

Scandal in Bohemia," the first of the long series of short stories,

appeared in _The Strand Magazine_. The public seemed appreciative and

desirous of more, so that from that date, thirty-six years ago, they

have been produced in a broken series which now contains no fewer than

fifty-six stories, republished in _The Adventures_, _The Memoirs_, _The

Return_, and _His Last Bow_, and there remain these twelve published

during the last few years which are here produced under the title of

_The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes_. He began his adventures in the

very heart of the later Victorian Era, carried it through the

all-too-short reign of Edward, and has managed to hold his own little

niche even in these feverish days. Thus it would be true to say that

those who first read of him as young men have lived to see their own

grown-up children following the same adventures in the same magazine.

It is a striking example of the patience and loyalty of the British

public.

I had fully determined at the conclusion of _The Memoirs_ to bring

Holmes to an end, as I felt that my literary energies should not be

directed too much into one channel. That pale, clear-cut face and

loose-limbed figure were taking up an undue share of my imagination. I

did the deed, but, fortunately, no coroner had pronounced upon the

remains, and so, after a long interval, it was not difficult for me to

respond to the flattering demand and to explain my rash act away. I

have never regretted it, for I have not in actual practice found that

these lighter sketches have prevented me from exploring and finding my

limitations in such varied branches of literature as history, poetry,

historical novels, psychic research, and the drama. Had Holmes never

existed I could not have done more, though he may perhaps have stood a

little in the way of the recognition of my more serious literary work.

And so, reader, farewell to Sherlock Holmes! I thank you for your past

constancy, and can but hope that some return has been made in the shape

of that distraction from the worries of life and stimulating change of

thought which can only be found in the fairy kingdom of romance.

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

CONTENTS

I The Adventure of the Illustrious Client

II The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier

III The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone

IV The Adventure of the Three Gables

V The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire

VI The Adventure of the Three Garridebs

VII The Problem of Thor Bridge

VIII The Adventure of the Creeping Man

IX The Adventure of the Lion's Mane

X The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger

XI The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place

XII The Adventure of the Retired Colourman

I

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT

"It can't hurt now," was Mr. Sherlock Holmes's comment when, for the

tenth time in as many years, I asked his leave to reveal the following

narrative. So it was that at last I obtained permission to put on

record what was, in some ways, the supreme moment of my friend's career.

Both Holmes and I had a weakness for the Turkish Bath. It was over a

smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found

him less reticent and more human than anywhere else. On the upper

floor of the Northumberland Avenue establishment there is an isolated

corner where two couches lie side by side, and it was on these that we

lay upon September 3, 1902, the day when my narrative begins. I had

asked him whether anything was stirring, and for answer he had shot his

long, thin, nervous arm out of the sheets which enveloped him and had

drawn an envelope from the inside pocket of the coat which hung beside

him.

"It may be some fussy, self-important fool, it may be a matter of life

or death," said he, as he handed me the note. "I know no more than

this message tells me."

It was from the Carlton Club, and dated the evening before. This is

what I read:

"Sir James Damery presents his compliments to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and

will call upon him at 4.30 to-morrow. Sir James begs to say that the

matter upon which he desires to consult Mr. Holmes is very delicate,

and also very important. He trusts, therefore, that Mr. Holmes will

make every effort to grant this interview, and that he will confirm it

over the telephone to the Carlton Club."

"I need not say that I have confirmed it, Watson," said Holmes, as I

returned the paper. "Do you know anything of this man Damery?"

"Only that his name is a household word in Society."

"Well, I can tell you a little more than that. He has rather a

reputation for arranging delicate matters which are to be kept out of

the papers. You may remember his negotiations with Sir George Lewis

over the Hammerford Will case. He is a man of the world with a natural

turn for diplomacy. I am bound, therefore, to hope that it is not a

false scent and that he has some real need for our assistance."

"Our?"

"Well, if you will be so good, Watson."

"I shall be honoured."

"Then you have the hour--four-thirty. Until then we can put the matter

out of our heads."

I was living in my own rooms in Queen Anne Street at the time, but I

was round at Baker Street before the time named. Sharp to the

half-hour, Colonel Sir James Damery was announced. It is hardly

necessary to describe him, for many will remember that large, bluff,

honest personality, that broad, clean-shaven face, above all, that

pleasant, mellow voice. Frankness shone from his grey Irish eyes, and

good humour played round his mobile, smiling lips. His lucent top-hat,

his dark frock-coat, indeed, every detail, from the pearl pin in the

black satin cravat to the lavender spats over the varnished shoes,

spoke of the meticulous care in dress for which he was famous. The

big, masterful aristocrat dominated the little room.

"Of course, I was prepared to find Dr. Watson," he remarked, with a

courteous bow. "His collaboration may be very necessary, for we are

dealing on this occasion, Mr. Holmes, with a man to whom violence is

familiar and who will, literally, stick at nothing. I should say that

there is no more dangerous man in Europe."

"I have had several opponents to whom that flattering term has been

applied," said Holmes, with a smile. "Don't you smoke? Then you will

excuse me if I light my pipe. If your man is more dangerous than the

late Professor Moriarty, or than the living Colonel Sebastian Moran,

then he is indeed worth meeting. May I ask his name?"

"Have you ever heard of Baron Gruner?

"You mean the Austrian murderer?"

Colonel Damery threw up his kid-gloved hands with a laugh. "There is

no getting past you, Mr. Holmes! Wonderful! So you have already sized

him up as a murderer?"

"It is my business to follow the details of Continental crime. Who

could possibly have read what happened at Prague and have any doubts as

to the man's guilt! It was a purely technical legal point and the

suspicious death of a witness that saved him! I am as sure that he

killed his wife when the so-called 'accident' happened in the Splügen

Pass as if I had seen him do it. I knew, also, that he had come to

England, and had a presentiment that sooner or later he would find me

some work to do. Well, what has Baron Gruner been up to? I presume it

is not this old tragedy which has come up again?"

"No, it is more serious than that. To revenge crime is important, but

to prevent it is more so. It is a terrible thing, Mr. Holmes, to see a

dreadful event, an atrocious situation, preparing itself before your

eyes, to clearly understand whither it will lead and yet to be utterly

unable to avert it. Can a human being be placed in a more trying

position?"

"Perhaps not."

"Then you will sympathize with the client in whose interests I am

acting."

"I did not understand that you were merely an intermediary. Who is the

principal?"

"Mr. Holmes, I must beg you not to press that question. It is

important that I should be able to assure him that his honoured name

has been in no way dragged into the matter. His motives are, to the

last degree, honourable and chivalrous, but he prefers to remain

unknown. I need not say that your fees will be assured and that you

will be given a perfectly free hand. Surely the actual name of your

client is immaterial?"

"I am sorry," said Holmes. "I am accustomed to have mystery at one end

of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing. I fear, Sir

James, that I must decline to act."

Our visitor was greatly disturbed. His large, sensitive face was

darkened with emotion and disappointment.

"You hardly realize the effect of your own action, Mr. Holmes," said

he. "You place me in a most serious dilemma, for I am perfectly

certain that you would be proud to take over the case if I could give

you the facts, and yet a promise forbids me from revealing them all.

May I, at least, lay all that I can before you?"

"By all means, so long as it is understood that I commit myself to

nothing."

"That is understood. In the first place, you have no doubt heard of

General de Merville?"

"De Merville of Khyber fame? Yes, I have heard of him."

"He has a daughter, Violet de Merville, young, rich, beautiful,

accomplished, a wonder-woman in every way. It is this daughter, this

lovely, innocent girl, whom we are endeavouring to save from the

clutches of a fiend."

"Baron Gruner has some hold over her, then?"

"The strongest of all holds where a woman is concerned--the hold of

love. The fellow is, as you may have heard, extraordinarily handsome,

with a most fascinating manner, a gentle voice, and that air of romance

and mystery which means so much to a woman. He is said to have the

whole sex at his mercy and to have made ample use of the fact.

"But how came such a man to meet a lady of the standing of Miss Violet

de Merville?"

"It was on a Mediterranean yachting voyage. The company, though

select, paid their own passages. No doubt the promoters hardly

realized the Baron's true character until it was too late. The villain

attached himself to the lady, and with such effect that he has

completely and absolutely won her heart. To say that she loves him

hardly expresses it. She dotes upon him, she is obsessed by him.

Outside of him there is nothing on earth. She will not hear one word

against him. Everything has been done to cure her of her madness, but

in vain. To sum up, she proposes to marry him next month. As she is

of age and has a will of iron, it is hard to know how to prevent her."

"Does she know about the Austrian episode?"

"The cunning devil has told her every unsavoury public scandal of his

past life, but always in such a way as to make himself out to be an

innocent martyr. She absolutely accepts his version and will listen to

no other."

"Dear me! But surely you have inadvertently let out the name of your

client? It is no doubt General de Merville."

Our visitor fidgeted in his chair.

"I could deceive you by saying so, Mr. Holmes, but it would not be

true. De Merville is a broken man. The strong soldier has been

utterly demoralized by this incident. He has lost the nerve which

never failed him on the battlefield and has become a weak, doddering

old man, utterly incapable of contending with a brilliant, forceful

rascal like this Austrian. My client, however, is an old friend, one

who has known the General intimately for many years and taken a

paternal interest in this young girl since she wore short frocks. He

cannot see this tragedy consummated without some attempt to stop it.

There is nothing in which Scotland Yard can act. It was his own

suggestion that you should be called in, but it was, as I have said, on

the express stipulation that he should not be personally involved in

the matter. I have no doubt, Mr. Holmes, with your great powers you

could easily trace my client back through me, but I must ask you, as a

point of honour, to refrain from doing so, and not to break in upon his

incognito."

Holmes gave a whimsical smile.

"I think I may safely promise that," said he. "I may add that your

problem interests me, and that I shall be prepared to look into it.

How shall I keep in touch with you?"

"The Carlton Club will find me. But, in case of emergency, there is a

private telephone call, 'XX.31.'"

Holmes noted it down and sat, still smiling, with the open

memorandum-book upon his knee.

"The Baron's present address, please?"

"Vernon Lodge, near Kingston. It is a large house. He has been

fortunate in some rather shady speculations and is a rich man, which,

naturally, makes him a more dangerous antagonist."

"Is he at home at present?"

"Yes."

"Apart from what you have told me, can you give me any further

information about the man?"

"He has expensive tastes. He is a horse fancier. For a short time he

played polo at Hurlingham, but then this Prague affair got noised about

and he had to leave. He collects books and pictures. He is a man with

a considerable artistic side to his nature. He is, I believe, a

recognized authority upon Chinese pottery, and has written a book upon

the subject."

"A complex mind," said Holmes. "All great criminals have that. My old

friend Charlie Peace was a violin virtuoso. Wainwright was no mean

artist. I could quote many more. Well, Sir James, you will inform

your client that I am turning my mind upon Baron Gruner. I can say no

more. I have some sources of information of my own, and dare say we

may find some means of opening matter up."

When our visitor had left us, Holmes sat so long in deep thought that

it seemed to me that he had forgotten my presence. At last, however,

he came briskly back to earth.

"Well, Watson, any views?" he asked.

"I should think you had better see the young lady herself."

"My dear Watson, if her poor old broken father cannot move her, how

shall I, a stranger, prevail? And yet there is something in the

suggestion if all else fails. But I think we must begin from a

different angle. I rather fancy that Shinwell Johnson might be a help."

I have not had occasion to mention Shinwell Johnson in these memoirs

because I have seldom drawn my cases from the latter phases of my

friend's career. During the first years of the century he became a

valuable assistant. Johnson, I grieve to say, made his name first as a

very dangerous villain and served two terms at Parkhurst. Finally, he

repented and allied himself to Holmes, acting as his agent in the huge

criminal underworld of London, and obtaining information which often

proved to be of vital importance. Had Johnson been a "nark" of the

police he would soon have been exposed, but as he dealt with cases

which never came directly into the courts, his activities were never

realized by his companions. With the glamour of his two convictions

upon him, he had the _entrée_ of every night-club, doss-house, and

gambling-den in the town, and his quick observation and active brain

made him an ideal agent for gaining information. It was to him that

Sherlock Holmes now proposed to turn.

It was not possible for me to follow the immediate steps taken by my

friend, for I had some pressing professional business of my own, but I

met him by appointment that evening at Simpson's, where, sitting at a

small table in the front window, and looking down at the rushing stream

of life in the Strand, he told me something of what had passed.

"Johnson is on the prowl," said he. "He may pick up some garbage in

the darker recesses of the underworld, for it is down there, amid the

black roots of crime, that we must hunt for this man's secrets."

"But, if the lady will not accept what is already known, why should any

fresh discovery of yours turn her from her purpose?"

"Who knows, Watson? Woman's heart and mind are insoluble puzzles to

the male. Murder might be condoned or explained, and yet some smaller

offence might rankle. Baron Gruner remarked to me----"

"He remarked to you!"

"Oh, to be sure, I had not told you of my plans! Well, Watson, I love

to come to close grips with my man. I like to meet him eye to eye and

read for myself the stuff that he is made of. When I had given Johnson

his instructions, I took a cab out to Kingston and found the Baron in a

most affable mood."

"Did he recognize you?"

"There was no difficulty about that, for I simply sent in my card. He

is an excellent antagonist, cool as ice, silky voiced and soothing as

one of your fashionable consultants, and poisonous as a cobra. He has

breed in him, a real aristocrat of crime, with a superficial suggestion

of afternoon tea and all the cruelty of the grave behind it. Yes, I am

glad to have had my attention called to Baron Adelbert Gruner."

"You say he was affable?"

"A purring cat who thinks he sees prospective mice. Some people's

affability is more deadly than the violence of coarser souls. His

greeting was characteristic. 'I rather thought I should see you sooner

or later, Mr. Holmes,' said he. 'You have been engaged, no doubt, by

General de Merville to endeavour to stop my marriage with his daughter,

Violet. That is so, is it not?'

"I acquiesced.

"'My dear man,' said he, 'you will only ruin your own well-deserved

reputation. It is not a case in which you can possibly succeed. You

will have barren work, to say nothing of incurring some danger. Let me

very strongly advise you to draw off at once.'

"'It is curious,' I answered, 'but that was the very advice which I had

intended to give you. I have a respect for your brains, Baron, and the

little which I have seen of your personality has not lessened it. Let

me put it to you as man to man. No one wants to rake up your past and

make you unduly uncomfortable. It is over, and you are now in smooth

waters, but if you persist in this marriage you will raise up a swarm

of powerful enemies who will never leave you alone until they have made

England too hot to hold you. Is the game worth it? Surely you would

be wiser if you left the lady alone. It would not be pleasant for you

if these facts of your past were brought to her notice.'

"The Baron has little waxed tips of hair under his nose, like the short

antennae of an insect. These quivered with amusement as he listened,

and he finally broke into a gentle chuckle.

"'Excuse my amusement, Mr. Holmes,' said he, 'but it is really funny to

see you trying to play a hand with no cards in it. I don't think

anyone could do it better, but it is rather pathetic, all the same.

Not a colour card there, Mr. Holmes, nothing but the smallest of the

small.'

"'So you think.'

"'So I know. Let me make the thing clear to you, for my own hand is so

strong that I can afford to show it. I have been fortunate enough to

win the entire affection of this lady. This was given to me in spite

of the fact that I told her very clearly of all the unhappy incidents

in my past life. I also told her that certain wicked and designing

persons--I hope you recognize yourself--would come to her and tell her

these things, and I warned her how to treat them. You have heard of

post-hypnotic suggestion, Mr. Holmes? Well, you will see how it works,

for a man of personality can use hypnotism without any vulgar passes or

tomfoolery. So she is ready for you and, I have no doubt, would give

you an appointment, for she is quite amenable to her father's

will--save only in the one little matter.'

"Well, Watson, there seemed to be no more to say, so I took my leave

with as much cold dignity as I could summon, but, as I had my hand on

the door-handle, he stopped me.

"'By the way, Mr. Holmes,' said he, 'did you know Le Brun, the French

agent?'

"'Yes,' said I.

"'Do you know what befell him?'

"'I heard that he was beaten by some Apaches in the Montmartre district

and crippled for life.'

"'Quite true, Mr. Holmes. By a curious coincidence he had been

inquiring into my affairs only a week before. Don't do it, Mr. Holmes;

it's not a lucky thing to do. Several have found that out. My last

word to you is, go your own way and let me go mine. Good-bye!'

"So there you are, Watson. You are up to date now."

"The fellow seems dangerous."

"Mighty dangerous. I disregard the blusterer, but this is the sort of

man who says rather less than he means."

"Must you interfere? Does it really matter if he marries the girl?"

"Considering that he undoubtedly murdered his last wife, I should say

it mattered very much. Besides, the client! Well, well, we need not

discuss that. When you have finished your coffee you had best come

home with me, for the blithe Shinwell will be there with his report."

We found him sure enough, a huge, coarse, red-faced, scorbutic man,

with a pair of vivid black eyes which were the only external sign of

the very cunning mind within. It seems that he had dived down into

what was peculiarly his kingdom, and beside him on the settee was a

brand which he had brought up in the shape of a slim, flame-like young

woman with a pale, intense face, youthful, and yet so worn with sin and

sorrow that one read the terrible years which had left their leprous

mark upon her.

"This is Miss Kitty Winter," said Shinwell Johnson, waving his fat hand

as an introduction. "What she don't know--well, there, she'll speak

for herself. Put my hand right on her, Mr. Holmes, within an hour of

your message."

"I'm easy to find," said the young woman. "Hell, London, gets me every

time. Same address for Porky Shinwell. We're old mates, Porky, you

and I. But, by Gripes! there is another who ought to be down in a

lower hell than we if there was any justice in the world! That is the

man you are after, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes smiled. "I gather we have your good wishes, Miss Winter."

"If I can help to put him where he belongs, I'm yours to the rattle,"

said our visitor, with fierce energy. There was an intensity of hatred

in her white, set face and her blazing eyes such as woman seldom and

man never can attain. "You needn't go into my past, Mr. Holmes.

That's neither here nor there. But what I am Adelbert Gruner made me.

If I could pull him down!" She clutched frantically with her hands

into the air. "Oh, if I could only pull him into the pit where he has

pushed so many!"

"You know how the matter stands?"

"Porky Shinwell has been telling me. He's after some other poor fool

and wants to marry her this time. You want to stop it. Well, you

surely know enough about this devil to prevent any decent girl in her

senses wanting to be in the same parish with him."

"She is not in her senses. She is madly in love. She has been told

all about him. She cares nothing."

"Told about the murder?"

"Yes."

"My Lord, she must have a nerve!"

"She puts them all down as slanders."

"Couldn't you lay proofs before her silly eyes?"

"Well, can you help us do so?"

"Ain't I a proof myself? If I stood before her and told her how he

used me----"

"Would you do this?"

"Would I? Would I not!"

"Well, it might be worth trying. But he has told her most of his sins

and had pardon from her, and I understand she will not reopen the

question."

"I'll lay he didn't tell her all," said Miss Winter. "I caught a

glimpse of one or two murders besides the one that made such a fuss.

He would speak of someone in his velvet way and then look at me with a

steady eye and say: 'He died within a month.' It wasn't hot air,

either. But I took little notice--you see, I loved him myself at that

time. Whatever he did went with me, same as with this poor fool!

There was just one thing that shook me. Yes, by Gripes! if it had not

been for his poisonous, lying tongue that explains and soothes, I'd

have left him that very night. It's a book he has--a brown leather

book with a lock, and his arms in gold on the outside. I think he was

a bit drunk that night, or he would not have shown it to me."

"What was it, then?"

"I tell you, Mr. Holmes, this man collects women, and takes a pride in

his collection, as some men collect moths or butterflies. He had it

all in that book. Snapshot photographs, names, details, everything

about them. It was a beastly book--a book no man, even if he had come

from the gutter, could have put together. But it was Adelbert Gruner's

book all the same. 'Souls I have ruined.' He could have put that on

the outside if he had been so minded. However, that's neither here nor

there, for the book would not serve you, and, if it would, you can't

get it."

"Where is it?"

"How can I tell you where it is now? It's more than a year since I

left him. I know where he kept it then. He's a precise, tidy cat of a

man in many of his ways, so maybe it is still in the pigeon-hole of the

old bureau in the inner study. Do you know his house?"

"I've been in the study," said Holmes.

"Have you, though? You haven't been slow on the job if you only

started this morning. Maybe dear Adelbert has met his match this time.

The outer study is the one with the Chinese crockery in it--big glass

cupboard between the windows. Then behind his desk is the door that

leads to the inner study--a small room where he keeps papers and

things."

"Is he not afraid of burglars?"

"Adelbert is no coward. His worst enemy couldn't say that of him. He

can look after himself. There's a burglar alarm at night. Besides,

what is there for a burglar--unless they got away with all this fancy

crockery?"

"No good," said Shinwell Johnson, with the decided voice of the expert.

"No fence wants stuff of that sort that you can neither melt nor sell."

"Quite so," said Holmes. "Well, now, Miss Winter, if you would call

here to-morrow evening at five, I would consider in the meanwhile

whether your suggestion of seeing this lady personally may not be

arranged. I am exceedingly obliged to you for your co-operation. I

need not say that my clients will consider liberally----"

"None of that, Mr. Holmes," cried the young woman. "I am not out for

money. Let me see this man in the mud, and I've got all I worked

for--in the mud with my foot on his cursed face. That's my price. I'm

with you to-morrow or any other day so long as you are on his track.

Porky here can tell you always where to find me."

I did not see Holmes again until the following evening, when we dined

once more at our Strand restaurant. He shrugged his shoulders when I

asked him what luck he had had in his interview. Then he told the

story, which I would repeat in this way. His hard, dry statement needs

some little editing to soften it into the terms of real life.

"There was no difficulty at all about the appointment," said Holmes,

"for the girl glories in showing abject filial obedience in all

secondary things in an attempt to atone for her flagrant breach of it

in her engagement. The General 'phoned that all was ready, and the

fiery Miss W. turned up according to schedule, so that at half-past

five a cab deposited us outside 104 Berkeley Square, where the old

soldier resides--one of those awful grey London castles which would

make a church seem frivolous. A footman showed us into a great

yellow-curtained drawing-room, and there was the lady awaiting us,

demure, pale, self-contained, as inflexible and remote as a snow image

on a mountain.

"I don't quite know how to make her clear to you, Watson. Perhaps you

may meet her before we are through, and you can use your own gift of

words. She is beautiful, but with the ethereal other-world beauty of

some fanatic whose thoughts are set on high. I have seen such faces in

the pictures of the old masters of the Middle Ages. How a beast-man

could have laid his vile paws upon such a being of the beyond I cannot

imagine. You may have noticed how extremes call to each other, the

spiritual to the animal, the cave-man to the angel. You never saw a

worse case than this.

"She knew what we had come for, of course--that villain had lost no

time in poisoning her mind against us. Miss Winter's advent rather

amazed her, I think, but she waved us into our respective chairs like a

Reverend Abbess receiving two rather leprous mendicants. If your head

is inclined to swell, my dear Watson, take a course of Miss Violet de

Merville.

"'Well, sir,' said she, in a voice like the wind from an iceberg, 'your

name is familiar to me. You have called, as I understand, to malign my

fiancé, Baron Gruner. It is only by my father's request that I see you

at all, and I warn you in advance that anything you can say could not

possibly have the slightest effect upon my mind.'

"I was sorry for her, Watson. I thought of her for the moment as I

would have thought of a daughter of my own. I am not often eloquent.

I use my head, not my heart. But I really did plead with her with all

the warmth of words that I could find in my nature. I pictured to her

the awful position of the woman who only wakes to a man's character

after she is his wife--a woman who has to submit to be caressed by

bloody hands and lecherous lips. I spared her nothing--the shame, the

fear, the agony, the hopelessness of it all. All my hot words could

not bring one tinge of colour to those ivory cheeks or one gleam of

emotion to those abstracted eyes. I thought of what the rascal had

said about a post-hypnotic influence. One could really believe that

she was living above the earth in some ecstatic dream. Yet there was

nothing indefinite in her replies.

"'I have listened to you with patience, Mr. Holmes,' said she. 'The

effect upon my mind is exactly as predicted. I am aware that Adelbert,

that my fiancé, has had a stormy life in which he has incurred bitter

hatreds and most unjust aspersions. You are only the last of a series

who have brought their slanders before me. Possibly you mean well,

though I learn that you are a paid agent who would have been equally

willing to act for the Baron as against him. But in any case I wish

you to understand once for all that I love him and that he loves me,

and that the opinion of all the world is no more to me than the twitter

of those birds outside the window. If his noble nature has ever for an

instant fallen, it may be that I have been specially sent to raise it

to its true and lofty level. I am not clear,' here she turned her eyes

upon my companion, 'who this young lady may be.'

"I was about to answer when the girl broke in like a whirlwind. If

ever you saw flame and ice face to face, it was those two women.

"'I'll tell you who I am,' she cried, springing out of her chair, her

mouth all twisted with passion--'I am his last mistress. I am one of a

hundred that he has tempted and used and ruined and thrown into the

refuse heap, as he will you also. _Your_ refuse heap is more likely to

be a grave, and maybe that's the best. I tell you, you foolish woman,

if you marry this man he'll be the death of you. It may be a broken

heart or it may be a broken neck, but he'll have you one way or the

other. It's not out of love for you I'm speaking. I don't care a

tinker's curse whether you live or die. It's out of hate for him and

to spite him and to get back on him for what he did to me. But it's

all the same, and you needn't look at me like that, my fine lady, for

you may be lower than I am before you are through with it.'

"'I should prefer not to discuss such matters,' said Miss de Merville

coldly. 'Let me say once for all that I am aware of three passages in

my fiancé's life in which he became entangled with designing women, and

that I am assured of his hearty repentance for any evil that he may

have done.'

"'Three passages!' screamed my companion. 'You fool! You unutterable

fool!'

"'Mr. Holmes, I beg that you will bring this interview to an end,' said

the icy voice. 'I have obeyed my father's wish in seeing you, but I am

not compelled to listen to the ravings of this person.'

"With an oath Miss Winter darted forward, and if I had not caught her

wrist she would have clutched this maddening woman by the hair. I

dragged her towards the door, and was lucky to get her back into the

cab without a public scene, for she was beside herself with rage. In a

cold way I felt pretty furious myself, Watson, for there was something

indescribably annoying in the calm aloofness and supreme

self-complaisance of the woman whom we were trying to save. So now

once again you know exactly how we stand, and it is clear that I must

plan some fresh opening move, for this gambit won't work. I'll keep in

touch with you, Watson, for it is more than likely that you will have

your part to play, though it is just possible that the next move may

lie with them rather than with us."

And it did. Their blow fell--or his blow rather, for never could I

believe that the lady was privy to it. I think I could show you the

very paving-stone upon which I stood when my eyes fell upon the

placard, and a pang of horror passed through my very soul. It was

between the "Grand Hotel" and Charing Cross Station, where a one-legged

news-vendor displayed his evening papers. The date was just two days

after the last conversation. There, black upon yellow, was the

terrible news-sheet:

+-------------+

| MURDEROUS |

| ATTACK |

| UPON |

| SHERLOCK |

| HOLMES. |

+-------------+

I think I stood stunned for some moments. Then I have a confused

recollection of snatching at a paper, of the remonstrance of the man,

whom I had not paid, and, finally, of standing in the doorway of a

chemist's shop while I turned up the fateful paragraph. This was how

it ran:

"We learn with regret that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known private

detective, was the victim this morning of a murderous assault which has

left him in a precarious position. There are no exact details to hand,

but the event seems to have occurred about twelve o'clock in Regent

Street, outside the Café Royal. The attack was made by two men armed

with sticks, and Mr. Holmes was beaten about the head and body,

receiving injuries which the doctors describe as most serious. He was

carried to Charing Cross Hospital, and afterwards insisted upon being

taken to his rooms in Baker Street. The miscreants who attacked him

appear to have been respectably dressed men, who escaped from the

bystanders by passing through the Café Royal and out into Glasshouse

Street behind it. No doubt they belonged to that criminal fraternity

which has so often had occasion to bewail the activity and ingenuity of

the injured man."

I need not say that my eyes had hardly glanced over the paragraph

before I had sprung into a hansom and was on my way to Baker Street. I

found Sir Leslie Oakshott, the famous surgeon in the hall and his

brougham waiting at the kerb.

"No immediate danger," was his report. "Two lacerated scalp wounds and

some considerable bruises. Several stitches have been necessary.

Morphine has been injected and quiet is essential, but an interview of

a few minutes would not be absolutely forbidden."

With this permission I stole into the darkened room. The sufferer was

wide awake, and I heard my name in a hoarse whisper. The blind was

three-quarters down, but one ray of sunlight slanted through and struck

the bandaged head of the injured man. A crimson patch had soaked

through the white linen compress. I sat beside him and bent my head.

"All right, Watson. Don't look so scared," he muttered in a very weak

voice. "It's not as bad as it seems."

"Thank God for that!"

"I'm a bit of a single-stick expert, as you know. I took most of them

on my guard. It was the second man that was too much for me."

"What can I do, Holmes? Of course, it was that damned fellow who set

them on. I'll go and thrash the hide off him if you give the word."

"Good old Watson! No, we can do nothing there unless the police lay

their hands on the men. But their get-away had been well prepared. We

may be sure of that. Wait a little. I have my plans. The first thing

is to exaggerate my injuries. They'll come to you for news. Put it on

thick, Watson. Lucky if I live the week

out--concussion--delirium--what you like! You can't overdo it."

"But Sir Leslie Oakshott?"

"Oh, he's all right. He shall see the worst side of me. I'll look

after that."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Tell Shinwell Johnson to get that girl out of the way. Those

beauties will be after her now. They know, of course, that she was

with me in the case. If they dared to do me in it is not likely they

will neglect her. That is urgent. Do it to-night."

"I'll go now. Anything more?"

"Put my pipe on the table--and the tobacco-slipper. Right! Come in

each morning and we will plan our campaign."

I arranged with Johnson that evening to take Miss Winter to a quiet

suburb and see that she lay low until the danger was past.

For six days the public were under the impression that Holmes was at

the door of death. The bulletins were very grave and there were

sinister paragraphs in the papers. My continual visits assured me that

it was not so bad as that. His wiry constitution and his determined

will were working wonders. He was recovering fast, and I had

suspicions at times that he was really finding himself faster than he

pretended, even to me. There was a curious secretive streak in the man

which led to many dramatic effects, but left even his closest friend

guessing as to what his exact plans might be. He pushed to an extreme

the axiom that the only safe plotter was he who plotted alone. I was

nearer him than anyone else, and yet I was always conscious of the gap

between.

On the seventh day the stitches were taken out, in spite of which there

was a report of erysipelas in the evening papers. The same evening

papers had an announcement which I was bound, sick or well, to carry to

my friend. It was simply that among the passengers on the Cunard boat

_Ruritania_, starting from Liverpool on Friday, was the Baron Adelbert

Gruner, who had some important financial business to settle in the

States before his impending wedding to Miss Violet de Merville, only

daughter of, etc., etc. Holmes listened to the news with a cold,

concentrated look upon his pale face, which told me that it hit him

hard.

"Friday!" he cried. "Only three clear days. I believe the rascal

wants to put himself out of danger's way. But he won't, Watson! By

the Lord Harry, he won't! Now, Watson, I want you to do something for

me."

"I am here to be used, Holmes."

"Well, then, spend the next twenty-four hours in an intensive study of

Chinese pottery."

He gave no explanations and I asked for none. By long experience I had

learned the wisdom of obedience. But when I had left his room I walked

down Baker Street, revolving in my head how on earth I was to carry out

so strange an order. Finally I drove to the London Library in St.

James's Square, put the matter to my friend Lomax, the sub-librarian,

and departed to my rooms with a goodly volume under my arm.

It is said that the barrister who crams up a case with such care that

he can examine an expert witness upon the Monday has forgotten all his

forced knowledge before the Saturday. Certainly I should not like now

to pose as an authority upon ceramics. And yet all that evening, and

all that night with a short interval for rest, and all next morning I

was sucking in knowledge and committing names to memory. There I

learned of the hall-marks of the great artist-decorators, of the

mystery of cyclical dates, the marks of the Hung-wu and the beauties of

the Yung-lo, the writings of Tang-ying, and the glories of the

primitive period of the Sung and the Yuan. I was charged with all this

information when I called upon Holmes next evening. He was out of bed

now, though you would not have guessed it from the published reports,

and he sat with his much-bandaged head resting upon his hand in the

depth of his favourite arm-chair.

"Why, Holmes," I said, "if one believed the papers you are dying."

"That," said he, "is the very impression which I intended to convey.

And now, Watson, have you learned your lessons?"

"At least I have tried to."

"Good. You could keep up an intelligent conversation on the subject?"

"I believe I could."

"Then hand me that little box from the mantel-piece."

He opened the lid and took out a small object most carefully wrapped in

some fine Eastern silk. This he unfolded, and disclosed a delicate

little saucer of the most beautiful deep-blue colour.

"It needs careful handling, Watson. This is the real egg-shell pottery

of the Ming dynasty. No finer piece ever passed through Christie's. A

complete set of this would be worth a king's ransom--in fact, it is

doubtful if there is a complete set outside the Imperial palace of

Peking. The sight of this would drive a real connoisseur wild."

"What am I to do with it?"

Holmes handed me a card upon which was printed: "Dr. Hill Barton, 369

Half Moon Street."

"That is your name for the evening, Watson. You will call upon Baron

Gruner. I know something of his habits, and at half-past eight he

would probably be disengaged. A note will tell him in advance that you

are about to call, and you will say that you are bringing him a

specimen of an absolutely unique set of Ming china. You may as well be

a medical man, since that is a part which you can play without

duplicity. You are a collector, this set has come your way, you have

heard of the Baron's interest in the subject, and you are not averse to

selling at a price."

"What price?"

"Well asked, Watson. You would certainly fall down badly if you did

not know the value of your own wares. This saucer was got for me by

Sir James, and comes, I understand, from the collection of his client.

You will not exaggerate if you say that it could hardly be matched in

the world."

"I could perhaps suggest that the set should be valued by an expert."

"Excellent, Watson! You scintillate to-day. Suggest Christie or

Sotheby. Your delicacy prevents your putting a price for yourself."

"But if he won't see me?"

"Oh, yes, he will see you. He has the collection mania in its most

acute form--and especially on this subject, on which he is an

acknowledged authority. Sit down, Watson, and I will dictate the

letter. No answer needed. You will merely say that you are coming,

and why."

It was an admirable document, short, courteous, and stimulating to the

curiosity of the connoisseur. A district messenger was duly dispatched

with it. On the same evening, with the precious saucer in my hand and

the card of Dr. Hill Barton in my pocket, I set off on my own adventure.

The beautiful house and grounds indicated that Baron Gruner was, as Sir

James had said, a man of considerable wealth. A long winding drive,

with banks of rare shrubs on either side, opened out into a great

gravelled square adorned with statues. The place had been built by a

South African gold king in the days of the great boom, and the long,

low house with the turrets at the corners, though an architectural

nightmare, was imposing in its size and solidity. A butler who would

have adorned a bench of bishops showed me in, and handed me over to a

plush-clad footman, who ushered me into the Baron's presence.

He was standing at the open front of a great case which stood between

the windows, and which contained part of his Chinese collection. He

turned as I entered with a small brown vase in his hand.

"Pray sit down, doctor," said he. "I was looking over my own treasures

and wondering whether I could really afford to add to them. This

little Tang specimen, which dates from the seventh century, would

probably interest you. I am sure you never saw finer workmanship or a

richer glaze. Have you the Ming saucer with you of which you spoke?"

I carefully unpacked it and handed it to him. He seated himself at his

desk, pulled over the lamp, for it was growing dark, and set himself to

examine it. As he did so the yellow light beat upon his own features,

and I was able to study them at my ease.

He was certainly a remarkably handsome man. His European reputation

for beauty was fully deserved. In figure he was not more than of

middle size, but was built upon graceful and active lines. His face

was swarthy, almost Oriental, with large, dark, languorous eyes which

might easily hold an irresistible fascination for women. His hair and

moustache were raven black, the latter short, pointed, and carefully

waxed. His features were regular and pleasing, save only his straight,

thin-lipped mouth. If ever I saw a murderer's mouth it was there--a

cruel, hard gash in the face, compressed, inexorable, and terrible. He

was ill-advised to train his moustache away from it, for it was

Nature's danger-signal, set as a warning to his victims. His voice was

engaging and his manners perfect. In age I should have put him at

little over thirty, though his record afterwards showed that he was

forty-two.

"Very fine--very fine indeed!" he said at last. "And you say you have

a set of six to correspond. What puzzles me is that I should not have

heard of such magnificent specimens. I only know of one in England to

match this, and it is certainly not likely to be in the market. Would

it be indiscreet if I were to ask you, Dr. Hill Barton, how you

obtained this?"

"Does it really matter?" I asked, with as careless an air as I could

muster. "You can see that the piece is genuine, and, as to the value,

I am content to take an expert's valuation."

"Very mysterious," said he, with a quick, suspicious flash of his dark

eyes. "In dealing with objects of such value, one naturally wishes to

know all about the transaction. That the piece is genuine is certain.

I have no doubts at all about that. But suppose--I am bound to take

every possibility into account--that it should prove afterwards that

you had no right to sell?"

"I would guarantee you against any claim of the sort."

"That, of course, would open up the question as to what your guarantee

was worth."

"My bankers would answer that."

"Quite so. And yet the whole transaction strikes me as rather unusual."

"You can do business or not," said I, with indifference. "I have given

you the first offer as I understood that you were a connoisseur, but I

shall have no difficulty in other quarters."

"Who told you I was a connoisseur?"

"I was aware that you had written a book upon the subject."

"Have you read the book?"

"No."

"Dear me, this becomes more and more difficult for me to understand!

You are a connoisseur and collector with a very valuable piece in your

collection, and yet you have never troubled to consult the one book

which would have told you of the real meaning and value of what you

held. How do you explain that?"

"I am a very busy man. I am a doctor in practice."

"That is no answer. If a man has a hobby he follows it up, whatever

his other pursuits may be. You said in your note that you were a

connoisseur."

"So I am."

"Might I ask you a few questions to test you? I am obliged to tell

you, doctor--if you are indeed a doctor--that the incident becomes more

and more suspicious. I would ask you what do you know of the Emperor

Shomu and how do you associate him with the Shoso-in near Nara? Dear

me, does that puzzle you? Tell me a little about the Northern Wei

dynasty and its place in the history of ceramics."

I sprang from my chair in simulated anger.

"This is intolerable, sir," said I. "I came here to do you a favour,

and not to be examined as if I were a schoolboy. My knowledge on these

subjects may be second only to your own, but I certainly shall not

answer questions which have been put in so offensive a way."

He looked at me steadily. The languor had gone from his eyes. They

suddenly glared. There was a gleam of teeth from between those cruel

lips.

"What is the game? You are here as a spy. You are an emissary of

Holmes. This is a trick that you are playing upon me. The fellow is

dying, I hear, so he sends his tools to keep watch upon me. You've

made your way in here without leave, and, by God! you may find it

harder to get out than to get in."

He had sprung to his feet, and I stepped back, bracing myself for an

attack, for the man was beside himself with rage. He may have

suspected me from the first; certainly this cross-examination had shown

him the truth; but it was clear that I could not hope to deceive him.

He dived his hand into a side-drawer and rummaged furiously. Then

something struck upon his ear, for he stood listening intently.

"Ah!" he cried. "Ah!" and dashed into the room behind him.

Two steps took me to the open door, and my mind will ever carry a clear

picture of the scene within. The window leading out to the garden was

wide open. Beside it, looking like some terrible ghost, his head girt

with bloody bandages, his face drawn and white, stood Sherlock Holmes.

The next instant he was through the gap, and I heard the crash of his

body among the laurel bushes outside. With a howl of rage the master

of the house rushed after him to the open window.

And then! It was done in an instant, and yet I clearly saw it. An

arm--a woman's arm--shot out from among the leaves. At the same

instant the Baron uttered a horrible cry--a yell which will always ring

in my memory. He clapped his two hands to his face and rushed round

the room, beating his head horribly against the walls. Then he fell

upon the carpet, rolling and writhing, while scream after scream

resounded through the house.

"Water! For God's sake, water!" was his cry.

I seized a carafe from a side-table and rushed to his aid. At the same

moment the butler and several footmen ran in from the hall. I remember

that one of them fainted as I knelt by the injured man and turned that

awful face to the light of the lamp. The vitriol was eating into it

everywhere and dripping from the ears and the chin. One eye was

already white and glazed. The other was red and inflamed. The

features which I had admired a few minutes before were now like some

beautiful painting over which the artist has passed a wet and foul

sponge. They were blurred, discoloured, inhuman, terrible.

In a few words I explained exactly what had occurred, so far as the

vitriol attack was concerned. Some had climbed through the window and

others had rushed out on to the lawn, but it was dark and it had begun

to rain. Between his screams the victim raged and raved against the

avenger. "It was that hell-cat, Kitty Winter!" he cried. "Oh, the

she-devil! She shall pay for it! She shall pay! Oh, God in heaven,

this pain is more than I can bear!"

I bathed his face in oil, put cotton wadding on the raw surfaces, and

administered a hypodermic of morphia. All suspicion of me had passed

from his mind in the presence of this shock, and he clung to my hands

as if I might have the power even yet to clear those dead-fish eyes

which gazed up at me. I could have wept over the ruin had I not

remembered very clearly the vile life which had led up to so hideous a

change. It was loathsome to feel the pawing of his burning hands, and

I was relieved when his family surgeon, closely followed by a

specialist, came to relieve me of my charge. An inspector of police

had also arrived, and to him I handed my real card. It would have been

useless as well as foolish to do otherwise, for I was nearly as well

known by sight at the Yard as Holmes himself. Then I left that house

of gloom and terror. Within an hour I was at Baker Street.

Holmes was seated in his familiar chair, looking very pale and

exhausted. Apart from his injuries, even his iron nerves had been

shocked by the events of the evening, and he listened with horror to my

account of the Baron's transformation.

"The wages of sin, Watson--the wages of sin!" said he. "Sooner or

later it will always come. God knows, there was sin enough," he added,

taking up a brown volume from the table. "Here is the book the woman

talked of. If this will not break off the marriage, nothing ever

could. But it will, Watson. It must. No self-respecting woman could

stand it."

"It is his love diary?"

"Or his lust diary. Call it what you will. The moment the woman told

us of it I realized what a tremendous weapon was there, if we could but

lay our hands on it. I said nothing at the time to indicate my

thoughts, for this woman might have given it away. But I brooded over

it. Then this assault upon me gave me the chance of letting the Baron

think that no precautions need be taken against me. That was all to

the good. I would have waited a little longer, but his visit to

America forced my hand. He would never have left so compromising a

document behind him. Therefore we had to act at once. Burglary at

night is impossible. He takes precautions. But there was a chance in

the evening if I could only be sure that his attention was engaged.

That was where you and your blue saucer came in. But I had to be sure

of the position of the book, and I knew I had only a few minutes in

which to act, for my time was limited by your knowledge of Chinese

pottery. Therefore I gathered the girl up at the last moment. How

could I guess what the little packet was that she carried so carefully

under her cloak? I thought she had come altogether on my business, but

it seems she had some of her own."

"He guessed I came from you."

"I feared he would. But you held him in play just long enough for me

to get the book, though not long enough for an unobserved escape. Ah,

Sir James, I am very glad you have come!"

Our courtly friend had appeared in answer to a previous summons. He

listened with the deepest attention to Holmes's account of what had

occurred.

"You have done wonders--wonders!" he cried, when he had heard the

narrative. "But if these injuries are as terrible as Dr. Watson

describes, then surely our purpose of thwarting the marriage is

sufficiently gained without the use of this horrible book."

Holmes shook his head.

"Women of the de Merville type do not act like that. She would love

him the more as a disfigured martyr. No, no. It is his moral side,

not his physical, which we have to destroy. That book will bring her

back to earth--and I know nothing else that could. It is in his own

writing. She cannot get past it."

Sir James carried away both it and the precious saucer. As I was

myself overdue, I went down with him into the street. A brougham was

waiting for him. He sprang in, gave a hurried order to the cockaded

coachman, and drove swiftly away. He flung his overcoat half out of

the window to cover the armorial bearings upon the panel, but I had

seen them in the glare of our fanlight none the less. I gasped with

surprise. Then I turned back and ascended the stair to Holmes's room.

"I have found out who our client is," I cried, bursting with my great

news. "Why, Holmes, it is----"

"It is a loyal friend and a chivalrous gentleman," said Holmes, holding

up a restraining hand. "Let that now and for ever be enough for us."

I do not know how the incriminating book was used. Sir James may have

managed it. Or it is more probable that so delicate a task was

entrusted to the young lady's father. The effect, at any rate, was all

that could be desired. Three days later appeared a paragraph in _The

Morning Post_ to say that the marriage between Baron Adelbert Gruner

and Miss Violet de Merville would not take place. The same paper had

the first police-court hearing of the proceedings against Miss Kitty

Winter on the grave charge of vitriol-throwing. Such extenuating

circumstances came out in the trial that the sentence, as will be

remembered, was the lowest that was possible for such an offence.

Sherlock Holmes was threatened with a prosecution for burglary, but

when an object is good and a client is sufficiently illustrious, even

the rigid British law becomes human and elastic. My friend has not yet

stood in the dock.

II

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLANCHED SOLDIER

The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceedingly

pertinacious. For a long time he has worried me to write an experience

of my own. Perhaps I have rather invited this persecution, since I

have often had occasion to point out to him how superficial are his own

accounts and to accuse him of pandering to popular taste instead of

confining himself rigidly to facts and figures. "Try it yourself,

Holmes!" he has retorted, and I am compelled to admit that, having

taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize that the matter must be

presented in such a way as may interest the reader. The following case

can hardly fail to do so, as it is among the strangest happenings in my

collection, though it chanced that Watson had no note of it in his

collection. Speaking of my old friend and biographer, I would take

this opportunity to remark that if I burden myself with a companion in

my various little inquiries it is not done out of sentiment or caprice,

but it is that Watson has some remarkable characteristics of his own,

to which in his modesty he has given small attention amid his

exaggerated estimates of my own performances. A confederate who

foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but

one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom

the future is always a closed book, is, indeed, an ideal helpmate.

I find from my notebook that it was in January, 1903, just after the

conclusion of the Boer War, that I had my visit from Mr. James M. Dodd,

a big, fresh, sunburned, upstanding Briton. The good Watson had at

that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can

recall in our association. I was alone.

It is my habit to sit with my back to the window and to place my

visitors in the opposite chair, where the light falls full upon them.

Mr. James M. Dodd seemed somewhat at a loss how to begin the interview.

I did not attempt to help him, for his silence gave me more time for

observation. I have found it wise to impress clients with a sense of

power, and so I gave him some of my conclusions.

"From South Africa, sir, I perceive."

"Yes, sir," he answered, with some surprise.

"Imperial Yeomanry, I fancy."

"Exactly."

"Middlesex Corps, no doubt."

"That is so. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard."

I smiled at his bewildered expression.

"When a gentleman of virile appearance enters my room with such tan

upon his face as an English sun could never give, and with his

handkerchief in his sleeve instead of in his pocket, it is not

difficult to place him. You wear a short beard, which shows that you

were not a regular. You have the cut of a riding-man. As to

Middlesex, your card has already shown me that you are a stockbroker

from Throgmorton Street. What other regiment would you join?"

"You see everything."

"I see no more than you, but I have trained myself to notice what I

see. However, Mr. Dodd, it was not to discuss the science of

observation that you called upon me this morning. What has been

happening at Tuxbury Old Park?"

"Mr. Holmes----!"

"My dear sir, there is no mystery. Your letter came with that heading,

and as you fixed this appointment in very pressing terms it was clear

that something sudden and important had occurred."

"Yes, indeed. But the letter was written in the afternoon, and a good

deal has happened since then. If Colonel Emsworth had not kicked me

out----"

"Kicked you out!"

"Well, that was what it amounted to. He is a hard nail, is Colonel

Emsworth. The greatest martinet in the Army in his day, and it was a

day of rough language, too. I couldn't have stuck the Colonel if it

had not been for Godfrey's sake."

I lit my pipe and leaned back in my chair.

"Perhaps you will explain what you are talking about."

My client grinned mischievously.

"I had got into the way of supposing that you knew everything without

being told," said he. "But I will give you the facts, and I hope to

God that you will be able to tell me what they mean. I've been awake

all night puzzling my brain, and the more I think the more incredible

does it become.

"When I joined up in January, 1901--just two years ago--young Godfrey

Emsworth had joined the same squadron. He was Colonel Emsworth's only

son--Emsworth, the Crimean V.C.--and he had the fighting blood in him,

so it is no wonder he volunteered. There was not a finer lad in the

regiment. We formed a friendship--the sort of friendship which can

only be made when one lives the same life and shares the same joys and

sorrows. He was my mate--and that means a good deal in the Army. We

took the rough and the smooth together for a year of hard fighting.

Then he was hit with a bullet from an elephant gun in the action near

Diamond Hill outside Pretoria. I got one letter from the hospital at

Cape Town and one from Southampton. Since then not a word--not one

word, Mr. Holmes, for six months and more, and he my closest pal.

"Well, when the war was over, and we all got back, I wrote to his

father and asked where Godfrey was. No answer. I waited a bit and

then I wrote again. This time I had a reply, short and gruff. Godfrey

had gone on a voyage round the world, and it was not likely that he

would be back for a year. That was all.

"I wasn't satisfied, Mr. Holmes. The whole thing seemed to me so

damned unnatural. He was a good lad and he would not drop a pal like

that. It was not like him. Then, again, I happened to know that he

was heir to a lot of money, and also that his father and he did not

always hit it off too well. The old man was sometimes a bully, and

young Godfrey had too much spirit to stand it. No, I wasn't satisfied,

and I determined that I would get to the root of the matter. It

happened, however, that my own affairs needed a lot of straightening

out, after two years' absence, and so it is only this week that I have

been able to take up Godfrey's case again. But since I have taken it

up I mean to drop everything in order to see it through."

Mr. James M. Dodd appeared to be the sort of person whom it would be

better to have as a friend than as an enemy. His blue eyes were stern

and his square jaw had set hard as he spoke.

"Well, what have you done?" I asked.

"My first move was to get down to his home, Tuxbury Old Park, near

Bedford, and to see for myself how the ground lay. I wrote to the

mother, therefore--I had had quite enough of the curmudgeon of a

father--and I made a clean frontal attack: Godfrey was my chum, I had a

great deal of interest which I might tell her of our common

experiences, I should be in the neighbourhood, would there be any

objection, et cetera? In reply I had quite an amiable answer from her

and an offer to put me up for the night. That was what took me down on

Monday.

"Tuxbury Old Hall is inaccessible--five miles from anywhere. There was

no trap at the station, so I had to walk, carrying my suit-case, and it

was nearly dark before I arrived. It is a great wandering house,

standing in a considerable park. I should judge it was of all sorts of

ages and styles, starting on a half-timbered Elizabethan foundation and

ending in a Victorian portico. Inside it was all panelling and

tapestry and half-effaced old pictures, a house of shadows and mystery.

There was a butler, old Ralph, who seemed about the same age as the

house and there was his wife, who might have been older. She had been

Godfrey's nurse, and I had heard him speak of her as second only to his

mother in his affections, so I was drawn to her in spite of her queer

appearance. The mother I liked also--a gentle little white mouse of a

woman. It was only the Colonel himself whom I barred.

"We had a bit of a barney right away, and I should have walked back to

the station if I had not felt that it might be playing his game for me

to do so. I was shown straight into his study, and there I found him,

a huge, bow-backed man with a smoky skin and a straggling grey beard,

seated behind his littered desk. A red-veined nose jutted out like a

vulture's beak, and two fierce grey eyes glared at me from under tufted

brows. I could understand now why Godfrey seldom spoke of his father.

"'Well, sir,' said he in a rasping voice. 'I should be interested to

know the real reasons for this visit.'

"I answered that I had explained them in my letter to his wife.

"'Yes, yes; you said that you had known Godfrey in Africa. We have, of

course, only your word for that.'

"'I have his letters to me in my pocket.'

"'Kindly let me see them.'

"He glanced at the two which I handed him, and then he tossed them back.

"'Well, what then?' he asked.

"'I was fond of your son Godfrey, sir. Many ties and memories united

us. Is it not natural that I should wonder at his sudden silence and

should wish to know what has become of him?'

"'I have some recollection, sir, that I had already corresponded with

you and had told you what had become of him. He has gone upon a voyage

round the world. His health was in a poor way after his African

experiences, and both his mother and I were of opinion that complete

rest and change were needed. Kindly pass that explanation on to any

other friends who may be interested in the matter.'

"'Certainly,' I answered. 'But perhaps you would have the goodness to

let me have the name of the steamer and of the line by which he sailed,

together with the date. I have no doubt that I should be able to get a

letter through to him.'

"My request seemed both to puzzle and to irritate my host. His great

eyebrows came down over his eyes and he tapped his fingers impatiently

on the table. He looked up at last with the expression of one who has

seen his adversary make a dangerous move at chess, and has decided how

to meet it.

"'Many people, Mr. Dodd,' said he, 'would take offence at your infernal

pertinacity and would think that this insistence had reached the point

of damned impertinence.'

"'You must put it down, sir, to my real love for your son.'

"'Exactly. I have already made every allowance upon that score. I

must ask you, however, to drop these inquiries. Every family has its

own inner knowledge and its own motives, which cannot always be made

clear to outsiders, however well-intentioned. My wife is anxious to

hear something of Godfrey's past which you are in a position to tell

her, but I would ask you to let the present and the future alone. Such

inquiries serve no useful purpose, sir, and place us in a delicate and

difficult position.'

"So I came to a dead end, Mr. Holmes. There was no getting past it. I

could only pretend to accept the situation and register a vow inwardly

that I would never rest until my friend's fate had been cleared up. It

was a dull evening. We dined quietly, the three of us, in a gloomy,

faded old room. The lady questioned me eagerly about her son, but the

old man seemed morose and depressed. I was so bored by the whole

proceeding that I made an excuse as soon as I decently could and

retired to my bedroom. It was a large, bare room on the ground floor,

as gloomy as the rest of the house, but after a year of sleeping upon

the veldt, Mr. Holmes, one is not too particular about one's quarters.

I opened the curtains and looked out into the garden, remarking that it

was a fine night with a bright half-moon. Then I sat down by the

roaring fire with the lamp on a table beside me, and endeavoured to

distract my mind with a novel. I was interrupted, however, by Ralph,

the old butler, who came in with a fresh supply of coals.

"'I thought you might run short in the night-time, sir. It is bitter

weather and these rooms are cold.'

"He hesitated before leaving the room, and when I looked round he was

standing facing me with a wistful look upon his wrinkled face.

"'Beg your pardon, sir, but I could not help hearing what you said of

young Master Godfrey at dinner. You know, sir, that my wife nursed

him, and so I may say I am his foster-father. It's natural we should

take an interest. And you say he carried himself well, sir?'

"'There was no braver man in the regiment. He pulled me out once from

under the rifles of the Boers, or maybe I should not be here.'

"The old butler rubbed his skinny hands.

"'Yes, sir, yes, that is Master Godfrey all over. He was always

courageous. There's not a tree in the park, sir, that he has not

climbed. Nothing would stop him. He was a fine boy--and oh, sir, he

was a fine man.'

"I sprang to my feet.

"'Look here!' I cried. 'You say he was. You speak as if he were dead.

What is all this mystery? What has become of Godfrey Emsworth?'

"I gripped the old man by the shoulder, but he shrank away.

"'I don't know what you mean, sir. Ask the master about Master

Godfrey. He knows. It is not for me to interfere.'

"He was leaving the room, but I held his arm.

"'Listen,' I said. 'You are going to answer one question before you

leave if I have to hold you all night. Is Godfrey dead?'

"He could not face my eyes. He was like a man hypnotized. The answer

was dragged from his lips. It was a terrible and unexpected one.

"'I wish to God he was!' he cried, and, tearing himself free, he dashed

from the room.

"You will think, Mr. Holmes, that I returned to my chair in no very

happy state of mind. The old man's words seemed to me to bear only one

interpretation. Clearly my poor friend had become involved in some

criminal, or, at the least, disreputable, transaction which touched the

family honour. That stern old man had sent his son away and hidden him

from the world lest some scandal should come to light. Godfrey was a

reckless fellow. He was easily influenced by those around him. No

doubt he had fallen into bad hands and been misled to his ruin. It was

a piteous business, if it was indeed so, but even now it was my duty to

hunt him out and see if I could aid him. I was anxiously pondering the

matter when I looked up, and there was Godfrey Emsworth standing before

me."

My client had paused as one in deep emotion.

"Pray continue," I said. "Your problem presents some very unusual

features."

"He was outside the window, Mr. Holmes, with his face pressed against

the glass. I have told you that I looked out at the night. When I did

so, I left the curtains partly open. His figure was framed in this

gap. The window came down to the ground and I could see the whole

length of it, but it was his face which held my gaze. He was deadly

pale--never have I seen a man so white. I reckon ghosts may look like

that; but his eyes met mine, and they were the eyes of a living man.

He sprang back when he saw that I was looking at him, and he vanished

into the darkness.

"There was something shocking about the man, Mr. Holmes. It wasn't

merely that ghastly face glimmering as white as cheese in the darkness.

It was more subtle than that--something slinking, something furtive,

something guilty--something very unlike the frank, manly lad that I had

known. It left a feeling of horror in my mind.

"But when a man has been soldiering for a year or two with brother Boer

as a playmate, he keeps his nerve and acts quickly. Godfrey had hardly

vanished before I was at the window. There was an awkward catch, and I

was some little time before I could throw it up. Then I nipped through

and ran down the garden path in the direction that I thought he might

have taken.

"It was a long path and the light was not very good but it seemed to me

something was moving ahead of me. I ran on and called his name, but it

was no use. When I got to the end of the path there were several

others branching in different directions to various outhouses. I stood

hesitating, and as I did so I heard distinctly the sound of a closing

door. It was not behind me in the house, but ahead of me, somewhere in

the darkness. That was enough, Mr. Holmes, to assure me that what I

had seen was not a vision. Godfrey had run away from me and he had

shut a door behind him. Of that I was certain.

"There was nothing more I could do, and I spent an uneasy night turning

the matter over in my mind and trying to find some theory which would

cover the facts. Next day I found the Colonel rather more

conciliatory, and as his wife remarked that there were some places of

interest in the neighbourhood, it gave me an opening to ask whether my

presence for one more night would incommode them. A somewhat grudging

acquiescence from the old man gave me a clear day in which to make my

observations. I was already perfectly convinced that Godfrey was in

hiding somewhere near, but where and why remained to be solved.

"The house was so large and so rambling that a regiment might be hid

away in it and no one the wiser. If the secret lay there, it was

difficult for me to penetrate it. But the door which I had heard close

was certainly not in the house. I must explore the garden and see what

I could find. There was no difficulty in the way, for the old people

were busy in their own fashion and left me to my own devices.

"There were several small outhouses, but at the end of the garden there

was a detached building of some size--large enough for a gardener's or

a gamekeeper's residence. Could this be the place whence the sound of

that shutting door had come? I approached it in a careless fashion, as

though I were strolling aimlessly round the grounds. As I did so, a

small, brisk, bearded man in a black coat and bowler hat--not at all

the gardener type--came out of the door. To my surprise, he locked it

after him and put the key in his pocket. Then he looked at me with

some surprise on his face.

"'Are you a visitor here?' he asked.

"I explained that I was and that I was a friend of Godfrey's.

"'What a pity that he should be away on his travels, for he would have

so liked to see me,' I continued.

"'Quite so. Exactly,' said he, with a rather guilty air. 'No doubt

you will renew your visit at some more propitious time.' He passed on,

but when I turned I observed that he was standing watching me,

half-concealed by the laurels at the far end of the garden.

"I had a good look at the little house as I passed it, but the windows

were heavily curtained, and, so far as one could see, it was empty. I

might spoil my own game, and even be ordered off the premises, if I

were too audacious, for I was still conscious that I was being watched.

Therefore, I strolled back to the house and waited for night before I

went on with my inquiry. When all was dark and quiet, I slipped out of

my window and made my way as silently as possible to the mysterious

lodge.

"I have said that it was heavily curtained, but now I found that the

windows were shuttered as well. Some light, however, was breaking

through one of them, so I concentrated my attention upon this. I was

in luck, for the curtain had not been quite closed, and there was a

crack in the shutter so that I could see the inside of the room. It

was a cheery place enough, a bright lamp and a blazing fire. Opposite

to me was seated the little man whom I had seen in the morning. He was

smoking a pipe and reading a paper."

"What paper?" I asked.

My client seemed annoyed at the interruption of his narrative.

"Can it matter?" he asked.

"It is most essential."

"I really took no notice."

"Possibly you observed whether it was a broad-leafed paper or of that

smaller type which one associates with weeklies."

"Now that you mention it, it was not large. It might have been _The

Spectator_. However, I had little thought to spare upon such details,

for a second man was seated with his back to the window, and I could

swear that this second man was Godfrey. I could not see his face, but

I knew the familiar slope of his shoulders. He was leaning upon his

elbow in an attitude of great melancholy, his body turned towards the

fire. I was hesitating as to what I should do when there was a sharp

tap on my shoulder, and there was Colonel Emsworth beside me.

"'This way, sir!' said he in a low voice. He walked in silence to the

house and I followed him into my own bedroom. He had picked up a

timetable in the hall.

"'There is a train to London at eight-thirty,' said he. 'The trap will

be at the door at eight.'

"He was white with rage, and, indeed, I felt myself in so difficult a

position that I could only stammer out a few incoherent apologies, in

which I tried to excuse myself by urging my anxiety for my friend.

"'The matter will not bear discussion,' said he abruptly. 'You have

made a most damnable intrusion into the privacy of our family. You

were here as a guest and you have become a spy. I have nothing more to

say, sir, save that I have no wish ever to see you again.'

"At this I lost my temper, Mr. Holmes, and I spoke with some warmth.

"'I have seen your son, and I am convinced that for some reason of your

own you are concealing him from the world. I have no idea what your

motives are in cutting him off in this fashion, but I am sure that he

is no longer a free agent. I warn you, Colonel Emsworth, that until I

am assured as to the safety and well-being of my friend I shall never

desist in my efforts to get to the bottom of the mystery, and I shall

certainly not allow myself to be intimidated by anything which you may

say or do.'

"The old fellow looked diabolical, and I really thought he was about to

attack me. I have said that he was a gaunt, fierce old giant, and

though I am no weakling I might have been hard put to it to hold my own

against him. However, after a long glare of rage he turned upon his

heel and walked out of the room. For my part, I took the appointed

train in the morning, with the full intention of coming straight to you

and asking for your advice and assistance at the appointment for which

I had already written."

Such was the problem which my visitor laid before me. It presented, as

the astute reader will have already perceived, few difficulties in its

solution, for a very limited choice of alternatives must get to the

root of the matter. Still, elementary as it was, there were points of

interest and novelty about it which may excuse my placing it upon

record. I now proceeded, using my familiar method of logical analysis,

to narrow down the possible solutions.

"The servants," I asked; "how many were in the house?"

"To the best of my belief there were only the old butler and his wife.

They seemed to live in the simplest fashion."

"There was no servant, then, in the detached house?"

"None, unless the little man with the beard acted as such. He seemed,

however, to be quite a superior person."

"That seems very suggestive. Had you any indication that food was

conveyed from the one house to the other?"

"Now that you mention it, I did see old Ralph carrying a basket down

the garden walk and going in the direction of this house. The idea of

food did not occur to me at the moment."

"Did you make any local inquiries?"

"Yes, I did. I spoke to the station-master and also to the innkeeper

in the village. I simply asked if they knew anything of my old

comrade, Godfrey Emsworth. Both of them assured me that he had gone

for a voyage round the world. He had come home and then had almost at

once started off again. The story was evidently universally accepted."

"You said nothing of your suspicions?"

"Nothing."

"That was very wise. The matter should certainly be inquired into. I

will go back with you to Tuxbury Old Park."

"To-day?"

It happened that at the moment I was clearing up the case which my

friend Watson has described as that of the Abbey School, in which the

Duke of Greyminster was so deeply involved. I had also a commission

from the Sultan of Turkey which called for immediate action, as

political consequences of the gravest kind might arise from its

neglect. Therefore it was not until the beginning of the next week, as

my diary records, that I was able to start forth on my mission to

Bedfordshire in company with Mr. James M. Dodd. As we drove to Euston

we picked up a grave and taciturn gentleman of iron-grey aspect, with

whom I had made the necessary arrangements.

"This is an old friend," said I to Dodd. "It is possible that his

presence may be entirely unnecessary, and, on the other hand, it may be

essential. It is not necessary at the present stage to go further into

the matter."

The narratives of Watson have accustomed the reader, no doubt, to the

fact that I do not waste words or disclose my thoughts while a case is

actually under consideration. Dodd seemed surprised, but nothing more

was said and the three of us continued our journey together. In the

train I asked Dodd one more question which I wished our companion to

hear.

"You say that you saw your friend's face quite clearly at the window,

so clearly that you are sure of his identity?"

"I have no doubt about it whatever. His nose was pressed against the

glass. The lamplight shone full upon him."

"It could not have been someone resembling him?"

"No, no; it was he."

"But you say he was changed?"

"Only in colour. His face was--how shall I describe it?--it was of a

fish-belly whiteness. It was bleached."

"Was it equally pale all over?"

"I think not. It was his brow which I saw so clearly as it was pressed

against the window."

"Did you call to him?"

"I was too startled and horrified for the moment. Then I pursued him,

as I have told you, but without result."

My case was practically complete, and there was only one small incident

needed to round it off. When, after a considerable drive, we arrived

at the strange old rambling house which my client had described, it was

Ralph, the elderly butler, who opened the door. I had requisitioned

the carriage for the day and had asked my elderly friend to remain

within it unless we should summon him. Ralph, a little wrinkled old

fellow, was in the conventional costume of black coat and

pepper-and-salt trousers, with only one curious variant. He wore brown

leather gloves, which at sight of us he instantly shuffled off, laying

them down on the hall-table as we passed in. I have, as my friend

Watson may have remarked, an abnormally acute set of senses, and a

faint but incisive scent was apparent. It seemed to centre on the

hall-table. I turned, placed my hat there, knocked it off, stooped to

pick it up, and contrived to bring my nose within a foot of the gloves.

Yes, it was undoubtedly from them that the curious tarry odour was

oozing. I passed on into the study with my case complete. Alas, that

I should have to show my hand so when I tell my own story! It was by

concealing such links in the chain that Watson was enabled to produce

his meretricious finales.

Colonel Emsworth was not in his room, but he came quickly enough on

receipt of Ralph's message. We heard his quick, heavy step in the

passage. The door was flung open and he rushed in with bristling beard

and twisted features, as terrible an old man as ever I have seen. He

held our cards in his hand, and he tore them up and stamped on the

fragments.

"Have I not told you, you infernal busybody, that you are warned off

the premises? Never dare to show your damned face here again. If you

enter again without my leave I shall be within my rights if I use

violence. I'll shoot you, sir! By God, I will! As to you, sir,"

turning upon me, "I extend the same warning to you. I am familiar with

your ignoble profession, but you must take your reputed talents to some

other field. There is no opening for them here."

"I cannot leave here," said my client firmly, "until I hear from

Godfrey's own lips that he is under no restraint."

Our involuntary host rang the bell.

"Ralph," he said, "telephone down to the county police and ask the

inspector to send up two constables. Tell him there are burglars in

the house."

"One moment," said I. "You must be aware, Mr. Dodd, that Colonel

Emsworth is within his rights and that we have no legal status within

his house. On the other hand, he should recognize that your action is

prompted entirely by solicitude for his son. I venture to hope that,

if I were allowed to have five minutes' conversation with Colonel

Emsworth, I could certainly alter his view of the matter."

"I am not so easily altered," said the old soldier. "Ralph, do what I

have told you. What the devil are you waiting for? Ring up the

police!"

"Nothing of the sort," I said, putting my back to the door. "Any

police interference would bring about the very catastrophe which you

dread." I took out my notebook and scribbled one word upon a loose

sheet. "That," said I, as I handed it to Colonel Emsworth, "is what

has brought us here."

He stared at the writing with a face from which every expression save

amazement had vanished.

"How do you know?" he gasped, sitting down heavily in his chair.

"It is my business to know things. That is my trade."

He sat in deep thought, his gaunt hand tugging at his straggling beard.

Then he made a gesture of resignation.

"Well, if you wish to see Godfrey, you shall. It is no doing of mine,

but you have forced my hand. Ralph, tell Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Kent that

in five minutes we shall be with them."

At the end of that time we passed down the garden path and found

ourselves in front of the mystery house at the end. A small bearded

man stood at the door with a look of considerable astonishment upon his

face.

"This is very sudden, Colonel Emsworth," said he. "This will

disarrange all our plans."

"I can't help it, Mr. Kent. Our hands have been forced. Can Mr.

Godfrey see us?"

"Yes; he is waiting inside." He turned and led us into a large,

plainly furnished front room. A man was standing with his back to the

fire, and at the sight of him my client sprang forward with

outstretched hand.

"Why, Godfrey, old man, this is fine!"

But the other waved him back.

"Don't touch me, Jimmie. Keep your distance. Yes, you may well stare!

I don't quite look the smart Lance-Corporal Emsworth, of B Squadron, do

I?"

His appearance was certainly extraordinary. One could see that he had

indeed been a handsome man with clear-cut features sunburned by an

African sun, but mottled in patches over this darker surface were

curious whitish patches which had bleached his skin.

"That's why I don't court visitors," said he. "I don't mind you,

Jimmie, but I could have done without your friend. I suppose there is

some good reason for it, but you have me at a disadvantage."

"I wanted to be sure that all was well with you, Godfrey. I saw you

that night when you looked into my window, and I could not let the

matter rest till I had cleared things up."

"Old Ralph told me you were there, and I couldn't help taking a peep at

you. I hoped you would not have seen me, and I had to run to my burrow

when I heard the window go up."

"But what in Heaven's name is the matter?"

"Well, it's not a long story to tell," said he, lighting a cigarette.

"You remember that morning fight at Buffelsspruit, outside Pretoria, on

the Eastern railway line? You heard I was hit?"

"Yes, I heard that, but I never got particulars."

"Three of us got separated from the others. It was very broken

country, you may remember. There was Simpson--the fellow we called

Baldy Simpson--and Anderson, and I. We were clearing brother Boer, but

he lay low and got the three of us. The other two were killed. I got

an elephant bullet through my shoulder. I stuck on to my horse,

however, and he galloped several miles before I fainted and rolled off

the saddle.

"When I came to myself it was nightfall, and I raised myself up,

feeling very weak and ill. To my surprise there was a house close

beside me, a fairly large house with a broad stoep and many windows.

It was deadly cold. You remember the kind of numb cold which used to

come at evening, a deadly, sickening sort of cold, very different from

a crisp healthy frost. Well, I was chilled to the bone, and my only

hope seemed to lie in reaching that house. I staggered to my feet and

dragged myself along, hardly conscious of what I did. I have a dim

memory of slowly ascending the steps, entering a wide-opened door,

passing into a large room which contained several beds, and throwing

myself down with a gasp of satisfaction upon one of them. It was

unmade, but that troubled me not at all. I drew the clothes over my

shivering body and in a moment I was in a deep sleep.

"It was morning when I wakened, and it seemed to me that instead of

coming out into a world of sanity I had emerged into some extraordinary

nightmare. The African sun flooded through the big, curtainless

windows, and every detail of the great, bare, whitewashed dormitory

stood out hard and clear. In front of me was standing a small,

dwarf-like man with a huge, bulbous head, who was jabbering excitedly

in Dutch, waving two horrible hands which looked to me like brown

sponges. Behind him stood a group of people who seemed to be intensely

amused by the situation, but a chill came over me as I looked at them.

Not one of them was a normal human being. Every one was twisted or

swollen or disfigured in some strange way. The laughter of these

strange monstrosities was a dreadful thing to hear.

"It seemed that none of them could speak English, but the situation

wanted clearing up, for the creature with the big head was growing

furiously angry and, uttering wild beast cries, he had laid his

deformed hands upon me and was dragging me out of bed, regardless of

the fresh flow of blood from my wound. The little monster was as

strong as a bull, and I don't know what he might have done to me had

not an elderly man who was clearly in authority been attracted to the

room by the hubbub. He said a few stern words in Dutch and my

persecutor shrank away. Then he turned upon me, gazing at me in the

utmost amazement.

"'How in the world did you come here?' he asked, in amazement. 'Wait a

bit! I see that you are tired out and that wounded shoulder of yours

wants looking after. I am a doctor, and I'll soon have you tied up.

But, man alive! you are in far greater danger here than ever you were

on the battlefield. You are in the Leper Hospital, and you have slept

in a leper's bed.'

"Need I tell you more, Jimmie? It seems that in view of the

approaching battle all these poor creatures had been evacuated the day

before. Then, as the British advanced, they had been brought back by

this, their medical superintendent, who assured me that, though he

believed he was immune to the disease, he would none the less never

have dared to do what I had done. He put me in a private room, treated

me kindly, and within a week or so I was removed to the general

hospital at Pretoria.

"So there you have my tragedy. I hoped against hope, but it was not

until I had reached home that the terrible signs which you see upon my

face told me that I had not escaped. What was I to do? I was in this

lonely house. We had two servants whom we could utterly trust. There

was a house where I could live. Under pledge of secrecy, Mr. Kent, who

is a surgeon, was prepared to stay with me. It seemed simple enough on

those lines. The alternative was a dreadful one--segregation for life

among strangers with never a hope of release. But absolute secrecy was

necessary, or even in this quiet country-side there would have been an

outcry, and I should have been dragged to my horrible doom. Even you,

Jimmie--even you had to be kept in the dark. Why my father has

relented I cannot imagine."

Colonel Emsworth pointed to me.

"This is the gentleman who forced my hand." He unfolded the scrap of

paper on which I had written the word "Leprosy." "It seemed to me that

if he knew so much as that it was safer that he should know all."

"And so it was," said I. "Who knows but good may come of it? I

understand that only Mr. Kent has seen the patient. May I ask, sir, if

you are an authority on such complaints, which are, I understand,

tropical or semi-tropical in their nature?"

"I have the ordinary knowledge of the educated medical man," he

observed, with some stiffness.

"I have no doubt, sir, that you are fully competent, but I am sure that

you will agree that in such a case a second opinion is valuable. You

have avoided this, I understand, for fear that pressure should be put

upon you to segregate the patient."

"That is so," said Colonel Emsworth.

"I foresaw this situation," I explained, "and I have brought with me a

friend whose discretion may absolutely be trusted. I was able once to

do him a professional service, and he is ready to advise as a friend

rather than as a specialist. His name is Sir James Saunders."

The prospect of an interview with Lord Roberts would not have excited

greater wonder and pleasure in a raw subaltern than was now reflected

upon the face of Mr. Kent.

"I shall indeed be proud," he murmured.

"Then I will ask Sir James to step this way. He is at present in the

carriage outside the door. Meanwhile, Colonel Emsworth, we may perhaps

assemble in your study, where I could give the necessary explanations."

And here it is that I miss my Watson. By cunning questions and

ejaculations of wonder he could elevate my simple art, which is but

systematized common sense, into a prodigy. When I tell my own story I

have no such aid. And yet I will give my process of thought even as I

gave it to my small audience, which included Godfrey's mother, in the

study of Colonel Emsworth.

"That process," said I, "starts upon the supposition that when you have

eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains however

improbable, must be the truth. It may well be that several

explanations remain, in which case one tries test after test until one

or other of them has a convincing amount of support. We will now apply

this principle to the case in point. As it was first presented to me,

there were three possible explanations of the seclusion or

incarceration of this gentleman in an outhouse of his father's mansion.

There was the explanation that he was in hiding for a crime, or that he

was mad and that they wished to avoid an asylum, or that he had some

disease which caused his segregation. I could think of no other

adequate solutions. These, then, had to be sifted and balanced against

each other.

"The criminal solution would not bear inspection. No unsolved crime

had been reported from that district. I was sure of that. If it were

some crime not yet discovered, then clearly it would be to the interest

of the family to get rid of the delinquent and send him abroad rather

than keep him concealed at home. I could see no explanation for such a

line of conduct.

"Insanity was more plausible. The presence of the second person in the

outhouse suggested a keeper. The fact that he locked the door when he

came out strengthened the supposition and gave the idea of constraint.

On the other hand, this constraint could not be severe or the young man

could not have got loose and come down to have a look at his friend.

You will remember, Mr. Dodd, that I felt round for points, asking you,

for example, about the paper which Mr. Kent was reading. Had it been

_The Lancet_ or _The British Medical Journal_ it would have helped me.

It is not illegal, however, to keep a lunatic upon private premises so

long as there is a qualified person in attendance and that the

authorities have been duly notified. Why, then, all this desperate

desire for secrecy? Once again I could not get the theory to fit the

facts.

"There remained the third possibility, into which, rare and unlikely as

it was, everything seemed to fit. Leprosy is not uncommon in South

Africa. By some extraordinary chance this youth might have contracted

it. His people would be placed in a very dreadful position, since they

would desire to save him from segregation. Great secrecy would be

needed to prevent rumours from getting about and subsequent

interference by the authorities. A devoted medical man, if

sufficiently paid, would easily be found to take charge of the

sufferer. There would be no reason why the latter should not be

allowed freedom after dark. Bleaching of the skin is a common result

of the disease. The case was a strong one--so strong that I determined

to act as if it were actually proved. When on arriving here I noticed

that Ralph, who carries out the meals, had gloves which are impregnated

with disinfectants, my last doubts were removed. A single word showed

you, sir, that your secret was discovered, and if I wrote rather than

said it, it was to prove to you that my discretion was to be trusted."

I was finishing this little analysis of the case when the door was

opened and the austere figure of the great dermatologist was ushered

in. But for once his sphinx-like features had relaxed and there was a

warm humanity in his eyes. He strode up to Colonel Emsworth and shook

him by the hand.

"It is often my lot to bring ill-tidings, and seldom good," said he.

"This occasion is the more welcome. It is not leprosy."

"What?"

"A well-marked case of pseudo-leprosy or ichthyosis, a scale-like

affection of the skin, unsightly, obstinate, but possibly curable, and

certainly non-infective. Yes, Mr. Holmes, the coincidence is a

remarkable one. But is it coincidence? Are there not subtle forces at

work of which we know little? Are we assured that the apprehension,

from which this young man has no doubt suffered terribly since his

exposure to its contagion, may not produce a physical effect which

simulates that which it fears? At any rate, I pledge my professional

reputation---- But the lady has fainted! I think that Mr. Kent had

better be with her until she recovers from this joyous shock."

III

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MAZARIN STONE

It was pleasant to Dr. Watson to find himself once more in the untidy

room of the first floor in Baker Street which had been the

starting-point of so many remarkable adventures. He looked round him

at the scientific charts upon the wall, the acid-charred bench of

chemicals, the violin-case leaning in the corner, the coal-scuttle,

which contained of old the pipes and tobacco. Finally, his eyes came

round to the fresh and smiling face of Billy, the young but very wise

and tactful page, who had helped a little to fill up the gap of

loneliness and isolation which surrounded the saturnine figure of the

great detective.

"It all seems very unchanged, Billy. You don't change, either. I hope

the same can be said of him?"

Billy glanced, with some solicitude, at the closed door of the bedroom.

"I think he's in bed and asleep," he said.

It was seven in the evening of a lovely summer's day, but Dr. Watson

was sufficiently familiar with the irregularity of his old friend's

hours to feel no surprise at the idea.

"That means a case, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir; he is very hard at it just now. I'm frightened for his

health. He gets paler and thinner, and he eats nothing. 'When will

you be pleased to dine, Mr. Holmes?' Mrs. Hudson asked. 'Seven-thirty,

the day after to-morrow,' said he. You know his way when he is keen on

a case."

"Yes, Billy, I know."

"He's following someone. Yesterday he was out as a workman looking for

a job. To-day he was an old woman. Fairly took me in, he did, and I

ought to know his ways by now." Billy pointed with a grin to a very

baggy parasol which leaned against the sofa. "That's part of the old

woman's outfit," he said.

"But what is it all about, Billy?"

Billy sank his voice, as one who discusses great secrets of State. "I

don't mind telling you, sir, but it should go no farther. It's this

case of the Crown diamond."

"What--the hundred-thousand-pound burglary?"

"Yes, sir. They must get it back, sir. Why, we had the Prime Minister

and the Home Secretary both sitting on that very sofa. Mr. Holmes was

very nice to them. He soon put them at their ease and promised he

would do all he could. Then there is Lord Cantlemere----"

"Ah!"

"Yes, sir; you know what that means. He's a stiff 'un, sir, if I may

say so. I can get along with the Prime Minister, and I've nothing

against the Home Secretary, who seemed a civil, obliging sort of man,

but I can't stand his lordship. Neither can Mr. Holmes, sir. You see,

he don't believe in Mr. Holmes and he was against employing him. He'd

rather he failed."

"And Mr. Holmes knows it?"

"Mr. Holmes always knows whatever there is to know."

"Well, we'll hope he won't fail and that Lord Cantlemere will be

confounded. But I say, Billy, what is that curtain for across the

window?"

"Mr. Holmes had it put up there three days ago. We've got something

funny behind it."

Billy advanced and drew away the drapery which screened the alcove of

the bow window.

Dr. Watson could not restrain a cry of amazement. There was a

facsimile of his old friend, dressing-gown and all, the face turned

three-quarters towards the window and downwards, as though reading an

invisible book, while the body was sunk deep in an arm-chair. Billy

detached the head and held it in the air.

"We put it at different angles, so that it may seem more life-like. I

wouldn't dare touch it if the blind were not down. But when it's up

you can see this from across the way."

"We used something of the sort once before."

"Before my time," said Billy. He drew the window curtains apart and

looked out into the street. "There are folk who watch us from over

yonder. I can see a fellow now at the window. Have a look for

yourself."

Watson had taken a step forward when the bedroom door opened, and the

long, thin form of Holmes emerged, his face pale and drawn, but his

step and bearing as active as ever. With a single spring he was at the

window, and had drawn the blind once more.

"That will do, Billy," said he. "You were in danger of your life then,

my boy, and I can't do without you just yet. Well, Watson, it is good

to see you in your old quarters once again. You come at a critical

moment."

"So I gather."

"You can go, Billy. That boy is a problem, Watson. How far am I

justified in allowing him to be in danger?"

"Danger of what, Holmes?"

"Of sudden death. I'm expecting something this evening."

"Expecting what?"

"To be murdered, Watson."

"No, no; you are joking, Holmes!"

"Even my limited sense of humour could evolve a better joke than that.

But we may be comfortable in the meantime, may we not? Is alcohol

permitted? The gasogene and cigars are in the old place. Let me see

you once more in the customary arm-chair. You have not, I hope,

learned to despise my pipe and my lamentable tobacco? It has to take

the place of food these days."

"But why not eat?"

"Because the faculties become refined when you starve them. Why,

surely, as a doctor, my dear Watson, you must admit that what your

digestion gains in the way of blood supply is so much lost to the

brain. I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix.

Therefore, it is the brain I must consider."

"But this danger, Holmes?"

"Ah, yes; in case it should come off, it would perhaps be as well that

you should burden your memory with the name and address of the

murderer. You can give it to Scotland Yard, with my love and a parting

blessing. Sylvius is the name--Count Negretto Sylvius. Write it down,

man, write it down! 136 Moorside Gardens, N.W. Got it?"

Watson's honest face was twitching with anxiety. He knew only too well

the immense risks taken by Holmes, and was well aware that what he said

was more likely to be under-statement than exaggeration. Watson was

always the man of action, and he rose to the occasion.

"Count me in, Holmes. I have nothing to do for a day or two."

"Your morals don't improve, Watson. You have added fibbing to your

other vices. You bear every sign of the busy medical man, with calls

on him every hour."

"Not such important ones. But can't you have this fellow arrested?"

"Yes, Watson, I could. That's what worries him so."

"But why don't you?"

"Because I don't know where the diamond is."

"Ah! Billy told me--the missing Crown jewel!"

"Yes, the great yellow Mazarin stone. I've cast my net and I have my

fish. But I have not got the stone. What is the use of taking _them_?

We can make the world a better place by laying them by the heels. But

that is not what I am out for. It's the stone I want."

"And is this Count Sylvius one of your fish?"

"Yes, and he's a shark. He bites. The other is Sam Merton, the boxer.

Not a bad fellow, Sam, but the Count has used him. Sam's not a shark.

He is a great big silly bull-headed gudgeon. But he is flopping about

in my net all the same."

"Where is this Count Sylvius?"

"I've been at his very elbow all the morning. You've seen me as an old

lady, Watson. I was never more convincing. He actually picked up my

parasol for me once. 'By your leave, madame,' said he--half-Italian,

you know, and with the Southern graces of manner when in the mood, but

a devil incarnate in the other mood. Life is full of whimsical

happenings, Watson."

"It might have been tragedy."

"Well, perhaps it might. I followed him to old Straubenzee's workshop

in the Minories. Straubenzee made the air-gun--a very pretty bit of

work, as I understand, and I rather fancy it is in the opposite window

at the present moment. Have you seen the dummy? Of course, Billy

showed it to you. Well, it may get a bullet through its beautiful head

at any moment. Ah, Billy, what is it?"

The boy had reappeared in the room with a card upon a tray. Holmes

glanced at it with raised eyebrows and an amused smile.

"The man himself. I had hardly expected this. Grasp the nettle,

Watson! A man of nerve. Possibly you have heard of his reputation as

a shooter of big game. It would indeed be a triumphant ending to his

excellent sporting record if he added me to his bag. This is a proof

that he feels my toe very close behind his heel."

"Send for the police."

"I probably shall. But not just yet. Would you glance carefully out

of the window, Watson, and see if anyone is hanging about in the

street?"

Watson looked warily round the edge of the curtain.

"Yes, there is one rough fellow near the door."

"That will be Sam Merton--the faithful but rather fatuous Sam. Where

is this gentleman, Billy?"

"In the waiting-room, sir."

"Show him up when I ring."

"Yes, sir."

"If I am not in the room, show him in all the same."

"Yes, sir."

Watson waited until the door was closed, and then he turned earnestly

to his companion.

"Look here, Holmes, this is simply impossible. This is a desperate

man, who sticks at nothing. He may have come to murder you."

"I should not be surprised."

"I insist upon staying with you."

"You would be horribly in the way."

"In his way?"

"No, my dear fellow--in my way."

"Well, I can't possibly leave you."

"Yes, you can, Watson. And you will, for you have never failed to play

the game. I am sure you will play it to the end. This man has come

for his own purpose, but he may stay for mine." Holmes took out his

notebook and scribbled a few lines. "Take a cab to Scotland Yard and

give this to Youghal of the C.I.D. Come back with the police. The

fellow's arrest will follow."

"I'll do that with joy."

"Before you return I may have just time enough to find out where the

stone is." He touched the bell. "I think we will go out through the

bedroom. This second exit is exceedingly useful. I rather want to see

my shark without his seeing me, and I have, as you will remember, my

own way of doing it."

It was, therefore, an empty room into which Billy, a minute later,

ushered Count Sylvius. The famous game-shot, sportsman, and

man-about-town was a big, swarthy fellow, with a formidable dark

moustache, shading a cruel, thin-lipped mouth, and surmounted by a

long, curved nose, like the beak of an eagle. He was well dressed, but

his brilliant necktie, shining pin, and glittering rings were

flamboyant in their effect. As the door closed behind him he looked

round him with fierce, startled eyes, like one who suspects a trap at

every turn. Then he gave a violent start as he saw the impassive head

and the collar of the dressing-gown which projected above the arm-chair

in the window. At first his expression was one of pure amazement.

Then the light of a horrible hope gleamed in his dark, murderous eyes.

He took one more glance round to see that there were no witnesses, and

then, on tiptoe, his thick stick half raised, he approached the silent

figure. He was crouching for his final spring and blow when a cool,

sardonic voice greeted him from the open bedroom door:

"Don't break it, Count! Don't break it!"

The assassin staggered back, amazement in his convulsed face. For an

instant he half raised his loaded cane once more, as if he would turn

his violence from the effigy to the original; but there was something

in that steady grey eye and mocking smile which caused his hand to sink

to his side.

"It's a pretty little thing," said Holmes, advancing towards the image.

"Tavernier, the French modeller, made it. He is as good at waxworks as

your friend Straubenzee is at air-guns."

"Air-guns, sir! What do you mean?"

"Put your hat and stick on the side-table. Thank you! Pray take a

seat. Would you care to put your revolver out also? Oh, very good, if

you prefer to sit upon it. Your visit is really most opportune, for I

wanted badly to have a few minutes' chat with you."

The Count scowled, with heavy, threatening eyebrows.

"I, too, wished to have some words with you, Holmes. That is why I am

here. I won't deny that I intended to assault you just now."

Holmes swung his leg on the edge of the table.

"I rather gathered that you had some idea of the sort in your head,"

said he. "But why these personal attentions?"

"Because you have gone out of your way to annoy me. Because you have

put your creatures upon my track."

"My creatures! I assure you no!"

"Nonsense! I have had them followed. Two can play at that game,

Holmes."

"It is a small point, Count Sylvius, but perhaps you would kindly give

me my prefix when you address me. You can understand that, with my

routine of work, I should find myself on familiar terms with half the

rogues' gallery, and you will agree that exceptions are invidious."

"Well, _Mr._ Holmes, then."

"Excellent! But I assure you you are mistaken about my alleged agents."

Count Sylvius laughed contemptuously.

"Other people can observe as well as you. Yesterday there was an old

sporting man. To-day it was an elderly woman. They held me in view

all day."

"Really, sir, you compliment me. Old Baron Dowson said the night

before he was hanged that in my case what the law had gained the stage

had lost. And now you give my little impersonations your kindly

praise!"

"It was you--you yourself?"

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "You can see in the corner the parasol

which you so politely handed to me in the Minories before you began to

suspect."

"If I had known, you might never----"

"Have seen this humble home again. I was well aware of it. We all

have neglected opportunities to deplore. As it happens, you did not

know, so here we are!"

The Count's knotted brows gathered more heavily over his menacing eyes.

"What you say only makes the matter worse. It was not your agents, but

your play-acting, busybody self! You admit that you have dogged me.

Why?"

"Come now, Count. You used to shoot lions in Algeria."

"Well?"

"But why?"

"Why? The sport--the excitement--the danger!"

"And, no doubt, to free the country from a pest?"

"Exactly!"

"My reasons in a nutshell!"

The Count sprang to his feet, and his hand involuntarily moved back to

his hip-pocket.

"Sit down, sir, sit down! There was another, more practical, reason.

I want that yellow diamond!"

Count Sylvius lay back in his chair with an evil smile.

"Upon my word!" said he.

"You knew that I was after you for that. The real reason why you are

here to-night is to find out how much I know about the matter and how

far my removal is absolutely essential. Well, I should say that, from

your point of view, it is absolutely essential, for I know all about

it, save only one thing, which you are about to tell me."

"Oh, indeed! And, pray, what is this missing fact?"

"Where the Crown diamond now is."

The Count looked sharply at his companion. "Oh, you want to know that,

do you? How the devil should I be able to tell you where it is?"

"You can, and you will."

"Indeed!"

"You can't bluff me, Count Sylvius." Holmes's eyes, as he gazed at

him, contracted and lightened until they were like two menacing points

of steel. "You are absolute plate-glass. I see to the very back of

your mind."

"Then, of course, you see where the diamond is!"

Holmes clapped his hands with amusement, and then pointed a derisive

finger. "Then you do know. You have admitted it!"

"I admit nothing."

"Now, Count, if you will be reasonable, we can do business. If not,

you will get hurt."

Count Sylvius threw up his eyes to the ceiling. "And you talk about

bluff!" said he.

Holmes looked at him thoughtfully, like a master chess-player who

meditates his crowning move. Then he threw open the table drawer and

drew out a squat notebook.

"Do you know what I keep in this book?"

"No, sir, I do not!"

"You!"

"Me?"

"Yes, sir, _you_! You are all here--every action of your vile and

dangerous life."

"Damn you, Holmes!" cried the Count, with blazing eyes. "There are

limits to my patience!"

"It's all here, Count. The real facts as to the death of old Mrs.

Harold, who left you the Blymer estate, which you so rapidly gambled

away."

"You are dreaming!"

"And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender."

"Tut! You will make nothing of that!"

"Plenty more here, Count. Here is the robbery in the train-de-luxe to

the Riviera on February 13, 1892. Here is the forged cheque in the

same year on the Crédit Lyonnais."

"No; you're wrong there."

"Then I am right on the others! Now, Count, you are a card-player.

When the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw down

your hand."

"What has all this talk to do with the jewel of which you spoke?"

"Gently, Count. Restrain that eager mind! Let me get to the points in

my own humdrum fashion. I have all this against you; but, above all, I

have a clear case against both you and your fighting bully in the case

of the Crown diamond.

"Indeed!"

"I have the cabman who took you to Whitehall and the cabman who brought

you away. I have the Commissionaire who saw you near the case. I have

Ikey Sanders, who refused to cut it up for you. Ikey has peached, and

the game is up."

The veins stood out on the Count's forehead. His dark, hairy hands

were clenched in a convulsion of restrained emotion. He tried to

speak, but the words would not shape themselves.

"That's the hand I play from," said Holmes. "I put it all upon the

table. But one card is missing. It's the King of Diamonds. I don't

know where the stone is."

"You never shall know."

"No? Now, be reasonable, Count. Consider the situation. You are

going to be locked up for twenty years. So is Sam Merton. What good

are you going to get out of your diamond? None in the world. But if

you hand it over--well, I'll compound a felony. We don't want you or

Sam. We want the stone. Give that up, and so far as I am concerned

you can go free so long as you behave yourself in the future. If you

make another slip--well, it will be the last. But this time my

commission is to get the stone, not you."

"But if I refuse?"

"Why, then--alas!--it must be you and not the stone."

Billy had appeared in answer to a ring.

"I think, Count, that it would be as well to have your friend Sam at

this conference. After all, his interests should be represented.

Billy, you will see a large and ugly gentleman outside the front door.

Ask him to come up."

"If he won't come, sir?"

"No violence, Billy. Don't be rough with him. If you tell him that

Count Sylvius wants him he will certainly come."

"What are you going to do now?" asked the Count, as Billy disappeared.

"My friend Watson was with me just now. I told him that I had a shark

and a gudgeon in my net; now I am drawing the net and up they come

together."

The Count had risen from his chair, and his hand was behind his back.

Holmes held something half protruding from the pocket of his

dressing-gown.

"You won't die in your bed, Holmes."

"I have often had the same idea. Does it matter very much? After all,

Count, your own exit is more likely to be perpendicular than

horizontal. But these anticipations of the future are morbid. Why not

give ourselves up to the unrestrained enjoyment of the present?"

A sudden wild-beast light sprang up in the dark, menacing eyes of the

master criminal. Holmes's figure seemed to grow taller as he grew

tense and ready.

"It is no use your fingering your revolver, my friend," he said, in a

quiet voice. "You know perfectly well that you dare not use it, even

if I gave you time to draw it. Nasty, noisy things, revolvers, Count.

Better stick to air-guns. Ah! I think I hear the fairy footstep of

your estimable partner. Good day, Mr. Merton. Rather dull in the

street, is it not?"

The prize-fighter, a heavily built young man with a stupid, obstinate,

slab-sided face, stood awkwardly at the door, looking about him with a

puzzled expression. Holmes's debonair manner was a new experience, and

though he vaguely felt that it was hostile, he did not know how to

counter it. He turned to his more astute comrade for help.

"What's the game now, Count? What's this fellow want? What's up?"

His voice was deep and raucous.

The Count shrugged his shoulders and it was Holmes who answered.

"If I may put it in a nutshell, Mr. Merton, I should say it was _all_

up."

The boxer still addressed his remarks to his associate.

"Is this cove trying to be funny, or what? I'm not in the funny mood

myself."

"No, I expect not," said Holmes. "I think I can promise you that you

will feel even less humorous as the evening advances. Now, look here,

Count Sylvius. I'm a busy man and I can't waste time. I'm going into

that bedroom. Pray make yourselves quite at home in my absence. You

can explain to your friend how the matter lies without the restraint of

my presence. I shall try over the Hoffmann Barcarolle upon my violin.

In five minutes I shall return for your final answer. You quite grasp

the alternative, do you not? Shall we take you, or shall we have the

stone?"

Holmes withdrew, picking up his violin from the corner as he passed. A

few moments later the long-drawn, wailing notes of that most haunting

of tunes came faintly through the closed door of the bedroom.

"What is it, then?" asked Merton anxiously, as his companion turned to

him. "Does he know about the stone?"

"He knows a damned sight too much about it. I'm not sure that he

doesn't know all about it."

"Good Lord!" The boxer's sallow face turned a shade whiter.

"Ikey Sanders has split on us."

"He has, has he? I'll do him down a thick 'un for that if I swing for

it."

"That won't help us much. We've got to make up our minds what to do."

"Half a mo'," said the boxer, looking suspiciously at the bedroom door.

"He's a leary cove that wants watching. I suppose he's not listening?"

"How can he be listening with that music going?"

"That's right. Maybe somebody's behind a curtain. Too many curtains

in this room." As he looked round he suddenly saw for the first time

the effigy in the window, and stood staring and pointing, too amazed

for words.

"Tut! it's only a dummy," said the Count.

"A fake, is it? Well, strike me! Madame Tussaud ain't in it. It's

the living spit of him, gown and all. But them curtains, Count!"

"Oh, confound the curtains! We are wasting our time, and there is none

too much. He can lag us over this stone."

"The deuce he can!"

"But he'll let us slip if we only tell him where the swag is."

"What! Give it up? Give up a hundred thousand quid?"

"It's one or the other."

Merton scratched his short-cropped pate.

"He's alone in there. Let's do him in. If his light were out we

should have nothing to fear."

The Count shook his head.

"He is armed and ready. If we shot him we could hardly get away in a

place like this. Besides, it's likely enough that the police know

whatever evidence he has got. Hallo! What was that?"

There was a vague sound which seemed to come from the window. Both men

sprang round, but all was quiet. Save for the one strange figure

seated in the chair, the room was certainly empty.

"Something in the street," said Merton. "Now look here, guv'nor,

you've got the brains. Surely you can think a way out of it. If

slugging is no use then it's up to you."

"I've fooled better men than he," the Count answered. "The stone is

here in my secret pocket. I take no chances leaving it about. It can

be out of England to-night and cut into four pieces in Amsterdam before

Sunday. He knows nothing of Van Seddar."

"I thought Van Seddar was going next week."

"He _was_. But now he must get off by the next boat. One or other of

us must slip round with the stone to Lime Street and tell him."

"But the false bottom ain't ready."

"Well, he must take it as it is and chance it. There's not a moment to

lose." Again, with the sense of danger which becomes an instinct with

the sportsman, he paused and looked hard at the window. Yes, it was

surely from the street that the faint sound had come.

"As to Holmes," he continued, "we can fool him easily enough. You see,

the damned fool won't arrest us if he can get the stone. Well, we'll

promise him the stone. We'll put him on the wrong track about it, and

before he finds that it is the wrong track it will be in Holland and we

out of the country."

"That sounds good to me!" cried Sam Merton, with a grin.

"You go on and tell the Dutchman to get a move on him. I'll see this

sucker and fill him up with a bogus confession. I'll tell him that the

stone is in Liverpool. Confound that whining music; it gets on my

nerves! By the time he finds it isn't in Liverpool it will be in

quarters and we on the blue water. Come back here, out of a line with

that keyhole. Here is the stone."

"I wonder you dare carry it."

"Where could I have it safer? If we could take it out of Whitehall

someone else could surely take it out of my lodgings."

"Let's have a look at it."

Count Sylvius cast a somewhat unflattering glance at his associate, and

disregarded the unwashed hand which was extended towards him.

"What--d'ye think I'm going to snatch it off you? See here, mister,

I'm getting a bit tired of your ways."

"Well, well; no offence, Sam. We can't afford to quarrel. Come over

to the window if you want to see the beauty properly. Now hold it to

the light! Here!"

"Thank you!"

With a single spring Holmes had leaped from the dummy's chair and had

grasped the precious jewel. He held it now in one hand, while his

other pointed a revolver at the Count's head. The two villains

staggered back in utter amazement. Before they had recovered Holmes

had pressed the electric bell.

"No violence, gentlemen--no violence, I beg of you! Consider the

furniture! It must be very clear to you that your position is an

impossible one. The police are waiting below."

The Count's bewilderment overmastered his rage and fear.

"But how the deuce----?" he gasped.

"Your surprise is very natural. You are not aware that a second door

from my bedroom leads behind that curtain. I fancied that you must

have heard me when I displaced the figure, but luck was on my side. It

gave me a chance of listening to your racy conversation which would

have been painfully constrained had you been aware of my presence."

The Count gave a gesture of resignation.

"We give you best, Holmes. I believe you are the devil himself."

"Not far from him, at any rate," Holmes answered, with a polite smile.

Sam Merton's slow intellect had only gradually appreciated the

situation. Now, as the sound of heavy steps came from the stairs

outside, he broke silence at last.

"A fair cop!" said he. "But, I say, what about that bloomin' fiddle!

I hear it yet."

"Tut, tut!" Holmes answered. "You are perfectly right. Let it play!

These modern gramophones are a remarkable invention."

There was an inrush of police, the handcuffs clicked and the criminals

were led to the waiting cab. Watson lingered with Holmes,

congratulating him upon this fresh leaf added to his laurels. Once

more their conversation was interrupted by the imperturbable Billy with

his card-tray.

"Lord Cantlemere, sir."

"Show him up, Billy. This is the eminent peer who represents the very

highest interests," said Holmes. "He is an excellent and loyal person,

but rather of the old regime. Shall we make him unbend? Dare we

venture upon a slight liberty? He knows, we may conjecture, nothing of

what has occurred."

The door opened to admit a thin, austere figure with a hatchet face and

drooping mid-Victorian whiskers of a glossy blackness which hardly

corresponded with the rounded shoulders and feeble gait. Holmes

advanced affably, and shook an unresponsive hand.

"How-do-you-do, Lord Cantlemere? It is chilly, for the time of year,

but rather warm indoors. May I take your overcoat?"

"No, I thank you; I will not take it off."

Holmes laid his hand insistently upon the sleeve.

"Pray allow me! My friend Dr. Watson would assure you that these

changes of temperature are most insidious."

His lordship shook himself free with some impatience.

"I am quite comfortable, sir. I have no need to stay. I have simply

looked in to know how your self-appointed task was progressing."

"It is difficult--very difficult."

"I feared that you would find it so."

There was a distinct sneer in the old courtier's words and manner.

"Every man finds his limitations, Mr. Holmes, but at least it cures us

of the weakness of self-satisfaction."

"Yes, sir, I have been much perplexed."

"No doubt."

"Especially upon one point. Possibly you could help me upon it?"

"You apply for my advice rather late in the day. I thought that you

had your own all-sufficient methods. Still, I am ready to help you."

"You see, Lord Cantlemere, we can no doubt frame a case against the

actual thieves."

"When you have caught them."

"Exactly. But the question is--how shall we proceed against the

receiver?"

"Is this not rather premature?"

"It is as well to have our plans ready. Now, what would you regard as

final evidence against the receiver?"

"The actual possession of the stone."

"You would arrest him upon that?"

"Most undoubtedly."

Holmes seldom laughed, but he got as near it as his old friend Watson

could remember.

"In that case, my dear sir, I shall be under the painful necessity of

advising your arrest."

Lord Cantlemere was very angry. Some of the ancient fires flickered up

into his sallow cheeks.

"You take a great liberty, Mr. Holmes. In fifty years of official life

I cannot recall such a case. I am a busy man, sir, engaged upon

important affairs, and I have no time or taste for foolish jokes. I

may tell you frankly, sir, that I have never been a believer in your

powers, and that I have always been of the opinion that the matter was

far safer in the hands of the regular police force. Your conduct

confirms all my conclusions. I have the honour, sir, to wish you good

evening."

Holmes had swiftly changed his position and was between the peer and

the door.

"One moment, sir," said he. "To actually go off with the Mazarin stone

would be a more serious offence than to be found in temporary

possession of it."

"Sir, this is intolerable! Let me pass."

"Put your hand in the right-hand pocket of your overcoat."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Come--come; do what I ask."

An instant later the amazed peer was standing, blinking and stammering,

with the great yellow stone on his shaking palm.

"What! What! How is this, Mr. Holmes?"

"Too bad, Lord Cantlemere, too bad!" cried Holmes. "My old friend here

will tell you that I have an impish habit of practical joking. Also

that I can never resist a dramatic situation. I took the liberty--the

very great liberty, I admit--of putting the stone into your pocket at

the beginning of our interview."

The old peer stared from the stone to the smiling face before him.

"Sir, I am bewildered. But--yes--it is indeed the Mazarin stone. We

are greatly your debtors, Mr. Holmes. Your sense of humour may, as you

admit, be somewhat perverted, and its exhibition remarkably untimely,

but at least I withdraw any reflection I have made upon your amazing

professional powers. But how----"

"The case is but half finished; the details can wait. No doubt, Lord

Cantlemere, your pleasure in telling of this successful result in the

exalted circle to which you return will be some small atonement for my

practical joke. Billy, you will show his lordship out, and tell Mrs.

Hudson that I should be glad if she would send up dinner for two as

soon as possible."

IV

THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GABLES

I don't think that any of my adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes opened

quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I associate with

The Three Gables. I had not seen Holmes for some days, and had no idea

of the new channel into which his activities had been directed. He was

in a chatty mood that morning, however, and had just settled me into

the well-worn low arm-chair on one side of the fire, while he had

curled down with his pipe in his mouth upon the opposite chair, when

our visitor arrived. If I had said that a mad bull had arrived, it

would give a clearer impression of what occurred.

The door had flown open and a huge negro had burst into the room. He

would have been a comic figure if he had not been terrific, for he was

dressed in a very loud grey check suit with a flowing salmon-coloured

tie. His broad face and flattened nose were thrust forward, as his

sullen dark eyes, with a smouldering gleam of malice in them, turned

from one of us to the other.

"Which of you genelmen is Masser Holmes?" he asked.

Holmes raised his pipe with a languid smile.

"Oh! it's you, is it?" said our visitor, coming with an unpleasant,

stealthy step round the angle of the table. "See here, Masser Holmes,

you keep your hands out of other folks' business. Leave folks to

manage their own affairs. Got that, Masser Holmes?"

"Keep on talking," said Holmes. "It's fine."

"Oh! it's fine, is it?" growled the savage. "It won't be so damn fine

if I have to trim you up a bit. I've handled your kind before now, and

they didn't look fine when I was through with them. Look at that,

Masser Holmes!"

He swung a huge knotted lump of a fist under my friend's nose. Holmes

examined it closely with an air of great interest. "Were you born so?"

he asked. "Or did it come by degrees?"

It may have been the icy coolness of my friend, or it may have been the

slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker. In any case, our

visitor's manner became less flamboyant.

"Well, I've given you fair warnin'," said he. "I've a friend that's

interested out Harrow way--you know what I'm meaning--and he don't

intend to have no buttin' in by you. Got that? You ain't the law, and

I ain't the law either, and if you come in I'll be on hand also. Don't

you forget it."

"I've wanted to meet you for some time," said Holmes. "I won't ask you

to sit down, for I don't like the smell of you, but aren't you Steve

Dixie, the bruiser?

"That's my name, Masser Holmes, and you'll get put through it for sure

if you give me any lip."

"It is certainly the last thing you need," said Holmes, staring at our

visitor's hideous mouth. "But it was the killing of young Perkins

outside the Holborn Bar---- What! you're not going?"

The negro had sprung back, and his face was leaden. "I won't listen to

no such talk," said he. "What have I to do with this 'ere Perkins,

Masser Holmes? I was trainin' at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when this

boy done gone get into trouble."

"Yes, you'll tell the magistrate about it, Steve," said Holmes. "I've

been watching you and Barney Stockdale----"

"So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes----"

"That's enough. Get out of it. I'll pick you up when I want you."

"Good mornin', Masser Holmes. I hope there ain't no hard feelin's

about this 'ere visit?"

"There will be unless you tell me who sent you."

"Why, there ain't no secret about that, Masser Holmes. It was that

same genelman that you have just done gone mention."

"And who set him on to it?"

"S'elp me. I don't know, Masser Holmes. He just say, 'Steve, you go

see Mr. Holmes, and tell him his life ain't safe if he go down Harrow

way.' That's the whole truth."

Without waiting for any further questioning, our visitor bolted out of

the room almost as precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked out

the ashes of his pipe with a quiet chuckle.

"I am glad you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I

observed your manoeuvres with the poker. But he is really rather a

harmless fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby, and easily

cowed, as you have seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang and has

taken part in some dirty work of late which I may clear up when I have

time. His immediate principal, Barney, is a more astute person. They

specialize in assaults, intimidation, and the like. What I want to

know is, who is at the back of them on this particular occasion?"

"But why do they want to intimidate you?"

"It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the matter,

for if it is worth anyone's while to take so much trouble, there must

be something in it."

"But what is it?"

"I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is

Mrs. Maberley's note. If you care to come with me we will wire her and

go out at once."

DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, (I read)--

I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in connection

with this house, and I should much value your advice. You would find

me at home any time to-morrow. The house is within a short walk of the

Weald Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer Maberley, was

one of your early clients.

Yours faithfully,

MARY MABERLEY.

The address was "The Three Gables, Harrow Weald."

"So that's that!" said Holmes. "And now, if you can spare the time,

Watson, we will get upon our way."

A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the house,

a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of undeveloped

grassland. Three small projections above the upper windows made a

feeble attempt to justify its name. Behind was a grove of melancholy,

half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place was poor and

depressing. None the less, we found the house to be well furnished,

and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly person, who

bore every mark of refinement and culture.

"I remember your husband well, madam," said Holmes, "though it is some

years since he used my services in some trifling matter."

"Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son Douglas."

Holmes looked at her with great interest.

"Dear me! Are you the mother of Douglas Maberley? I knew him

slightly. But, of course, all London knew him. What a magnificent

creature he was! Where is he now?"

"Dead, Mr. Holmes, dead! He was Attaché at Rome, and he died there of

pneumonia last month."

"I am sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have

never known anyone so vitally alive. He lived intensely--every fibre

of him!"

"Too intensely, Mr. Holmes. That was the ruin of him. You remember

him as he was--debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody,

morose, brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was

broken. In a single month I seemed to see my gallant boy turn into a

worn-out cynical man."

"A love affair--a woman?"

"Or a fiend. Well, it was not to talk of my poor lad that I asked you

to come, Mr. Holmes."

"Dr. Watson and I are at your service."

"There have been some very strange happenings. I have been in this

house more than a year now, and as I wished to lead a retired life I

have seen little of my neighbours. Three days ago I had a call from a

man who said that he was a house agent. He said that this house would

exactly suit a client of his and that if I would part with it money

would be no object. It seemed to me very strange, as there are several

empty houses on the market which appear to be equally eligible, but

naturally I was interested in what he said. I therefore named a price

which was five hundred pounds more than I gave. He at once closed with

the offer, but added that his client desired to buy the furniture as

well and would I put a price upon it. Some of this furniture is from

my old home, and it is, as you see, very good, so that I named a good

round sum. To this also he at once agreed. I had always wanted to

travel, and the bargain was so good a one that it really seemed that I

should be my own mistress for the rest of my life.

"Yesterday the man arrived with the agreement all drawn out. Luckily I

showed it to Mr. Sutro, my lawyer, who lives in Harrow. He said to me,

'This is a very strange document. Are you aware that if you sign it

you could not legally take _anything_ out of the house--not even your

own private possessions?' When the man came again in the evening I

pointed this out, and I said that I meant only to sell the furniture.

"'No, no; everything,' said he.

"'But my clothes? My jewels?'

"'Well, well, some concession might be made for your personal effects.

But nothing shall go out of the house unchecked. My client is a very

liberal man, but he has his fads and his own way of doing things. It

is everything or nothing with him.'

"'Then it must be nothing,' said I. And there the matter was left, but

the whole thing seemed to me to be so unusual that I thought----"

Here we had a very extraordinary interruption.

Holmes raised his hand for silence. Then he strode across the room,

flung open the door, and dragged in a great gaunt woman whom he had

seized by the shoulder. She entered with ungainly struggles, like some

huge awkward chicken, torn squawking out of its coop.

"Leave me alone! What are you a-doin' of?" she screeched.

"Why, Susan, what is this?"

"Well, ma'am, I was comin' in to ask if the visitors was stayin' for

lunch when this man jumped out at me."

"I have been listening to her for the last five minutes, but did not

wish to interrupt your most interesting narrative. Just a little

wheezy, Susan, are you not? You breathe too heavily for that kind of

work."

Susan turned a sulky but amazed face upon her captor. "Who be you,

anyhow, and what right have you a-pullin' me about like this?"

"It was merely that I wished to ask a question in your presence. Did

you, Mrs. Maberley, mention to anyone that you were going to write to

me and consult me?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, I did not."

"Who posted your letter?"

"Susan did."

"Exactly. Now, Susan, to whom was it that you wrote or sent a message

to say that your mistress was asking advice from me?"

"It's a lie. I sent no message."

"Now, Susan, wheezy people may not live long, you know. It's a wicked

thing to tell fibs. Whom did you tell?"

"Susan!" cried her mistress, "I believe you are a bad, treacherous

woman. I remember now that I saw you speaking to someone over the

hedge."

"That was my own business," said the woman sullenly.

"Suppose I tell you that it was Barney Stockdale to whom you spoke?"

said Holmes.

"Well, if you know, what do you want to ask for?"

"I was not sure, but I know now. Well now, Susan, it will be worth ten

pounds to you if you will tell me who is at the back of Barney."

"Someone that could lay down a thousand pounds for every ten you have

in the world."

"So, a rich man? No; you smiled--a rich woman. Now we have got so

far, you may as well give the name and earn the tenner."

"I'll see you in hell first."

"Oh, Susan! Language!"

"I am clearing out of here. I've had enough of you all. I'll send for

my box to-morrow." She flounced for the door.

"Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff.... Now," he continued,

turning suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed behind

the flushed and angry woman, "this gang means business. Look how close

they play the game. Your letter to me had the 10 p.m. postmark. And

yet Susan passes the word to Barney. Barney has time to go to his

employer and get instructions; he or she--I incline to the latter from

Susan's grin when she thought I had blundered--forms a plan. Black

Steve is called in, and I am warned off by eleven o'clock next morning.

That's quick work, you know."

"But what do they want?"

"Yes, that's the question. Who had the house before you?"

"A retired sea captain, called Ferguson."

"Anything remarkable about him?"

"Not that ever I heard of."

"I was wondering whether he could have buried something. Of course,

when people bury treasure nowadays they do it in the Post Office bank.

But there are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull world

without them. At first I thought of some buried valuable. But why, in

that case, should they want your furniture? You don't happen to have a

Raphael or a first folio Shakespeare without knowing it?"

"No, I don't think I have anything rarer than a Crown Derby tea-set."

"That would hardly justify all this mystery. Besides, why should they

not openly state what they want? If they covet your tea-set, they can

surely offer a price for it without buying you out, lock, stock, and

barrel. No, as I read it, there is something which you do not know

that you have, and which you would not give up if you did know."

"That is how I read it," said I.

"Dr. Watson agrees, so that settles it."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, what can it be?"

"Let us see whether by this purely mental analysis we can get it to a

finer point. You have been in this house a year."

"Nearly two."

"All the better. During this long period no one wants anything from

you. Now suddenly within three or four days you have urgent demands.

What would you gather from that?"

"It can only mean," said I, "that the object, whatever it may be, has

only just come into the house."

"Settled once again," said Holmes. "Now, Mrs. Maberley, has any object

just arrived?"

"No; I have bought nothing new this year."

"Indeed! That is very remarkable. Well, I think we had best let

matters develop a little further until we have clearer data. Is that

lawyer of yours a capable man?"

"Mr. Sutro is most capable."

"Have you another maid, or was the fair Susan, who has just banged your

front door, alone?"

"I have a young girl."

"Try and get Sutro to spend a night or two in the house. You might

possibly want protection."

"Against whom?"

"Who knows? The matter is certainly obscure. If I can't find what

they are after, I must approach the matter from the other end, and try

to get at the principal. Did this house-agent man give any address?"

"Simply his card and occupation. Haines-Johnson, Auctioneer and

Valuer."

"I don't think we shall find him in the Directory. Honest business men

don't conceal their place of business. Well, you will let me know any

fresh development. I have taken up your case, and you may rely upon it

that I shall see it through."

As we passed through the hall Holmes's eyes, which missed nothing,

lighted upon several trunks and cases which were piled in the corner.

The labels shone out upon them.

"'Milano.' 'Lucerne.' These are from Italy."

"They are poor Douglas's things."

"You have not unpacked them? How long have you had them?"

"They arrived last week."

"But you said--why, surely this might be the missing link. How do we

know that there is not something of value there?"

"There could not possibly be, Mr. Holmes. Poor Douglas had only his

pay and a small annuity. What could he have of value?"

Holmes was lost in thought.

"Delay no longer, Mrs. Maberley," he said at last. "Have these things

taken upstairs to your bedroom. Examine them as soon as possible and

see what they contain. I will come to-morrow and hear your report."

It was quite evident that The Three Gables was under very close

surveillance, for as we came round the high hedge at the end of the

lane there was the negro prize-fighter standing in the shadow. We came

on him quite suddenly, and a grim and menacing figure he looked in that

lonely place. Holmes clapped his hand to his pocket.

"Lookin' for your gun, Masser Holmes?"

"No; for my scent-bottle, Steve."

"You are funny, Masser Holmes, ain't you?"

"It won't be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave you fair

warning this morning."

"Well, Masser Holmes, I done gone think over what you said, and I don't

want no more talk about that affair of Masser Perkins. S'pose I can

help you, Masser Holmes, I will."

"Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job?"

"So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes, I told you the truth before. I

don't know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that's all."

"Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, and

everything under that roof, is under my protection. Don't you forget

it."

"All right, Masser Holmes. I'll remember.'

"I've got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson," Holmes

remarked as we walked on. "I think he would double-cross his employer

if he knew who he was. It was lucky I had some knowledge of the

Spencer John crowd, and that Steve was one of them. Now, Watson, this

is a case for Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now. When I get

back I may be clearer in the matter."

I saw no more of Holmes during the day, but I could well imagine how he

spent it, for Langdale Pike was his human book of reference upon all

matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent his

waking hours in the bow window of a St. James's Street club, and was

the receiving-station, as well as the transmitter, for all the gossip

of the Metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income by the

paragraphs which he contributed every week to the garbage papers which

cater for an inquisitive public. If ever, far down in the turbid

depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or eddy, it was

marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon the surface.

Holmes discreetly helped Langdale to knowledge, and on occasion was

helped in turn.

When I met my friend in his room early next morning, I was conscious

from his bearing that all was well, but none the less a most unpleasant

surprise was awaiting us. It took the shape of the following telegram:

"Please come out at once. Client's house burgled in the night. Police

in possession.

"SUTRO."

Holmes whistled. "The drama has come to a crisis, and quicker than I

had expected. There is a great driving-power at the back of this

business, Watson, which does not surprise me after what I have heard.

This Sutro, of course, is her lawyer. I made a mistake, I fear, in not

asking you to spend the night on guard. This fellow has clearly proved

a broken reed. Well, there is nothing for it but another journey to

Harrow Weald."

We found The Three Gables a very different establishment to the orderly

household of the previous day. A small group of idlers had assembled

at the garden gate, while a couple of constables were examining the

windows and the geranium beds. Within we met a grey old gentleman, who

introduced himself as the lawyer, together with a bustling, rubicund

Inspector, who greeted Holmes as an old friend.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, no chance for you in this case, I'm afraid. Just a

common, ordinary burglary, and well within the capacity of the poor old

police. No experts need apply."

"I am sure the case is in very good hands," said Holmes. "Merely a

common burglary, you say?"

"Quite so. We know pretty well who the men are and where to find them.

It is that gang of Barney Stockdale, with the big nigger in it--they've

been seen about here."

"Excellent! What did they get?"

"Well, they don't seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley was

chloroformed and the house was---- Ah! here is the lady herself."

Our friend of yesterday, looking very pale and ill, had entered the

room, leaning upon a little maid-servant.

"You gave me good advice, Mr. Holmes," said she, smiling ruefully.

"Alas, I did not take it! I did not wish to trouble Mr. Sutro, and so

I was unprotected."

"I only heard of it this morning," the lawyer explained.

"Mr. Holmes advised me to have some friend in the house. I neglected

his advice, and I have paid for it."

"You look wretchedly ill," said Holmes. "Perhaps you are hardly equal

to telling me what occurred."

"It is all here," said the Inspector, tapping a bulky notebook.

"Still, if the lady is not too exhausted----"

"There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wicked Susan

had planned an entrance for them. They must have known the house to an

inch. I was conscious for a moment of the chloroform rag which was

thrust over my mouth, but I have no notion how long I may have been

senseless. When I woke, one man was at the bedside and another was

rising with a bundle in his hand from among my son's baggage, which was

partially opened and littered over the floor. Before he could get away

I sprang up and seized him."

"You took a big risk," said the Inspector.

"I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may have struck me,

for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard the noise and began

screaming out of the window. That brought the police, but the rascals

had got away."

"What did they take?"

"Well, I don't think there is anything of value missing. I am sure

there was nothing in my son's trunks."

"Did the men leave no clue?"

"There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from the man that I

grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is in my son's

handwriting."

"Which means that it is not of much use," said the Inspector. "Now if

it had been in the burglar's----"

"Exactly," said Holmes. "What rugged common sense! None the less, I

should be curious to see it."

The Inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocket-book.

"I never pass anything, however trifling," said he, with some

pomposity. "That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twenty-five

years' experience I have learned my lesson. There is always the chance

of finger-marks or something."

Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.

"What do you make of it, Inspector?"

"Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see."

"It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale," said Holmes.

"You have noticed the number on the top of the page. It is two hundred

and forty-five. Where are the odd two hundred and forty-four pages?"

"Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it do them!"

"It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to steal such

papers as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?"

"Yes, sir; it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbed at

what came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got."

"Why should they go to my son's things?" asked Mrs. Maberley.

"Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they tried their luck

upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?"

"I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson." Then,

as we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. It began in

the middle of a sentence and ran like this:

"... face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it was nothing

to the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face, the face for

which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life, looking out at

his agony and humiliation. She smiled--yes, by Heaven! she smiled,

like the heartless fiend she was, as he looked up at her. It was at

that moment that love died and hate was born. Man must live for

something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, then it shall

surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge."

"Queer grammar!" said Holmes, with a smile, as he handed the paper back

to the Inspector. "Did you notice how the 'he' suddenly changed to

'my.' The writer was so carried away by his own story that he imagined

himself at the supreme moment to be the hero."

"It seemed mighty poor stuff," said the Inspector, as he replaced it in

his book. "What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?"

"I don't think there is anything more for me to do now that the case is

in such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did you say you

wished to travel?"

"It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes."

"Where would you like to go--Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?"

"Oh! if I had the money I would go round the world."

"Quite so. Round the world. Well, good morning. I may drop you a

line in the evening." As we passed the window I caught a glimpse of

the Inspector's smile and shake of the head. "These clever fellows

have always a touch of madness." That was what I read in the

Inspector's smile.

"Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey," said

Holmes, when we were back in the roar of Central London once more. "I

think we had best clear the matter up at once, and it would be well

that you should come with me, for it is safer to have a witness when

you are dealing with such a lady as Isadora Klein."

We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address in Grosvenor

Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but he roused himself

suddenly.

"By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?"

"No, I can't say that I do. I only gather that we are going to see the

lady who is behind all this mischief."

"Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing to you? She

was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was never a woman to

touch her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of the masterful

Conquistadors, and her people have been leaders in Pernambuco for

generations. She married the aged German sugar king, Klein, and

presently found herself the richest as well as the most lovely widow

upon earth. Then there was an interval of adventure when she pleased

her own tastes. She had several lovers, and Douglas Maberley, one of

the most striking men in London, was one of them. It was by all

accounts more than an adventure with him. He was not a Society

butterfly, but a strong, proud man who gave and expected all. But she

is the '_belle dame sans merci_' of fiction. When her caprice is

satisfied, the matter is ended, and if the other party in the matter

can't take her word for it, she knows how to bring it home to him."

"Then that was his own story----"

"Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about to

marry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son. His

Grace's ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would be a

different matter, so it is imperative---- Ah! here we are."

It was one of the finest corner-houses of the West End. A machine-like

footman took up our cards and returned with word that the lady was not

at home. "Then we shall wait until she is," said Holmes cheerfully.

The machine broke down.

"Not at home means not at home to _you_," said the footman.

"Good," Holmes answered. "That means that we shall not have to wait.

Kindly give this note to your mistress."

He scribbled three or four words upon a sheet of his notebook, folded

it, and handed it to the man.

"What did you say, Holmes?" I asked.

"I simply wrote 'Shall it be the police, then?' I think that should

pass us in."

It did--with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in an

Arabian-nights' drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom,

picked out with an occasional pink electric light. The lady had come,

I felt, to that time of life when even the proudest beauty finds the

half-light more welcome. She rose from a settee as we entered: tall,

queenly, a perfect figure, a lovely mask-like face, with two wonderful

Spanish eyes which looked murder at us both.

"What is this intrusion--and this insulting message?" she asked,

holding up the slip of paper.

"I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for your

intelligence to do so--though I confess that intelligence has been

surprisingly at fault of late."

"How so, sir?"

"By supposing that your hired bullies could frighten me from my work.

Surely no man would take up my profession if it were not that danger

attracts him. It was you, then, who forced me to examine the case of

young Maberley."

"I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to do with

hired bullies?"

Holmes turned away wearily.

"Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good afternoon!"

"Stop! Where are you going?"

"To Scotland Yard."

We had not got half-way to the door before she had overtaken us and was

holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from steel to velvet.

"Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over. I feel

that I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have the feelings of a

gentleman. How quick a woman's instinct is to find it out. I will

treat you as a friend."

"I cannot promise to reciprocate, madame. I am not the law, but I

represent justice so far as my feeble powers go. I am ready to listen,

and then I will tell you how I will act."

"No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like yourself."

"What was really foolish, madame, is that you have placed yourself in

the power of a band of rascals who may blackmail or give you away."

"No, no! I am not so simple. Since I have promised to be frank, I may

say that no one, save Barney Stockdale and Susan, his wife, have the

least idea who their employer is. As to them, well, it is not the

first----" She smiled and nodded, with a charming coquettish intimacy.

"I see. You've tested them before."

"They are good hounds who run silent."

"Such hounds have a way sooner or later of biting the hand that feeds

them. They will be arrested for this burglary. The police are already

after them."

"They will take what comes to them. That is what they are paid for. I

shall not appear in the matter."

"Unless I bring you into it."

"No, no; you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a woman's secret."

"In the first place you must give back this manuscript."

She broke into a ripple of laughter, and walked to the fireplace.

There was a calcined mass which she broke up with the poker. "Shall I

give this back?" she asked. So roguish and exquisite did she look as

she stood before us with a challenging smile that I felt of all

Holmes's criminals this was the one whom he would find it hardest to

face. However, he was immune from sentiment.

"That seals your fate," he said coldly. "You are very prompt in your

actions, madame, but you have overdone it on this occasion."

She threw the poker down with a clatter.

"How hard you are!" she cried. "May I tell you the whole story?"

"I fancy I could tell it to you."

"But you must look at it with my eyes, Mr. Holmes. You must realize it

from the point of view of a woman who sees all her life's ambition

about to be ruined at the last moment. Is such a woman to be blamed if

she protects herself?"

"The original sin was yours."

"Yes, yes! I admit it. He was a dear boy, Douglas, but it so chanced

that he could not fit into my plans. He wanted marriage--marriage, Mr.

Holmes--with a penniless commoner. Nothing less would serve him. Then

he became pertinacious. Because I had given he seemed to think that I

still must give, and to him only. It was intolerable. At last I had

to make him realize it."

"By hiring ruffians to beat him under your own window."

"You do indeed seem to know everything. Well, it is true. Barney and

the boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little rough in doing so.

But what did he do then? Could I have believed that a gentleman would

do such an act? He wrote a book in which he described his own story.

I, of course, was the wolf; he the lamb. It was all there, under

different names, of course; but who in all London would have failed to

recognize it? What do you say to that, Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, he was within his rights."

"It was as if the air of Italy had got into his blood and brought with

it the old cruel Italian spirit. He wrote to me and sent me a copy of

his book that I might have the torture of anticipation. There were two

copies, he said--one for me, one for his publisher."

"How did you know the publisher's had not reached him?"

"I knew who his publisher was. It is not his only novel, you know. I

found out that he had not heard from Italy. Then came Douglas's sudden

death. So long as that other manuscript was in the world there was no

safety for me. Of course, it must be among his effects, and these

would be returned to his mother. I set the gang at work. One of them

got into the house as servant. I wanted to do the thing honestly. I

really and truly did. I was ready to buy the house and everything in

it. I offered any price she cared to ask. I only tried the other way

when everything else had failed. Now, Mr. Holmes, granting that I was

too hard on Douglas--and, God knows, I am sorry for it!--what else

could I do with my whole future at stake?"

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, well," said he, "I suppose I shall have to compound a felony as

usual. How much does it cost to go round the world in first-class

style?"

The lady stared in amazement.

"Could it be done on five thousand pounds?"

"Well, I should think so, indeed!"

"Very good. I think you will sign me a cheque for that, and I will see

that it comes to Mrs. Maberley. You owe her a little change of air.

Meantime, lady"--he wagged a cautionary forefinger--"have a care! Have

a care! You can't play with edged tools for ever without cutting those

dainty hands."

V

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SUSSEX VAMPIRE

Holmes had read carefully a note which the last post had brought him.

Then, with the dry chuckle which was his nearest approach to a laugh,

he tossed it over to me.

"For a mixture of the modern and the mediæval, of the practical and of

the wildly fanciful, I think this is surely the limit," said he. "What

do you make of it, Watson?"

I read as follows:

46, OLD JEWRY,

_Nov._ 19_th._

_Re_ Vampires.

SIR,--

Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers,

of Mincing Lane, has made some inquiry from us in a communication of

even date concerning vampires. As our firm specializes entirely upon

the assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our purview,

and we have therefore recommended Mr. Ferguson to call upon you and lay

the matter before you. We have not forgotten your successful action in

the case of Matilda Briggs.

We are, Sir, Faithfully yours,

MORRISON, MORRISON, AND DODD.

per E. J. C.

"Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson," said

Holmes, in a reminiscent voice. "It was a ship which is associated

with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet

prepared. But what do we know about vampires? Does it come within our

purview either? Anything is better than stagnation, but really we seem

to have been switched on to a Grimm's fairy tale. Make a long arm,

Watson, and see what V has to say."

I leaned back and took down the great index volume to which he

referred. Holmes balanced it on his knee and his eyes moved slowly and

lovingly over the record of old cases, mixed with the accumulated

information of a lifetime.

"Voyage of the Gloria Scott," he read. "That was a bad business. I

have some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson, though I

was unable to congratulate you upon the result. Victor Lynch, the

forger. Venomous lizard or gila. Remarkable case, that! Vittoria,

the circus belle. Vanderbilt and the Yeggman. Vipers. Vigor, the

Hammersmith wonder. Hullo! Hullo! Good old index. You can't beat

it. Listen to this, Watson. Vampirism in Hungary. And again,

Vampires in Transylvania." He turned over the pages with eagerness,

but after a short intent perusal he threw down the great book with a

snarl of disappointment.

"Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses who

can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts?

It's pure lunacy."

"But surely," said I, "the vampire was not necessarily a dead man? A

living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the

old sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth."

"You are right, Watson. It mentions the legend in one of these

references. But are we to give serious attention to such things? This

Agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain.

The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply. I fear that we

cannot take Mr. Robert Ferguson very seriously. Possibly this note may

be from him, and may throw some light upon what is worrying him."

He took up a second letter which had lain unnoticed upon the table

whilst he had been absorbed with the first. This he began to read with

a smile of amusement upon his face which gradually faded away into an

expression of intense interest and concentration. When he had finished

he sat for some little time lost in thought with the letter dangling

from his fingers. Finally, with a start, he aroused himself from his

reverie.

"Cheeseman's, Lamberley. Where is Lamberley, Watson?"

"It is in Sussex, south of Horsham."

"Not very far, eh? And Cheeseman's?"

"I know that country, Holmes. It is full of old houses which are named

after the men who built them centuries ago. You get Odley's and

Harvey's and Carriton's--the folk are forgotten but their names live in

their houses."

"Precisely," said Holmes coldly. It was one of the peculiarities of

his proud, self-contained nature that, though he docketed any fresh

information very quickly and accurately in his brain, he seldom made

any acknowledgment to the giver. "I rather fancy we shall know a good

deal more about Cheeseman's, Lamberley, before we are through. The

letter is, as I had hoped, from Robert Ferguson. By the way, he claims

acquaintance with you."

"With me!"

"You had better read it."

He handed the letter across. It was headed with the address quoted.

DEAR MR. HOLMES, (it said)--I have been recommended to you by my

lawyers, but indeed the matter is so extraordinarily delicate that it

is most difficult to discuss. It concerns a friend for whom I am

acting. This gentleman married some five years ago a Peruvian lady,

the daughter of a Peruvian merchant, whom he had met in connection with

the importation of nitrates. The lady was very beautiful, but the fact

of her foreign birth and of her alien religion always caused a

separation of interests and of feelings between husband and wife, so

that after a time his love may have cooled towards her and he may have

come to regard their union as a mistake. He felt there were sides of

her character which he could never explore or understand. This was the

more painful as she was as loving a wife as a man could have--to all

appearance absolutely devoted.

Now for the point which I will make more plain when we meet. Indeed,

this note is merely to give you a general idea of the situation and to

ascertain whether you would care to interest yourself in the matter.

The lady began to show some curious traits quite alien to her

ordinarily sweet and gentle disposition. The gentleman had been

married twice and he had one son by the first wife. This boy was now

fifteen, a very charming and affectionate youth, though unhappily

injured through an accident in childhood. Twice the wife was caught in

the act of assaulting this poor lad in the most unprovoked way. Once

she struck him with a stick and left a great weal on his arm.

This was a small matter, however, compared with her conduct to her own

child, a dear boy just under one year of age. On one occasion about a

month ago this child had been left by its nurse for a few minutes. A

loud cry from the baby, as of pain, called the nurse back. As she ran

into the room she saw her employer, the lady, leaning over the baby and

apparently biting his neck. There was a small wound in the neck, from

which a stream of blood had escaped. The nurse was so horrified that

she wished to call the husband, but the lady implored her not to do so,

and actually gave her five pounds as a price for her silence. No

explanation was ever given, and for the moment the matter was passed

over.

It left, however, a terrible impression upon the nurse's mind, and from

that time she began to watch her mistress closely, and to keep a closer

guard upon the baby, whom she tenderly loved. It seemed to her that

even as she watched the mother, so the mother watched her, and that

every time she was compelled to leave the baby alone the mother was

waiting to get at it. Day and night the nurse covered the child, and

day and night the silent, watchful mother seemed to be lying in wait as

a wolf waits for a lamb. It must read most incredible to you, and yet

I beg you to take it seriously, for a child's life and a man's sanity

may depend upon it.

At last there came one dreadful day when the facts could no longer be

concealed from the husband. The nurse's nerve had given way; she could

stand the strain no longer, and she made a clean breast of it all to

the man. To him it seemed as wild a tale as it may now seem to you.

He knew his wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the assaults upon

her stepson, a loving mother. Why, then, should she wound her own dear

little baby? He told the nurse that she was dreaming, that her

suspicions were those of a lunatic, and that such libels upon her

mistress were not to be tolerated. Whilst they were talking, a sudden

cry of pain was heard. Nurse and master rushed together to the

nursery. Imagine his feelings, Mr. Holmes, as he saw his wife rise

from a kneeling position beside the cot, and saw blood upon the child's

exposed neck and upon the sheet. With a cry of horror, he turned his

wife's face to the light and saw blood all round her lips. It was

she--she beyond all question--who had drunk the poor baby's blood.

So the matter stands. She is now confined to her room. There has been

no explanation. The husband is half demented. He knows, and I know,

little of Vampirism beyond the name. We had thought it was some wild

tale of foreign parts. And yet here in the very heart of the English

Sussex--well, all this can be discussed with you in the morning. Will

you see me? Will you use your great powers in aiding a distracted man?

If so, kindly wire to Ferguson, Cheeseman's, Lamberley, and I will be

at your rooms by ten o'clock.

Yours faithfully,

ROBERT FERGUSON.

PS.--I believe your friend Watson played Rugby for Blackheath when I

was three-quarter for Richmond. It is the only personal introduction

which I can give.

"Of course I remember him," said I, as I laid down the letter. "Big

Bob Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had. He was

always a good-natured chap. It's like him to be so concerned over a

friend's case."

Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook his head.

"I never get your limits, Watson," said he. "There are unexplored

possibilities about you. Take a wire down, like a good fellow. 'Will

examine your case with pleasure.'"

"_Your_ case!"

"We must not let him think that this Agency is a home for the

weak-minded. Of course it is his case. Send him that wire and let the

matter rest till morning."

Promptly at ten o'clock next morning Ferguson strode into our room. I

had remembered him as a long, slab-sided man with loose limbs and a

fine turn of speed, which had carried him round many an opposing back.

There is surely nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck of

a fine athlete whom one has known in his prime. His great frame had

fallen in, his flaxen hair was scanty, and his shoulders were bowed. I

fear that I roused corresponding emotions in him.

"Hullo, Watson," said he, and his voice was still deep and hearty.

"You don't look quite the man you did when I threw you over the ropes

into the crowd at the Old Deer Park. I expect I have changed a bit

also. But it's this last day or two that has aged me. I see by your

telegram, Mr. Holmes, that it is no use my pretending to be anyone's

deputy."

"It is simpler to deal direct," said Holmes.

"Of course it is. But you can imagine how difficult it is when you are

speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to protect and help. What

can I do? How am I to go to the police with such a story? And yet the

kiddies have got to be protected. Is it madness, Mr. Holmes? Is it

something in the blood? Have you any similar case in your experience?

For God's sake, give me some advice, for I am at my wits' end."

"Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here and pull yourself together

and give me a few clear answers. I can assure you that I am very far

from being at my wits' end, and that I am confident we shall find some

solution. First of all, tell me what steps you have taken. Is your

wife still near the children?"

"We had a dreadful scene. She is a most loving woman, Mr. Holmes. If

ever a woman loved a man with all her heart and soul, she loves me.

She was cut to the heart that I should have discovered this horrible,

this incredible, secret. She would not even speak. She gave no answer

to my reproaches, save to gaze at me with a sort of wild, despairing

look in her eyes. Then she rushed to her room and locked herself in.

Since then she has refused to see me. She has a maid who was with her

before her marriage, Dolores by name--a friend rather than a servant.

She takes her food to her."

"Then the child is in no immediate danger?"

"Mrs. Mason, the nurse, has sworn that she will not leave it night or

day. I can absolutely trust her. I am more uneasy about poor little

Jack, for, as I told you in my note, he has twice been assaulted by

her."

"But never wounded?"

"No; she struck him savagely. It is the more terrible as he is a poor

little inoffensive cripple." Ferguson's gaunt features softened as he

spoke of his boy. "You would think that the dear lad's condition would

soften anyone's heart. A fall in childhood and a twisted spine, Mr.

Holmes. But the dearest, most loving heart within."

Holmes had picked up the letter of yesterday and was reading it over.

"What other inmates are there in your house, Mr. Ferguson?"

"Two servants who have not been long with us. One stable-hand,

Michael, who sleeps in the house. My wife, myself, my boy Jack, baby,

Dolores, and Mrs. Mason. That is all."

"I gather that you did not know your wife well at the time of your

marriage?"

"I had only known her a few weeks."

"How long had this maid Dolores been with her?"

"Some years."

"Then your wife's character would really be better known by Dolores

than by you?"

"Yes, you may say so."

Holmes made a note.

"I fancy," said he, "that I may be of more use at Lamberley than here.

It is eminently a case for personal investigation. If the lady remains

in her room, our presence could not annoy or inconvenience her. Of

course, we would stay at the inn."

Ferguson gave a gesture of relief.

"It is what I hoped, Mr. Holmes. There is an excellent train at two

from Victoria, if you could come."

"Of course we could come. There is a lull at present. I can give you

my undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with us. But there

are one or two points upon which I wish to be very sure before I start.

This unhappy lady, as I understand it, has appeared to assault both the

children, her own baby and your little son?"

"That is so."

"But the assaults take different forms, do they not? She has beaten

your son."

"Once with a stick and once very savagely with her hands."

"Did she give no explanation why she struck him?"

"None, save that she hated him. Again and again she said so."

"Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers. A posthumous jealousy,

we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?"

"Yes, she is very jealous--jealous with all the strength of her fiery

tropical love."

"But the boy--he is fifteen, I understand, and probably very developed

in mind, since his body has been circumscribed in action. Did he give

you no explanation of these assaults?"

"No; he declared there was no reason."

"Were they good friends at other times?"

"No; there was never any love between them."

"Yet you say he is affectionate?"

"Never in the world could there be so devoted a son. My life is his

life. He is absorbed in what I say or do."

Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he sat lost in thought.

"No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before this second

marriage. You were thrown very close together, were you not?"

"Very much so."

"And the boy, having so affectionate a nature, was devoted, no doubt,

to the memory of his mother?"

"Most devoted."

"He would certainly seem to be a most interesting lad. There is one

other point about these assaults. Were the strange attacks upon the

baby and the assaults upon your son at the same period?"

"In the first case it was so. It was as if some frenzy had seized her,

and she had vented her rage upon both. In the second case it was only

Jack who suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint to make about the baby."

"That certainly complicates matters."

"I don't quite follow you, Mr. Holmes."

"Possibly not. One forms provisional theories and waits for time or

fuller knowledge to explode them. A bad habit, Mr. Ferguson; but human

nature is weak. I fear that your old friend here has given an

exaggerated view of my scientific methods. However, I will only say at

the present stage that your problem does not appear to me to be

insoluble, and that you may expect to find us at Victoria at two

o'clock."

It was evening of a dull, foggy November day when, having left our bags

at the "Chequers," Lamberley, we drove through the Sussex clay of a

long winding lane, and finally reached the isolated and ancient

farm-house in which Ferguson dwelt. It was a large, straggling

building, very old in the centre, very new at the wings, with towering

Tudor chimneys and a lichen-spotted, high-pitched roof of Horsham

slabs. The doorsteps were worn into curves, and the ancient tiles

which lined the porch were marked with the rebus of a cheese and a man,

after the original builder. Within, the ceilings were corrugated with

heavy oaken beams, and the uneven floors sagged into sharp curves. An

odour of age and decay pervaded the whole crumbling building.

There was one very large central room, into which Ferguson led us.

Here, in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen behind it

dated 1670, there blazed and spluttered a splendid log fire.

The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture of dates and of

places. The half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the original

yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. They were ornamented,

however, on the lower part by a line of well-chosen modern

water-colours; while above, where yellow plaster took the place of oak,

there was hung a fine collection of South American utensils and

weapons, which had been brought, no doubt, by the Peruvian lady

upstairs. Holmes rose, with that quick curiosity which sprang from his

eager mind, and examined them with some care. He returned with his

eyes full of thought.

"Hullo!" he cried. "Hullo!"

A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It came slowly forward

towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hind-legs moved

irregularly and its tail was on the ground. It licked Ferguson's hand.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"

"The dog. What's the matter with it?"

"That's what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis. Spinal meningitis,

he thought. But it is passing. He'll be all right soon--won't you,

Carlo?"

A shiver of assent passed through the drooping tail. The dog's

mournful eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew that we were

discussing his case.

"Did it come on suddenly?"

"In a single night."

"How long ago?"

"It may have been four months ago."

"Very remarkable. Very suggestive."

"What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?"

"A confirmation of what I had already thought."

"For God's sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be a mere

intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! My wife a

would-be murderer--my child in constant danger! Don't play with me,

Mr. Holmes. It is too terribly serious."

The big Rugby three-quarter was trembling all over. Holmes put his

hand soothingly upon his arm.

"I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever the solution

may be," said he. "I would spare you all I can. I cannot say more for

the instant, but before I leave this house I hope I may have something

definite."

"Please God you may! If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will go up to

my wife's room and see if there has been any change."

He was away some minutes, during which Holmes resumed his examination

of the curiosities upon the wall. When our host returned it was clear

from his downcast face that he had made no progress. He brought with

him a tall, slim, brown-faced girl.

"The tea is ready, Dolores," said Ferguson. "See that your mistress

has everything she can wish."

"She verra ill," cried the girl, looking with indignant eyes at her

master. "She no ask for food. She verra ill. She need doctor. I

frightened stay alone with her without doctor."

Ferguson looked at me with a question in his eyes.

"I should be so glad if I could be of use."

"Would your mistress see Dr. Watson?"

"I take him. I no ask leave. She needs doctor."

"Then I'll come with you at once."

I followed the girl, who was quivering with strong emotion, up the

staircase and down an ancient corridor. At the end was an iron-clamped

and massive door. It struck me as I looked at it that if Ferguson

tried to force his way to his wife he would find it no easy matter.

The girl drew a key from her pocket, and the heavy oaken planks creaked

upon their old hinges. I passed in and she swiftly followed, fastening

the door behind her.

On the bed a woman was lying who was clearly in a high fever. She was

only half conscious, but as I entered she raised a pair of frightened

but beautiful eyes and glared at me in apprehension. Seeing a

stranger, she appeared to be relieved, and sank back with a sigh upon

the pillow. I stepped up to her with a few reassuring words, and she

lay still while I took her pulse and temperature. Both were high, and

yet my impression was that the condition was rather that of mental and

nervous excitement than of any actual seizure.

"She lie like that one day, two day. I 'fraid she die," said the girl.

The woman turned her flushed and handsome face towards me.

"Where is my husband?"

"He is below, and would wish to see you."

"I will not see him. I will not see him." Then she seemed to wander

off into delirium. "A fiend! A fiend! Oh, what shall I do with this

devil?"

"Can I help you in any way?"

"No. No one can help. It is finished. All is destroyed. Do what I

will, all is destroyed."

The woman must have some strange delusion. I could not see honest Bob

Ferguson in the character of fiend or devil.

"Madame," I said, "your husband loves you dearly. He is deeply grieved

at this happening."

Again she turned on me those glorious eyes.

"He loves me. Yes. But do I not love him? Do I not love him even to

sacrifice myself rather than break his dear heart. That is how I love

him. And yet he could think of me--he could speak of me so."

"He is full of grief, but he cannot understand.

"No, he cannot understand. But he should trust."

"Will you not see him?" I suggested.

"No, no; I cannot forget those terrible words nor the look upon his

face. I will not see him. Go now. You can do nothing for me. Tell

him only one thing. I want my child. I have a right to my child.

That is the only message I can send him." She turned her face to the

wall and would say no more.

I returned to the room downstairs, where Ferguson and Holmes still sat

by the fire. Ferguson listened moodily to my account of the interview.

"How can I send her the child?" he said. "How do I know what strange

impulse might come upon her? How can I ever forget how she rose from

beside it with its blood upon her lips?" He shuddered at the

recollection. "The child is safe with Mrs. Mason, and there he must

remain."

A smart maid, the only modern thing which we had seen in the house, had

brought in some tea. As she was serving it the door opened and a youth

entered the room. He was a remarkable lad, pale-faced and fair-haired,

with excitable light blue eyes which blazed into a sudden flame of

emotion and joy as they rested upon his father. He rushed forward and

threw his arms round his neck with the abandon of a loving girl.

"Oh, daddy," he cried, "I did not know that you were due yet. I should

have been here to meet you. Oh, I am so glad to see you!"

Ferguson gently disengaged himself from the embrace with some little

show of embarrassment.

"Dear old chap," said he, patting the flaxen head with a very tender

hand. "I came early because my friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,

have been persuaded to come down and spend an evening with us."

"Is that Mr. Holmes, the detective?"

"Yes."

The youth looked at us with a very penetrating and, as it seemed to me,

unfriendly gaze.

"What about your other child, Mr. Ferguson?" asked Holmes. "Might we

make the acquaintance of the baby?"

"Ask Mrs. Mason to bring baby down," said Ferguson. The boy went off

with a curious, shambling gait which told my surgical eyes that he was

suffering from a weak spine. Presently he returned, and behind him

came a tall, gaunt woman bearing in her arms a very beautiful child,

dark-eyed, golden-haired, a wonderful mixture of the Saxon and the

Latin. Ferguson was evidently devoted to it, for he took it into his

arms and fondled it most tenderly.

"Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt him," he muttered, as he glanced

down at the small, angry red pucker upon the cherub throat.

It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Holmes, and saw a

most singular intentness in his expression. His face was as set as if

it had been carved out of old ivory, and his eyes, which had glanced

for a moment at father and child, were now fixed with eager curiosity

upon something at the other side of the room. Following his gaze I

could only guess that he was looking out through the window at the

melancholy, dripping garden. It is true that a shutter had half closed

outside and obstructed the view, but none the less it was certainly at

the window that Holmes was fixing his concentrated attention. Then he

smiled, and his eyes came back to the baby. On its chubby neck there

was this small puckered mark. Without speaking, Holmes examined it

with care. Finally he shook one of the dimpled fists which waved in

front of him.

"Good-bye, little man. You have made a strange start in life. Nurse,

I should wish to have a word with you in private."

He took her aside and spoke earnestly for a few minutes. I only heard

the last words, which were: "Your anxiety will soon, I hope, be set at

rest." The woman, who seemed to be a sour, silent kind of creature,

withdrew with the child.

"What is Mrs. Mason like?" asked Holmes.

"Not very prepossessing externally, as you can see, but a heart of

gold, and devoted to the child."

"Do you like her, Jack?" Holmes turned suddenly upon the boy. His

expressive mobile face shadowed over, and he shook his head.

"Jacky has very strong likes and dislikes," said Ferguson, putting his

arm round the boy. "Luckily I am one of his likes."

The boy cooed and nestled his head upon his father's breast. Ferguson

gently disengaged him.

"Run away, little Jacky," said he, and he watched his son with loving

eyes until he disappeared. "Now, Mr. Holmes," he continued, when the

boy was gone, "I really feel that I have brought you on a fool's

errand, for what can you possibly do, save give me your sympathy? It

must be an exceedingly delicate and complex affair from your point of

view."

"It is certainly delicate," said my friend, with an amused smile, "but

I have not been struck up to now with its complexity. It has been a

case for intellectual deduction, but when this original intellectual

deduction is confirmed point by point by quite a number of independent

incidents, then the subjective becomes objective and we can say

confidently that we have reached our goal. I had, in fact, reached it

before we left Baker Street, and the rest has merely been observation

and confirmation."

Ferguson put his big hand to his furrowed forehead.

"For Heaven's sake, Holmes," he said hoarsely, "if you can see the

truth in this matter, do not keep me in suspense. How do I stand?

What shall I do? I care nothing as to how you have found your facts so

long as you have really got them."

"Certainly I owe you an explanation, and you shall have it. But you

will permit me to handle the matter in my own way? Is the lady capable

of seeing us, Watson?"

"She is ill, but she is quite rational."

"Very good. It is only in her presence that we can clear the matter

up. Let us go up to her."

"She will not see me," cried Ferguson.

"Oh, yes, she will," said Holmes. He scribbled a few lines upon a

sheet of paper. "You at least have the _entrée_, Watson. Will you

have the goodness to give the lady this note?"

I ascended again and handed the note to Dolores, who cautiously opened

the door. A minute later I heard a cry from within, a cry in which joy

and surprise seemed to be blended. Dolores looked out.

"She will see them. She will leesten," said she.

At my summons Ferguson and Holmes came up. As we entered the room

Ferguson took a step or two towards his wife, who had raised herself in

the bed, but she held out her hand to repulse him. He sank into an

arm-chair, while Holmes seated himself beside him, after bowing to the

lady, who looked at him with wide-eyed amazement.

"I think we can dispense with Dolores," said Holmes. "Oh, very well,

madame, if you would rather she stayed I can see no objection. Now,

Mr. Ferguson, I am a busy man with many calls, and my methods have to

be short and direct. The swiftest surgery is the least painful. Let

me first say what will ease your mind. Your wife is a very good, a

very loving, and a very ill-used woman."

Ferguson sat up with a cry of joy.

"Prove that, Mr. Holmes, and I am your debtor for ever."

"I will do so, but in doing so I must wound you deeply in another

direction."

"I care nothing so long as you clear my wife. Everything on earth is

insignificant compared to that."

"Let me tell you, then, the train of reasoning which passed through my

mind in Baker Street. The idea of a vampire was to me absurd. Such

things do not happen in criminal practice in England. And yet your

observation was precise. You had seen the lady rise from beside the

child's cot with the blood upon her lips."

"I did."

"Did it not occur to you that a bleeding wound may be sucked for some

other purpose than to draw the blood from it? Was there not a Queen in

English history who sucked such a wound to draw poison from it?"

"Poison!"

"A South American household. My instinct felt the presence of those

weapons upon the wall before my eyes ever saw them. It might have been

other poison, but that was what occurred to me. When I saw that little

empty quiver beside the small bird-bow, it was just what I expected to

see. If the child were pricked with one of those arrows dipped in

curare or some other devilish drug, it would mean death if the venom

were not sucked out.

"And the dog! If one were to use such a poison, would one not try it

first in order to see that it had not lost its power? I did not

foresee the dog, but at least I understood him and he fitted into my

reconstruction.

"Now do you understand? Your wife feared such an attack. She saw it

made and saved the child's life, and yet she shrank from telling you

all the truth, for she knew how you loved the boy and feared lest it

break your heart."

"Jacky!"

"I watched him as you fondled the child just now. His face was clearly

reflected in the glass of the window where the shutter formed a

background. I saw such jealousy, such cruel hatred, as I have seldom

seen in a human face."

"My Jacky!"

"You have to face it, Mr. Ferguson. It is the more painful because it

is a distorted love, a maniacal exaggerated love for you, and possibly

for his dead mother, which has prompted his action. His very soul is

consumed with hatred for this splendid child, whose health and beauty

are a contrast to his own weakness."

"Good God! It is incredible!"

"Have I spoken the truth, madame?"

The lady was sobbing, with her face buried in the pillows. Now she

turned to her husband.

"How could I tell you, Bob? I felt the blow it would be to you. It

was better that I should wait and that it should come from some other

lips than mine. When this gentleman, who seems to have powers of

magic, wrote that he knew all, I was glad."

"I think a year at sea would be my prescription for Master Jacky," said

Holmes, rising from his chair. "Only one thing is still clouded,

madame. We can quite understand your attacks upon Master Jacky. There

is a limit to a mother's patience. But how did you dare to leave the

child these last two days?"

"I had told Mrs. Mason. She knew."

"Exactly. So I imagined."

Ferguson was standing by the bed, choking, his hands outstretched and

quivering.

"This, I fancy, is the time for our exit, Watson," said Holmes in a

whisper. "If you will take one elbow of the too faithful Dolores, I

will take the other. There, now," he added, as he closed the door

behind him, "I think we may leave them to settle the rest among

themselves."

I have only one further note of this case. It is the letter which

Holmes wrote in final answer to that with which the narrative begins.

It ran thus:

BAKER STREET,

_Nov._ 21st.

_Re_ Vampires.

SIR,--

Referring to your letter of the 19th, I beg to state that I have looked

into the inquiry of your client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and

Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, and that the matter has been

brought to a satisfactory conclusion. With thanks for your

recommendation,

I am, Sir,

Faithfully yours,

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

VI

THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GARRIDEBS

It may have been a comedy, or it may have been a tragedy. It cost one

man his reason, it cost me a blood-letting, and it cost yet another man

the penalties of the law. Yet there was certainly an element of

comedy. Well, you shall judge for yourselves.

I remember the date very well, for it was in the same month that Holmes

refused a knighthood for services which may perhaps some day be

described. I only refer to the matter in passing, for in my position

of partner and confidant I am obliged to be particularly careful to

avoid any indiscretion. I repeat, however, that this enables me to fix

the date, which was the latter end of June, 1902, shortly after the

conclusion of the South African War. Holmes had spent several days in

bed, as was his habit from time to time, but he emerged that morning

with a long foolscap document in his hand and a twinkle of amusement in

his austere grey eyes.

"There is a chance for you to make some money, friend Watson," said he.

"Have you ever heard the name of Garrideb?"

I admitted that I had not.

"Well, if you can lay your hand upon a Garrideb, there's money in it."

"Why?"

"Ah, that's a long story--rather a whimsical one, too. I don't think

in all our explorations of human complexities we have ever come upon

anything more singular. The fellow will be here presently for

cross-examination, so I won't open the matter up till he comes. But

meanwhile, that's the name we want."

The telephone directory lay on the table beside me, and I turned over

the pages in a rather hopeless quest. But to my amazement there was

this strange name in its due place. I gave a cry of triumph.

"Here you are, Holmes! Here it is!"

Holmes took the book from my hand.

"'Garrideb, N.,'" he read, "'136 Little Ryder Street, W.' Sorry to

disappoint you, my dear Watson, but this is the man himself. That is

the address upon his letter. We want another to match him."

Mrs. Hudson had come in with a card upon a tray. I took it up and

glanced at it.

"Why, here it is!" I cried in amazement. "This is a different initial.

John Garrideb, Counsellor at Law, Moorville, Kansas, U.S.A."

Holmes smiled as he looked at the card. "I am afraid you must make yet

another effort, Watson," said he. "This gentleman is also in the plot

already, though I certainly did not expect to see him this morning.

However, he is in a position to tell us a good deal which I want to

know."

A moment later he was in the room. Mr. John Garrideb, Counsellor at

Law, was a short, powerful man with the round, fresh, clean-shaven face

characteristic of so many American men of affairs. The general effect

was chubby and rather childlike, so that one received the impression of

quite a young man with a broad set smile upon his face. His eyes,

however, were arresting. Seldom in any human head have I seen a pair

which bespoke a more intense inward life, so bright were they, so

alert, so responsive to every change of thought. His accent was

American, but was not accompanied by any eccentricity of speech.

"Mr. Holmes?" he asked, glancing from one to the other. "Ah, yes!

Your pictures are not unlike you, sir, if I may say so. I believe you

have had a letter from my namesake, Mr. Nathan Garrideb, have you not?"

"Pray sit down," said Sherlock Holmes. "We shall, I fancy, have a good

deal to discuss." He took up his sheets of foolscap. "You are, of

course, the Mr. John Garrideb mentioned in this document. But surely

you have been in England some time?"

"Why do you say that, Mr. Holmes?" I seemed to read sudden suspicion in

those expressive eyes.

"Your whole outfit is English."

Mr. Garrideb forced a laugh. "I've read of your tricks, Mr. Holmes,

but I never thought I would be the subject of them. Where do you read

that?"

"The shoulder cut of your coat, the toes of your boots--could anyone

doubt it?"

"Well, well, I had no idea I was so obvious a Britisher. But business

brought me over here some time ago, and so, as you say, my outfit is

nearly all London. However, I guess your time is of value, and we did

not meet to talk about the cut of my socks. What about getting down to

that paper you hold in your hand?"

Holmes had in some way ruffled our visitor, whose chubby face had

assumed a far less amiable expression.

"Patience! Patience, Mr. Garrideb!" said my friend in a soothing

voice. "Dr. Watson would tell you that these little digressions of

mine sometimes prove in the end to have some bearing on the matter.

But why did Mr. Nathan Garrideb not come with you?"

"Why did he ever drag you into it at all?" asked our visitor, with a

sudden outflame of anger. "What in thunder had you to do with it?

Here was a bit of professional business between two gentlemen, and one

of them must needs call in a detective! I saw him this morning, and he

told me this fool-trick he had played me, and that's why I am here.

But I feel bad about it, all the same."

"There was no reflection upon you, Mr. Garrideb. It was simply zeal

upon his part to gain your end--an end which is, I understand, equally

vital for both of you. He knew that I had means of getting

information, and, therefore, it was very natural that he should apply

to me."

Our visitor's angry face gradually cleared.

"Well, that puts it different," said he. "When I went to see him this

morning and he told me he had sent to a detective, I just asked for

your address and came right away. I don't want police butting into a

private matter. But if you are content just to help us find the man,

there can be no harm in that."

"Well, that is just how it stands," said Holmes. "And now, sir, since

you are here, we had best have a clear account from your own lips. My

friend here knows nothing of the details."

Mr. Garrideb surveyed me with not too friendly a gaze.

"Need he know?" he asked.

"We usually work together."

"Well, there's no reason it should be kept a secret. I'll give you the

facts as short as I can make them. If you came from Kansas I would not

need to explain to you who Alexander Hamilton Garrideb was. He made

his money in real estate, and afterwards in the wheat pit at Chicago,

but he spent it in buying up as much land as would make one of your

counties, lying along the Arkansas River, west of Fort Dodge. It's

grazing-land and lumber-land and arable-land and mineralized-land, and

just every sort of land that brings dollars to the man that owns it.

"He had no kith nor kin--or, if he had, I never heard of it. But he

took a kind of pride in the queerness of his name. That was what

brought us together. I was in the law at Topeka, and one day I had a

visit from the old man, and he was tickled to death to meet another man

with his own name. It was his pet fad, and he was dead set to find out

if there were any more Garridebs in the world. 'Find me another!' said

he. I told him I was a busy man and could not spend my life hiking

round the world in search of Garridebs. 'None the less,' said he,

'that is just what you will do if things pan out as I planned them.' I

thought he was joking, but there was a powerful lot of meaning in the

words, as I was soon to discover.

"For he died within a year of saying them, and he left a will behind

him. It was the queerest will that has ever been filed in the State of

Kansas. His property was divided into three parts, and I was to have

one on condition that I found two Garridebs who would share the

remainder. It's five million dollars for each if it is a cent, but we

can't lay a finger on it until we all three stand in a row.

"It was so big a chance that I just let my legal practice slide and I

set forth looking for Garridebs. There is not one in the United

States. I went through it, sir, with a fine-toothed comb and never a

Garrideb could I catch. Then I tried the old country. Sure enough

there was the name in the London Telephone Directory. I went after him

two days ago and explained the whole matter to him. But he is a lone

man, like myself, with some women relations, but no men. It says three

adult men in the will. So you see we still have a vacancy, and if you

can help to fill it we will be very ready to pay your charges."

"Well, Watson," said Holmes, with a smile, "I said it was rather

whimsical, did I not? I should have thought, sir, that your obvious

way was to advertise in the agony columns of the papers."

"I have done that, Mr. Holmes. No replies."

"Dear me! Well, it is certainly a most curious little problem. I may

take a glance at it in my leisure. By the way, it is curious that you

should have come from Topeka. I used to have a correspondent--he is

dead now--old Dr. Lysander Starr, who was Mayor in 1890."

"Good old Dr. Starr!" said our visitor. "His name is still honoured.

Well, Mr. Holmes, I suppose all we can do is to report to you and let

you know how we progress. I reckon you will hear within a day or two."

With this assurance our American bowed and departed.

Holmes had lit his pipe, and he sat for some time with a curious smile

upon his face.

"Well?" I asked at last.

"I am wondering, Watson--just wondering!"

"At what?"

Holmes took his pipe from his lips.

"I was wondering, Watson, what on earth could be the object of this man

in telling us such a rigmarole of lies. I nearly asked him so--for

there are times when a brutal frontal attack is the best policy--but I

judged it better to let him think he had fooled us. Here is a man with

an English coat frayed at the elbow and trousers bagged at the knee

with a year's wear, and yet by this document and by his own account he

is a provincial American lately landed in London. There have been no

advertisements in the agony columns. You know that I miss nothing

there. They are my favourite covert for putting up a bird, and I would

never have overlooked such a cock pheasant as that. I never knew a Dr.

Lysander Starr of Topeka. Touch him where you would he was false. I

think the fellow is really an American, but he has worn his accent

smooth with years of London. What is his game, then, and what motive

lies behind this preposterous search for Garridebs? It's worth our

attention, for, granting that the man is a rascal, he is certainly a

complex and ingenious one. We must now find out if our other

correspondent is a fraud also. Just ring him up, Watson."

I did so, and heard a thin, quavering voice at the other end of the

line.

"Yes, yes, I am Mr. Nathan Garrideb. Is Mr. Holmes there? I should

very much like to have a word with Mr. Holmes."

My friend took the instrument and I heard the usual syncopated dialogue.

"Yes, he has been here. I understand that you don't know him.... How

long? ... Only two days! ... Yes, yes, of course, it is a most

captivating prospect. Will you be at home this evening? I suppose

your namesake will not be there? ... Very good, we will come then, for

I would rather have a chat without him.... Dr. Watson will come with

me.... I understood from your note that you did not go out often....

Well, we shall be round about six. You need not mention it to the

American lawyer.... Very good. Good-bye!"

It was twilight of a lovely spring evening, and even Little Ryder

Street, one of the smaller offshoots from the Edgware Road, within a

stone-cast of old Tyburn Tree of evil memory, looked golden and

wonderful in the slanting rays of the setting sun. The particular

house to which we were directed was a large, old-fashioned, Early

Georgian edifice with a flat brick face broken only by two deep bay

windows on the ground floor. It was on this ground floor that our

client lived, and, indeed, the low windows proved to be the front of

the huge room in which he spent his waking hours. Holmes pointed as we

passed to the small brass plate which bore the curious name.

"Up some years, Watson," he remarked, indicating its discoloured

surface. "It's his real name, anyhow, and that is something to note."

The house had a common stair, and there were a number of names painted

in the hall some indicating offices and some private chambers. It was

not a collection of residential flats, but rather the abode of Bohemian

bachelors. Our client opened the door for us himself and apologized by

saying that the woman in charge left at four o'clock. Mr. Nathan

Garrideb proved to be a very tall, loose-jointed, round-backed person,

gaunt and bald, some sixty-odd years of age. He had a cadaverous face,

with the dull dead skin of a man to whom exercise was unknown. Large

round spectacles and a small projecting goat's beard combined with his

stooping attitude to give him an expression of peering curiosity. The

general effect, however, was amiable, though eccentric.

The room was as curious as its occupant. It looked like a small

museum. It was both broad and deep, with cupboards and cabinets all

round, crowded with specimens, geological and anatomical. Cases of

butterflies and moths flanked each side of the entrance. A large table

in the centre was littered with all sorts of debris, while the tall

brass tube of a powerful microscope bristled up amongst them. As I

glanced round I was surprised at the universality of the man's

interests. Here was a case of ancient coins. There was a cabinet of

flint instruments. Behind his central table was a large cupboard of

fossil bones. Above was a line of plaster skulls with such names as

"Neanderthal," "Heidelberg," "Cromagnon" printed beneath them. It was

clear that he was a student of many subjects. As he stood in front of

us now, he held a piece of chamois leather in his right hand with which

he was polishing a coin.

"Syracusan--of the best period," he explained, holding it up. "They

degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best I hold them

supreme, though some prefer the Alexandrian school. You will find a

chair here, Mr. Holmes. Pray allow me to clear these bones. And you,

sir--ah, yes, Dr. Watson--if you would have the goodness to put the

Japanese vase to one side. You see round me my little interests in

life. My doctor lectures me about never going out, but why should I go

out when I have so much to hold me here? I can assure you that the

adequate cataloguing of one of those cabinets would take me three good

months."

Holmes looked round him with curiosity.

"But do you tell me that you _never_ go out?" he said

"Now and again I drive down to Sotheby's or Christie's. Otherwise I

very seldom leave my room. I am not too strong, and my researches are

very absorbing. But you can imagine, Mr. Holmes, what a terrific

shock--pleasant but terrific--it was for me when I heard of this

unparalleled good fortune. It only needs one more Garrideb to complete

the matter, and surely we can find one. I had a brother, but he is

dead, and female relatives are disqualified. But there must surely be

others in the world. I had heard that you handled strange cases, and

that was why I sent to you. Of course, this American gentleman is

quite right, and I should have taken his advice first, but I acted for

the best."

"I think you acted very wisely indeed," said Holmes. "But are you

really anxious to acquire an estate in America?"

"Certainly not, sir. Nothing would induce me to leave my collection.

But this gentleman has assured me that he will buy me out as soon as we

have established our claim. Five million dollars was the sum named.

There are a dozen specimens in the market at the present moment which

fill gaps in my collection, and which I am unable to purchase for want

of a few hundred pounds. Just think what I could do with five million

dollars. Why, I have the nucleus of a national collection. I shall be

the Hans Sloane of my age."

His eyes gleamed behind his great spectacles. It was very clear that

no pains would be spared by Mr. Nathan Garrideb in finding a namesake.

"I merely called to make your acquaintance, and there is no reason why

I should interrupt your studies," said Holmes. "I prefer to establish

personal touch with those with whom I do business. There are few

questions I need ask, for I have your very clear narrative in my

pocket, and I filled up the blanks when this American gentleman called.

I understand that up to this week you were unaware of his existence."

"That is so. He called last Tuesday."

"Did he tell you of our interview to-day?"

"Yes, he came straight back to me. He had been very angry."

"Why should he be angry?"

"He seemed to think it was some reflection on his honour. But he was

quite cheerful again when he returned."

"Did he suggest any course of action?"

"No, sir, he did not."

"Has he had, or asked for, any money from you?"

"No, sir, never!"

"You see no possible object he has in view?"

"None, except what he states."

"Did you tell him of our telephone appointment?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

Holmes was lost in thought. I could see that he was puzzled.

"Have you any articles of great value in your collection?"

"No, sir. I am not a rich man. It is a good collection, but not a

very valuable one."

"You have no fear of burglars?"

"Not the least."

"How long have you been in these rooms?"

"Nearly five years."

Holmes's cross-examination was interrupted by an imperative knocking at

the door. No sooner had our client unlatched it than the American

lawyer burst excitedly into the room.

"Here you are!" he cried, waving a paper over his head. "I thought I

should be in time to get you. Mr. Nathan Garrideb, my congratulations!

You are a rich man, sir. Our business is happily finished and all is

well. As to you, Mr. Holmes, we can only say we are sorry if we have

given you any useless trouble."

He handed over the paper to our client, who stood staring at a marked

advertisement. Holmes and I leaned forward and read it over his

shoulder. This is how it ran:

+-----------------------------------------------------+

| |

| HOWARD GARRIDEB. |

| |

| Constructor of Agricultural Machinery. |

| |

| Binders, reapers' steam and hand plows, drills, |

| harrows, farmers' carts, buckboards, and all other |

| appliances. |

| |

| Estimates for Artesian Wells. |

| |

| Apply Grosvenor Buildings, Aston. |

| |

+-----------------------------------------------------+

"Glorious!" gasped our host. "That makes our third man."

"I had opened up inquiries in Birmingham," said the American, "and my

agent there has sent me this advertisement from a local paper. We must

hustle and put the thing through. I have written to this man and told

him that you will see him in his office to-morrow afternoon at four

o'clock."

"You want _me_ to see him?"

"What do you say, Mr. Holmes? Don't you think it would be wiser? Here

am I, a wandering American with a wonderful tale. Why should he

believe what I tell him? But you are a Britisher with solid

references, and he is bound to take notice of what you say. I would go

with you if you wished, but I have a very busy day to-morrow, and I

could always follow you if you are in any trouble."

"Well, I have not made such a journey for years."

"It is nothing, Mr. Garrideb. I have figured out your connections.

You leave at twelve and should be there soon after two. Then you can

be back the same night. All you have to do is to see this man, explain

the matter, and get an affidavit of his existence. By the Lord!" he

added hotly, "considering I've come all the way from the centre of

America, it is surely little enough if you go a hundred miles in order

to put this matter through."

"Quite so," said Holmes. "I think what this gentleman says is very

true."

Mr. Nathan Garrideb shrugged his shoulders with a disconsolate air.

"Well, if you insist I shall go," said he. "It is certainly hard for

me to refuse you anything, considering the glory of hope that you have

brought into my life."

"Then that is agreed," said Holmes, "and no doubt you will let me have

a report as soon as you can."

"I'll see to that," said the American. "Well," he added, looking at

his watch, "I'll have to get on. I'll call to-morrow, Mr. Nathan, and

see you off to Birmingham. Coming my way, Mr. Holmes? Well, then,

good-bye, and we may have good news for you to-morrow night."

I noticed that my friend's face cleared when the American left the

room, and the look of thoughtful perplexity had vanished.

"I wish I could look over your collection, Mr. Garrideb," said he. "In

my profession all sorts of odd knowledge comes useful, and this room of

yours is a storehouse of it."

Our client shone with pleasure and his eyes gleamed from behind his big

glasses.

"I had always heard, sir, that you were a very intelligent man," said

he. "I could take you round now, if you have the time."

"Unfortunately, I have not. But these specimens are so well labelled

and classified that they hardly need your personal explanation. If I

should be able to look in to-morrow, I presume that there would be no

objection to my glancing over them?"

"None at all. You are most welcome. The place will, of course, be

shut up, but Mrs. Saunders is in the basement up to four o'clock and

would let you in with her key."

"Well, I happen to be clear to-morrow afternoon. If you would say a

word to Mrs. Saunders it would be quite in order. By the way, who is

your house-agent?"

Our client was amazed at the sudden question.

"Holloway and Steele, in the Edgware Road. But why?"

"I am a bit of an archæologist myself when it comes to houses," said

Holmes, laughing. "I was wondering if this was Queen Anne or Georgian."

"Georgian, beyond doubt."

"Really. I should have thought a little earlier. However, it is

easily ascertained. Well, good-bye, Mr. Garrideb, and may you have

every success in your Birmingham journey."

The house-agent's was close by, but we found that it was closed for the

day, so we made our way back to Baker Street. It was not till after

dinner that Holmes reverted to the subject.

"Our little problem draws to a close," said he. "No doubt you have

outlined the solution in your own mind."

"I can make neither head nor tail of it."

"The head is surely clear enough and the tail we should see to-morrow.

Did you notice nothing curious about that advertisement?"

"I saw that the word 'plough' was misspelt."

"Oh, you did notice that, did you? Come, Watson, you improve all the

time. Yes, it was bad English but good American. The printer had set

it up as received. Then the buckboards. That is American also. And

artesian wells are commoner with them than with us. It was a typical

American advertisement, but purporting to be from an English firm.

What do you make of that?"

"I can only suppose that this American lawyer put it in himself. What

his object was I fail to understand."

"Well, there are alternative explanations. Anyhow, he wanted to get

this good old fossil up to Birmingham. That is very clear. I might

have told him that he was clearly going on a wild-goose chase, but, on

second thoughts, it seemed better to clear the stage by letting him go.

To-morrow, Watson--well, to-morrow will speak for itself."

Holmes was up and out early. When he returned at lunch-time I noticed

that his face was very grave.

"This is a more serious matter than I had expected, Watson," said he.

"It is fair to tell you so, though I know it will only be an additional

reason to you for running your head into danger. I should know my

Watson by now. But there is danger, and you should know it."

"Well, it is not the first we have shared, Holmes. I hope it may not

be the last. What is the particular danger this time?"

"We are up against a very hard case. I have identified Mr. John

Garrideb, Counsellor at Law. He is none other than 'Killer' Evans, of

sinister and murderous reputation."

"I fear I am none the wiser."

"Ah, it is not part of your profession to carry about a portable

Newgate Calendar in your memory. I have been down to see friend

Lestrade at the Yard. There may be an occasional want of imaginative

intuition down there, but they lead the world for thoroughness and

method. I had an idea that we might get on the track of our American

friend in their records. Sure enough, I found his chubby face smiling

up at me from the Rogues' Portrait Gallery. James Winter, _alias_

Morecroft, _alias_ Killer Evans, was the inscription below." Holmes

drew an envelope from his pocket. "I scribbled down a few points from

his dossier. Aged forty-four. Native of Chicago. Known to have shot

three men in the States. Escaped from penitentiary through political

influence. Came to London in 1893. Shot a man over cards in a night

club in the Waterloo Road in January, 1895. Man died, but he was shown

to have been the aggressor in the row. Dead man was identified as

Rodger Prescott, famous as forger and coiner in Chicago. Killer Evans

released in 1901. Has been under police supervision since, but so far

as known has led an honest life. Very dangerous man, usually carries

arms and is prepared to use them. That is our bird, Watson--a sporting

bird, as you must admit."

"But what is his game?"

"Well, it begins to define itself. I have been to the house-agents.

Our client, as he told us, has been there five years. It was unlet for

a year before then. The previous tenant was a gentleman at large named

Waldron. Waldron's appearance was well remembered at the office. He

had suddenly vanished and nothing more been heard of him. He was a

tall, bearded man with very dark features. Now, Prescott, the man whom

Killer Evans had shot, was, according to Scotland Yard, a tall, dark

man with a beard. As a working hypothesis, I think we may take it that

Prescott, the American criminal, used to live in the very room which

our innocent friend now devotes to his museum. So at last we get a

link, you see."

"And the next link?"

"Well, we must go now and look for that."

He took a revolver from the drawer and handed it to me.

"I have my old favourite with me. If our Wild West friend tries to

live up to his nickname, we must be ready for him. I'll give you an

hour for a siesta, Watson, and then I think it will be time for our

Ryder Street adventure."

It was just four o'clock when we reached the curious apartment of

Nathan Garrideb. Mrs. Saunders, the caretaker, was about to leave, but

she had no hesitation in admitting us, for the door shut with a spring

lock and Holmes promised to see that all was safe before we left.

Shortly afterwards the outer door closed, her bonnet passed the bow

window, and we knew that we were alone in the lower floor of the house.

Holmes made a rapid examination of the premises. There was one

cupboard in a dark corner which stood out a little from the wall. It

was behind this that we eventually crouched, while Holmes in a whisper

outlined his intentions.

"He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room--that is very

clear, and, as the collector never went out, it took some planning to

do it. The whole of this Garrideb invention was apparently for no

other end. I must say, Watson, that there is a certain devilish

ingenuity about it, even if the queer name of the tenant did give him

an opening which he could hardly have expected. He wove his plot with

remarkable cunning."

"But what did he want?"

"Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothing whatever

to do with our client, so far as I can read the situation. It is

something connected with the man he murdered--the man who may have been

his confederate in crime. There is some guilty secret in the room.

That is how I read it. At first I thought our friend might have

something in his collection more valuable than he knew--something worth

the attention of a big criminal. But the fact that Rodger Prescott of

evil memory inhabited these rooms points to some deeper reason. Well,

Watson, we can but possess our souls in patience and see what the hour

may bring."

That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in the shadow

as we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp,

metallic snap of a key, and the American was in the room. He closed

the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance around him to see that

all was safe, threw off his overcoat, and walked up to the central

table with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he has to do

and how to do it. He pushed the table to one side, tore up the square

of carpet on which it rested, rolled it completely back, and then,

drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he knelt down and worked

vigorously upon the floor. Presently we heard the sound of sliding

boards, and an instant later a square had opened in the planks. Killer

Evans struck a match, lit a stump of candle, and vanished from our view.

Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as a signal, and

together we stole across to the open trapdoor. Gently as we moved,

however, the old floor must have creaked under our feet, for the head

of our American, peering anxiously round, emerged suddenly from the

open space. His face turned upon us with a glare of baffled rage,

which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as he realized

that two pistols were pointed at his head.

"Well, well!" said he, coolly, as he scrambled to the surface. "I

guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my

game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir,

I hand it to you; you have me beat and----"

In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had

fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had

been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came

down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor

with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons.

Then my friend's wiry arms were round me and he was leading me to a

chair.

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"

It was worth a wound--it was worth many wounds--to know the depth of

loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes

were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one

and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great

brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in

that moment of revelation.

"It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch."

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

"You are right," he cried, with an immense sigh of relief. "It is

quite superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our

prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is as

well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of

this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?"

He had nothing to say for himself. He only lay and scowled. I leaned

on Holmes's arm, and together we looked down into the small cellar

which had been disclosed by the secret flap. It was still illuminated

by the candle which Evans had taken down with him. Our eyes fell upon

a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of bottles,

and, neatly arranged upon a small table, a number of neat little

bundles.

"A printing press--a counterfeiter's outfit," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir," said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet and then

sinking into the chair. "The greatest counterfeiter London ever saw.

That's Prescott's machine, and those bundles on the table are two

thousand of Prescott's notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass

anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal and let me beat

it."

Holmes laughed.

"We don't do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no bolt-hole for

you in this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?"

"Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled on

me. Five years--when I should have had a medal the size of a soup

plate. No living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England, and

if I hadn't put him out he would have flooded London with them. I was

the only one in the world who knew where he made them. Can you wonder

that I wanted to get to the place? And can you wonder that when I

found this crazy boob of a bug-hunter with the queer name squatting

right on the top of it, and never quitting his room, I had to do the

best I could to shift him? Maybe I would have been wiser if I had put

him away. It would have been easy enough, but I'm a soft-hearted guy

that can't begin shooting unless the other man has a gun also. But

say, Mr. Holmes, what have I done wrong, anyhow? I've not used this

plant. I've not hurt this old stiff. Where do you get me?"

"Only attempted murder, so far as I can see," said Holmes. "But that's

not our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted at

present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call, Watson.

It won't be entirely unexpected."

So those were the facts about Killer Evans and his remarkable invention

of the three Garridebs. We heard later that our poor old friend never

got over the shock of his dissipated dreams. When his castle in the

air fell down, it buried him beneath the ruins. He was last heard of

at a nursing-home in Brixton. It was a glad day at the Yard when the

Prescott outfit was discovered, for, though they knew that it existed,

they had never been able, after the death of the man, to find out where

it was. Evans had indeed done great service and caused several worthy

C.I.D. men to sleep the sounder, for the counterfeiter stands in a

class by himself as a public danger. They would willingly have

subscribed to that soup-plate medal of which the criminal had spoken,

but an unappreciative Bench took a less favourable view, and the Killer

returned to those shades from which he had just emerged.

VII

THE PROBLEM OF THOR BRIDGE

Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross,

there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box with my name, John

H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is crammed

with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to illustrate the

curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at various times to

examine. Some, and not the least interesting, were complete failures,

and as such will hardly bear narrating, since no final explanation is

forthcoming. A problem without a solution may interest the student,

but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader. Among these unfinished

tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own

house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world. No less

remarkable is that of the cutter _Alicia_, which sailed one spring

morning into a small patch of mist from where she never again emerged,

nor was anything further ever heard of herself and her crew. A third

case worthy of note is that of Isadora Persano, the well-known

journalist and duellist, who was found stark staring mad with a

matchbox in front of him which contained a remarkable worm, said to be

unknown to science. Apart from these unfathomed cases, there are some

which involve the secrets of private families to an extent which would

mean consternation in many exalted quarters if it were thought possible

that they might find their way into print. I need not say that such a

breach of confidence is unthinkable, and that these records will be

separated and destroyed now that my friend has time to turn his

energies to the matter. There remain a considerable residue of cases

of greater or less interest which I might have edited before had I not

feared to give the public a surfeit which might react upon the

reputation of the man whom above all others I revere. In some I was

myself concerned and can speak as an eye-witness, while in others I was

either not present or played so small a part that they could only be

told as by a third person. The following narrative is drawn from my

own experience.

It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing how

the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary plane

tree which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to breakfast

prepared to find my companion in depressed spirits, for, like all great

artists, he was easily impressed by his surroundings. On the contrary,

I found that he had nearly finished his meal, and that his mood was

particularly bright and joyous, with that somewhat sinister

cheerfulness which was characteristic of his lighter moments.

"You have a case, Holmes?" I remarked.

"The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson," he

answered. "It has enabled you to probe my secret. Yes, I have a case.

After a month of trivialities and stagnation the wheels move once more."

"Might I share it?"

"There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have consumed

the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has favoured us.

Their condition may not be unconnected with the copy of the _Family

Herald_ which I observed yesterday upon the hall-table. Even so

trivial a matter as cooking an egg demands an attention which is

conscious of the passage of time, and incompatible with the love

romance in that excellent periodical."

A quarter of an hour later the table had been cleared and we were face

to face. He had drawn a letter from his pocket.

"You have heard of Neil Gibson, the Gold King?" he said.

"You mean the American Senator?"

"Well, he was once Senator for some Western State, but is better known

as the greatest gold-mining magnate in the world."

"Yes, I know of him. He has surely lived in England for some time.

His name is very familiar."

"Yes; he bought a considerable estate in Hampshire some five years ago.

Possibly you have already heard of the tragic end of his wife?"

"Of course. I remember it now. That is why the name is familiar. But

I really know nothing of the details."

Holmes waved his hand towards some papers on a chair. "I had no idea

that the case was coming my way or I should have had my extracts

ready," said he. "The fact is that the problem, though exceedingly

sensational, appeared to present no difficulty. The interesting

personality of the accused does not obscure the clearness of the

evidence. That was the view taken by the coroner's jury and also in

the police-court proceedings. It is now referred to the Assizes at

Winchester. I fear it is a thankless business. I can discover facts,

Watson, but I cannot change them. Unless some entirely new and

unexpected ones come to light I do not see what my client can hope for."

"Your client?"

"Ah, I forgot I had not told you. I am getting into your involved

habit, Watson, of telling a story backwards. You had best read this

first."

The letter which he handed to me, written in a bold, masterful hand,

ran as follows:

CLARIDGE'S HOTEL, _October_ 3_rd_.

DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--

I can't see the best woman God ever made go to her death without doing

all that is possible to save her. I can't explain things--I can't even

try to explain them, but I know beyond all doubt that Miss Dunbar is

innocent. You know the facts--who doesn't? It has been the gossip of

the country. And never a voice raised for her! It's the damned

injustice of it all that makes me crazy. That woman has a heart that

wouldn't let her kill a fly. Well, I'll come at eleven to-morrow and

see if you can get some ray of light in the dark. Maybe I have a clue

and don't know it. Anyhow, all I know and all I have and all I am are

for your use if only you can save her. If ever in your life you showed

your powers, put them now into this case.

Yours faithfully,

J. NEIL GIBSON.

"There you have it," said Sherlock Holmes, knocking out the ashes of

his after-breakfast pipe and slowly refilling it. "That is the

gentleman I await. As to the story, you have hardly time to master all

these papers, so I must give it to you in a nutshell if you are to take

an intelligent interest in the proceedings. This man is the greatest

financial power in the world, and a man, as I understand, of most

violent and formidable character. He married a wife, the victim of

this tragedy, of whom I know nothing save that she was past her prime,

which was the more unfortunate as a very attractive governess

superintended the education of two young children. These are the three

people concerned, and the scene is a grand old manor-house, the centre

of an historical English estate. Then as to the tragedy. The wife was

found in the grounds nearly half a mile from the house, late at night,

clad in her dinner dress, with a shawl over her shoulders and a

revolver bullet through her brain. No weapon was found near her and

there was no local clue as to the murder. No weapon near her,

Watson--mark that! The crime seems to have been committed late in the

evening, and the body was found by a gamekeeper about eleven o'clock,

when it was examined by the police and by a doctor before being carried

up to the house. Is this too condensed, or can you follow it clearly?"

"It is all very clear. But why suspect the governess?"

"Well, in the first place there is some very direct evidence. A

revolver with one discharged chamber and a calibre which corresponded

with the bullet was found on the floor of her wardrobe." His eyes

fixed and he repeated in broken words,

"On--the--floor--of--her--wardrobe." Then he sank into silence, and I

saw that some train of thought had been set moving which I should be

foolish to interrupt. Suddenly with a start he emerged into brisk life

once more. "Yes, Watson, it was found. Pretty damning, eh? So the

two juries thought. Then the dead woman had a note upon her making an

appointment at that very place and signed by the governess. How's

that? Finally, there is the motive. Senator Gibson is an attractive

person. If his wife dies, who more likely to succeed her than the

young lady who had already by all accounts received pressing attentions

from her employer. Love, fortune, power, all depending upon one

middle-aged life. Ugly, Watson--very ugly!"

"Yes, indeed, Holmes."

"Nor could she prove an alibi. On the contrary, she had to admit that

she was down near Thor Bridge--that was the scene of the tragedy--about

that hour. She couldn't deny it, for some passing villager had seen

her there."

"That really seems final."

"And yet, Watson--and yet! This bridge--a single broad span of stone

with balustraded sides--carries the drive over the narrowest part of a

long, deep, reed-girt sheet of water. Thor Mere it is called. In the

mouth of the bridge lay the dead woman. Such are the main facts. But

here, if I mistake not, is our client, considerably before his time."

Billy had opened the door, but the name which he announced was an

unexpected one. Mr. Marlow Bates was a stranger to both of us. He was

a thin, nervous wisp of a man with frightened eyes, and a twitching,

hesitating manner--a man whom my own professional eye would judge to be

on the brink of an absolute nervous breakdown.

"You seem agitated, Mr. Bates," said Holmes. "Pray sit down. I fear I

can only give you a short time, for I have an appointment at eleven."

"I know you have," our visitor gasped, shooting out short sentences

like a man who is out of breath. "Mr. Gibson is coming. Mr. Gibson is

my employer. I am manager of his estate. Mr. Holmes, he is a

villain--an infernal villain."

"Strong language, Mr. Bates."

"I have to be emphatic, Mr. Holmes, for the time is so limited. I

would not have him find me here for the world. He is almost due now.

But I was so situated that I could not come earlier. His secretary,

Mr. Ferguson, only told me this morning of his appointment with you."

"And you are his manager?"

"I have given him notice. In a couple of weeks I shall have shaken off

his accursed slavery. A hard man, Mr. Holmes, hard to all about him.

Those public charities are a screen to cover his private iniquities.

But his wife was his chief victim. He was brutal to her--yes, sir,

brutal! How she came by her death I do not know, but I am sure that he

had made her life a misery to her. She was a creature of the Tropics,

a Brazilian by birth, as no doubt you know?"

"No; it had escaped me."

"Tropical by birth and tropical by nature. A child of the sun and of

passion. She had loved him as such women can love, but when her own

physical charms had faded--I am told that they once were great--there

was nothing to hold him. We all liked her and felt for her and hated

him for the way that he treated her. But he is plausible and cunning.

That is all I have to say to you. Don't take him at his face value.

There is more behind. Now I'll go. No, no, don't detain me! He is

almost due."

With a frightened look at the clock our strange visitor literally ran

to the door and disappeared.

"Well! Well!" said Holmes, after an interval of silence. "Mr. Gibson

seems to have a nice loyal household. But the warning is a useful one,

and now we can only wait till the man himself appears."

Sharp at the hour we heard a heavy step upon the stairs and the famous

millionaire was shown into the room. As I looked upon him I understood

not only the fears and dislike of his manager, but also the execrations

which so many business rivals have heaped upon his head. If I were a

sculptor and desired to idealize the successful man of affairs, iron of

nerve and leathery of conscience, I should choose Mr. Neil Gibson as my

model. His tall, gaunt craggy figure had a suggestion of hunger and

rapacity. An Abraham Lincoln keyed to base uses instead of high ones

would give some idea of the man. His face might have been chiselled in

granite, hard-set, craggy, remorseless, with deep lines upon it, the

scars of many a crisis. Cold grey eyes, looking shrewdly out from

under bristling brows, surveyed us each in turn. He bowed in

perfunctory fashion as Holmes mentioned my name, and then with a

masterful air of possession he drew a chair up to my companion and

seated himself with his bony knees almost touching him.

"Let me say right here, Mr. Holmes," he began, "that money is nothing

to me in this case. You can burn it if it's any use in lighting you to

the truth. This woman is innocent and this woman has to be cleared,

and it's up to you to do it. Name your figure!"

"My professional charges are upon a fixed scale," said Holmes coldly.

"I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether."

"Well, if dollars make no difference to you, think of the reputation.

If you pull this off every paper in England and America will be booming

you. You'll be the talk of two continents."

"Thank you, Mr. Gibson, I do not think that I am in need of booming.

It may surprise you to know that I prefer to work anonymously, and that

it is the problem itself which attracts me. But we are wasting time.

Let us get down to the facts."

"I think that you will find all the main ones in the Press reports. I

don't know that I can add anything which will help you. But if there

is anything you would wish more light upon--well, I am here to give it."

"Well, there is just one point."

"What is it?"

"What were the exact relations between you and Miss Dunbar?"

The Gold King gave a violent start, and half rose from his chair. Then

his massive calm came back to him.

"I suppose you are within your rights--and maybe doing your duty--in

asking such a question, Mr. Holmes."

"We will agree to suppose so," said Holmes.

"Then I can assure you that our relations were entirely and always

those of an employer towards a young lady whom he never conversed with,

or ever saw, save when she was in the company of his children."

Holmes rose from his chair.

"I am a rather busy man, Mr. Gibson," said he, "and I have no time or

taste for aimless conversations. I wish you good morning."

Our visitor had risen also and his great loose figure towered above

Holmes. There was an angry gleam from under those bristling brows and

a tinge of colour in the sallow cheeks.

"What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Holmes? Do you dismiss my

case?"

"Well, Mr. Gibson, at least I dismiss you. I should have thought my

words were plain."

"Plain enough, but what's at the back of it? Raising the price on me,

or afraid to tackle it, or what? I've a right to a plain answer."

"Well, perhaps you have," said Holmes. "I'll give you one. This case

is quite sufficiently complicated to start with, without the further

difficulty of false information."

"Meaning that I lie."

"Well, I was trying to express it as delicately as I could, but if you

insist upon the word I will not contradict you."

I sprang to my feet, for the expression upon the millionaire's face was

fiendish in its intensity, and he had raised his great knotted fist.

Holmes smiled languidly and reached his hand out for his pipe.

"Don't be noisy, Mr. Gibson. I find that after breakfast even the

smallest argument is unsettling. I suggest that a stroll in the

morning air and a little quiet thought will be greatly to your

advantage."

With an effort the Gold King mastered his fury. I could not but admire

him, for by a supreme self-command he had turned in a minute from a hot

flame of anger to a frigid and contemptuous indifference.

"Well, it's your choice. I guess you know how to run your own

business. I can't make you touch the case against your will. You've

done yourself no good this morning, Mr. Holmes, for I have broken

stronger men than you. No man ever crossed me and was the better for

it."

"So many have said so, and yet here I am," said Holmes, smiling.

"Well, good morning, Mr. Gibson. You have a good deal yet to learn."

Our visitor made a noisy exit, but Holmes smoked in imperturbable

silence with dreamy eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

"Any views, Watson?" he asked at last.

"Well, Holmes, I must confess that when I consider that this is a man

who would certainly brush any obstacle from his path, and when I

remember that his wife may have been an obstacle and an object of

dislike, as that man Bates plainly told us, it seems to me----"

"Exactly. And to me also."

"But what were his relations with the governess and how did you

discover them?"

"Bluff, Watson, bluff! When I considered the passionate,

unconventional, unbusinesslike tone of his letter, and contrasted it

with his self-contained manner and appearance, it was pretty clear that

there was some deep emotion which centred upon the accused woman rather

than upon the victim. We've got to understand the exact relations of

those three people if we are to reach the truth. You saw the frontal

attack which I made upon him and how imperturbably he received it.

Then I bluffed him by giving him the impression that I was absolutely

certain, when in reality I was only extremely suspicious.

"Perhaps he will come back?"

"He is sure to come back. He must come back. He can't leave it where

it is. Ha! isn't that a ring? Yes, there is his footstep. Well, Mr.

Gibson, I was just saying to Dr. Watson that you were somewhat overdue."

The Gold King had re-entered the room in a more chastened mood than he

had left it. His wounded pride still showed in his resentful eyes, but

his common sense had shown him that he must yield if he would attain

his end.

"I've been thinking it over, Mr. Holmes, and I feel that I have been

hasty in taking your remarks amiss. You are justified in getting down

to the facts, whatever they may be, and I think the more of you for it.

I can assure you, however, that the relations between Miss Dunbar and

me don't really touch this case."

"That is for me to decide, is it not?"

"Yes, I guess that is so. You're like a surgeon who wants every

symptom before he can give his diagnosis."

"Exactly. That expresses it. And it is only a patient who has an

object in deceiving his surgeon who would conceal the facts of his

case."

"That may be so, but you will admit, Mr. Holmes, that most men would

shy off a bit when they are asked point-blank what their relations with

a woman may be--if there is really some serious feeling in the case. I

guess most men have a little private reserve of their own in some

corner of their souls where they don't welcome intruders. And you

burst suddenly into it. But the object excuses you, since it was to

try and save her. Well, the stakes are down and the reserve open and

you can explore where you will. What is it you want?"

"The truth."

The Gold King paused for a moment as one who marshals his thoughts.

His grim, deep-lined face had become even sadder and more grave.

"I can give it to you in a very few words, Mr. Holmes," said he at

last. "There are some things that are painful as well as difficult to

say, so I won't go deeper than is needful. I met my wife when I was

gold-hunting in Brazil. Maria Pinto was the daughter of a Government

official at Manaos, and she was very beautiful. I was young and ardent

in those days, but even now, as I look back with colder blood and a

more critical eye, I can see that she was rare and wonderful in her

beauty. It was a deep rich nature, too, passionate, whole-hearted,

tropical, ill-balanced, very different from the American women whom I

had known. Well, to make a long story short, I loved her and I married

her. It was only when the romance had passed--and it lingered for

years--that I realized that we had nothing--absolutely nothing--in

common. My love faded. If hers had faded also it might have been

easier. But you know the wonderful way of women! Do what I might

nothing could turn her from me. If I have been harsh to her, even

brutal as some have said, it has been because I knew that if I could

kill her love, or if it turned to hate, it would be easier for both of

us. But nothing changed her. She adored me in those English woods as

she had adored me twenty years ago on the banks of the Amazon. Do what

I might, she was as devoted as ever.

"Then came Miss Grace Dunbar. She answered our advertisement and

became governess to our two children. Perhaps you have seen her

portrait in the papers. The whole world has proclaimed that she also

is a very beautiful woman. Now, I make no pretence to be more moral

than my neighbours, and I will admit to you that I could not live under

the same roof with such a woman and in daily contact with her without

feeling a passionate regard for her. Do you blame me, Mr. Holmes?"

"I do not blame you for feeling it. I should blame you if you

expressed it, since this young lady was in a sense under your

protection."

"Well, maybe so," said the millionaire, though for a moment the reproof

had brought the old angry gleam into his eyes. "I'm not pretending to

be any better than I am. I guess all my life I've been a man that

reached out his hand for what he wanted, and I never wanted anything

more than the love and possession of that woman. I told her so."

"Oh, you did, did you?"

Holmes could look very formidable when he was moved.

"I said to her that if I could marry her I would, but that it was out

of my power. I said that money was no object and that all I could do

to make her happy and comfortable would be done."

"Very generous, I am sure," said Holmes, with a sneer.

"See here, Mr. Holmes. I came to you on a question of evidence, not on

a question of morals. I'm not asking for your criticism."

"It is only for the young lady's sake that I touch your case at all,"

said Holmes sternly. "I don't know that anything she is accused of is

really worse than what you have yourself admitted, that you have tried

to ruin a defenceless girl who was under your roof. Some of you rich

men have to be taught that all the world cannot be bribed into

condoning your offences."

To my surprise the Gold King took the reproof with equanimity.

"That's how I feel myself about it now. I thank God that my plans did

not work out as I intended. She would have none of it, and she wanted

to leave the house instantly."

"Why did she not?"

"Well, in the first place, others were dependent upon her, and it was

no light matter for her to let them all down by sacrificing her living.

When I had sworn--as I did--that she should never be molested again,

she consented to remain. But there was another reason. She knew the

influence she had over me, and that it was stronger than any other

influence in the world. She wanted to use it for good."

"How?"

"Well, she knew something of my affairs. They are large, Mr.

Holmes--large beyond the belief of an ordinary man. I can make or

break--and it is usually break. It wasn't individuals only. It was

communities, cities, even nations. Business is a hard game, and the

weak go to the wall. I played the game for all it was worth. I never

squealed myself and I never cared if the other fellow squealed. But

she saw it different. I guess she was right. She believed and said

that a fortune for one man that was more than he needed should not be

built on ten thousand ruined men who were left without the means of

life. That was how she saw it, and I guess she could see past the

dollars to something that was more lasting. She found that I listened

to what she said, and she believed she was serving the world by

influencing my actions. So she stayed--and then this came along."

"Can you throw any light upon that?"

The Gold King paused for a minute or more, his head sunk in his hands,

lost in deep thought.

"It's very black against her. I can't deny that. And women lead an

inward life and may do things beyond the judgment of a man. At first I

was so rattled and taken aback that I was ready to think she had been

led away in some extraordinary fashion that was clean against her usual

nature. One explanation came into my head. I give it to you, Mr.

Holmes, for what it is worth. There is no doubt that my wife was

bitterly jealous. There is a soul-jealousy that can be as frantic as

any body-jealousy, and though my wife had no cause--and I think she

understood this--for the latter, she was aware that this English girl

exerted an influence upon my mind and my acts that she herself never

had. It was an influence for good, but that did not mend the matter.

She was crazy with hatred, and the heat of the Amazon was always in her

blood. She might have planned to murder Miss Dunbar--or we will say to

threaten her with a gun and so frighten her into leaving us. Then

there might have been a scuffle and the gun gone off and shot the woman

who held it."

"That possibility had already occurred to me," said Holmes. "Indeed,

it is the only obvious alternative to deliberate murder."

"But she utterly denies it."

"Well, that is not final--is it? One can understand that a woman

placed in so awful a position might hurry home still in her

bewilderment holding the revolver. She might even throw it down among

her clothes, hardly knowing what she was doing, and when it was found

she might try to lie her way out by a total denial, since all

explanation was impossible. What is against such a supposition?"

"Miss Dunbar herself."

"Well, perhaps."

Holmes looked at his watch. "I have no doubt we can get the necessary

permits this morning and reach Winchester by the evening train. When I

have seen this young lady, it is very possible that I may be of more

use to you in the matter, though I cannot promise that my conclusions

will necessarily be such as you desire."

There was some delay in the official pass, and instead of reaching

Winchester that day we went down to Thor Place, the Hampshire estate of

Mr. Neil Gibson. He did not accompany us himself, but we had the

address of Sergeant Coventry, of the local police, who had first

examined into the affair. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous man, with a

secretive and mysterious manner, which conveyed the idea that he knew

or suspected a very great deal more than he dared say. He had a trick,

too, of suddenly sinking his voice to a whisper as if he had come upon

something of vital importance, though the information was usually

commonplace enough. Behind these tricks of manner he soon showed

himself to be a decent, honest fellow who was not too proud to admit

that he was out of his depth and would welcome any help.

"Anyhow, I'd rather have you than Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes," said he.

"If the Yard gets called into a case, then the local loses all credit

for success and may be blamed for failure. Now, you play straight, so

I've heard."

"I need not appear in the matter at all," said Holmes, to the evident

relief of our melancholy acquaintance. "If I can clear it up I don't

ask to have my name mentioned."

"Well, it's very handsome of you, I am sure. And your friend, Dr.

Watson, can be trusted, I know. Now, Mr. Holmes, as we walk down to

the place there is one question I should like to ask you. I'd breathe

it to no soul but you." He looked round as though he hardly dare utter

the words. "Don't you think there might be a case against Mr. Neil

Gibson himself?"

"I have been considering that."

"You've not seen Miss Dunbar. She is a wonderful fine woman in every

way. He may well have wished his wife out of the road. And these

Americans are readier with pistols than our folk are. It was his

pistol, you know."

"Was that clearly made out?"

"Yes, sir. It was one of a pair that he had."

"One of a pair? Where is the other?"

"Well, the gentleman has a lot of fire-arms of one sort and another.

We never quite matched that particular pistol--but the box was made for

two."

"If it was one of a pair you should surely be able to match it."

"Well, we have them all laid out at the house if you would care to look

them over."

"Later, perhaps. I think we will walk down together and have a look at

the scene of the tragedy."

This conversation had taken place in the little front room of Sergeant

Coventry's humble cottage which served as the local police-station. A

walk of half a mile or so across a wind-swept heath, all gold and

bronze with the fading ferns, brought us to a side-gate opening into

the grounds of the Thor Place estate. A path led us through the

pheasant preserves, and then from a clearing we saw the wide-spread,

half-timbered house, half Tudor and half Georgian, upon the crest of

the hill. Beside us there was a long, reedy pool, constricted in the

centre where the main carriage drive passed over a stone bridge, but

swelling into small lakes on either side. Our guide paused at the

mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to the ground.

"That was where Mrs. Gibson's body lay. I marked it by that stone."

"I understand that you were there before it was moved?"

"Yes; they sent for me at once."

"Who did?"

"Mr. Gibson himself. The moment the alarm was given and he had rushed

down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be

moved until the police should arrive."

"That was sensible. I gathered from the newspaper report that the shot

was fired from close quarters."

"Yes, sir, very close."

"Near the right temple?"

"Just behind it, sir."

"How did the body lie?"

"On the back, sir. No trace of a struggle. No marks. No weapon. The

short note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand."

"Clutched, you say?"

"Yes, sir; we could hardly open the fingers."

"That is of great importance. It excludes the idea that anyone could

have placed the note there after death in order to furnish a false

clue. Dear me! The note, as I remember, was quite short. 'I will be

at Thor Bridge at nine o'clock.--G. Dunbar.' Was that not so?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did Miss Dunbar admit writing it?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was her explanation?"

"Her defence was reserved for the Assizes. She would say nothing."

"The problem is certainly a very interesting one. The point of the

letter is very obscure, is it not?"

"Well, sir," said the guide, "it seemed, if I may be so bold as to say

so, the only really clear point in the whole case."

Holmes shook his head.

"Granting that the letter is genuine and was really written, it was

certainly received some time before--say one hour or two. Why, then,

was this lady still clasping it in her left hand? Why should she carry

it so carefully? She did not need to refer to it in the interview.

Does it not seem remarkable?"

"Well, sir, as you put it, perhaps it does."

"I think I should like to sit quietly for a few minutes and think it

out." He seated himself upon the stone ledge of the bridge, and I

could see his quick grey eyes darting their questioning glances in

every direction. Suddenly he sprang up again and ran across to the

opposite parapet, whipped his lens from his pocket, and began to

examine the stonework.

"This is curious," said he.

"Yes, sir; we saw the chip on the ledge. I expect it's been done by

some passer-by."

The stonework was grey, but at this one point it showed white for a

space not larger than a sixpence. When examined closely one could see

that the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow.

"It took some violence to do that," said Holmes thoughtfully. With his

cane he struck the ledge several times without leaving a mark. "Yes,

it was a hard knock. In a curious place, too. It was not from above

but from below, for you see that it is on the _lower_ edge of the

parapet."

"But it is at least fifteen feet from the body."

"Yes, it is fifteen feet from the body. It may have nothing to do with

the matter, but it is a point worth noting. I do not think that we

have anything more to learn here. There were no footsteps, you say?"

"The ground was iron hard, sir. There were no traces at all."

"Then we can go. We will go up to the house first and look over these

weapons of which you speak. Then we shall get on to Winchester, for I

should desire to see Miss Dunbar before we go farther."

Mr. Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw in the house the

neurotic Mr. Bates who had called upon us in the morning. He showed us

with a sinister relish the formidable array of fire-arms of various

shapes and sizes which his employer had accumulated in the course of an

adventurous life.

"Mr. Gibson has his enemies, as anyone would expect who knew him and

his methods," said he. "He sleeps with a loaded revolver in the drawer

beside his bed. He is a man of violence, sir, and there are times when

all of us are afraid of him. I am sure that the poor lady who has

passed was often terrified."

"Did you ever witness physical violence towards her?"

"No, I cannot say that. But I have heard words which were nearly as

bad--words of cold, cutting contempt, even before the servants."

"Our millionaire does not seem to shine in private life," remarked

Holmes, as we made our way to the station. "Well, Watson, we have come

on a good many facts, some of them new ones, and yet I seem some way

from my conclusion. In spite of the very evident dislike which Mr.

Bates has to his employer, I gather from him that when the alarm came

he was undoubtedly in his library. Dinner was over at eight-thirty and

all was normal up to then. It is true that the alarm was somewhat late

in the evening, but the tragedy certainly occurred about the hour named

in the note. There is no evidence at all that Mr. Gibson had been out

of doors since his return from town at five o'clock. On the other

hand, Miss Dunbar, as I understand it, admits that she had made an

appointment to meet Mrs. Gibson at the bridge. Beyond this she would

say nothing, as her lawyer had advised her to reserve her defence. We

have several very vital questions to ask that young lady, and my mind

will not be easy until we have seen her. I must confess that the case

would seem to me to be very black against her if it were not for one

thing."

"And what is that, Holmes?"

"The finding of the pistol in her wardrobe."

"Dear me, Holmes!" I cried, "that seemed to me to be the most damning

incident of all."

"Not so, Watson. It had struck me even at my first perfunctory reading

as very strange, and now that I am in closer touch with the case it is

my only firm ground for hope. We must look for consistency. Where

there is a want of it we must suspect deception."

"I hardly follow you."

"Well now, Watson, suppose for a moment that we visualize you in the

character of a woman who, in a cold, premeditated fashion, is about to

get rid of a rival. You have planned it. A note has been written.

The victim has come. You have your weapon. The crime is done. It has

been workman-like and complete. Do you tell me that after carrying out

so crafty a crime you would now ruin your reputation as a criminal by

forgetting to fling your weapon into those adjacent reed-beds which

would for ever cover it, but you must needs carry it carefully home and

put it in your own wardrobe, the very first place that would be

searched? Your best friends would hardly call you a schemer, Watson,

and yet I could not picture you doing anything so crude as that."

"In the excitement of the moment----"

"No, no, Watson, I will not admit that it is possible. Where a crime

is coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly

premeditated also. I hope, therefore, that we are in the presence of a

serious misconception."

"But there is so much to explain."

"Well, we shall set about explaining it. When once your point of view

is changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the

truth. For example, there is this revolver. Miss Dunbar disclaims all

knowledge of it. On our new theory she is speaking truth when she says

so. Therefore, it was placed in her wardrobe. Who placed it there?

Someone who wished to incriminate her. Was not that person the actual

criminal? You see how we come at once upon a most fruitful line of

inquiry."

We were compelled to spend the night at Winchester, as the formalities

had not yet been completed, but next morning, in the company of Mr.

Joyce Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted with the

defence, we were allowed to see the young lady in her cell. I had

expected from all that we had heard to see a beautiful woman, but I can

never forget the effect which Miss Dunbar produced upon me. It was no

wonder that even the masterful millionaire had found in her something

more powerful than himself--something which could control and guide

him. One felt, too, as one looked at that strong, clear-cut, and yet

sensitive face, that even should she be capable of some impetuous deed,

none the less there was an innate nobility of character which would

make her influence always for the good. She was a brunette, tall, with

a noble figure and commanding presence, but her dark eyes had in them

the appealing, helpless expression of the hunted creature who feels the

nets around it, but can see no way out from the toils. Now, as she

realized the presence and the help of my famous friend, there came a

touch of colour in her wan cheeks and a light of hope began to glimmer

in the glance which she turned upon us.

"Perhaps Mr. Neil Gibson has told you something of what occurred

between us?" she asked, in a low, agitated voice.

"Yes," Holmes answered; "you need not pain yourself by entering into

that part of the story. After seeing you, I am prepared to accept Mr.

Gibson's statement both as to the influence which you had over him and

as to the innocence of your relations with him. But why was the whole

situation not brought out in court?"

"It seemed to me incredible that such a charge could be sustained. I

thought that if we waited the whole thing must clear itself up without

our being compelled to enter into painful details of the inner life of

the family. But I understand that far from clearing it has become even

more serious."

"My dear young lady," cried Holmes earnestly, "I beg you to have no

illusions upon the point. Mr. Cummings here would assure you that all

the cards are at present against us, and that we must do everything

that is possible if we are to win clear. It would be a cruel deception

to pretend that you are not in very great danger. Give me all the help

you can, then, to get at the truth."

"I will conceal nothing."

"Tell us, then, of your true relations with Mr. Gibson's wife."

"She hated me, Mr. Holmes. She hated me with all the fervour of her

tropical nature. She was a woman who would do nothing by halves, and

the measure of her love for her husband was the measure also of her

hatred for me. It is probable that she misunderstood our relations. I

would not wish to wrong her, but she loved so vividly in a physical

sense that she could hardly understand the mental, and even spiritual,

tie which held her husband to me, or imagine that it was only my desire

to influence his power to good ends which kept me under his roof. I

can see now that I was wrong. Nothing could justify me in remaining

where I was a cause of unhappiness, and yet it is certain that the

unhappiness would have remained even if I had left the house."

"Now, Miss Dunbar," said Holmes, "I beg you to tell us exactly what

occurred that evening."

"I can tell you the truth so far as I know it, Mr. Holmes, but I am in

a position to prove nothing, and there are points--the most vital

points--which I can neither explain nor can I imagine any explanation."

"If you will find the facts, perhaps others may find the explanation."

"With regard, then, to my presence at Thor Bridge that night, I

received a note from Mrs. Gibson in the morning. It lay on the table

of the schoolroom, and it may have been left there by her own hand. It

implored me to see her there after dinner, said she had something

important to say to me, and asked me to leave an answer on the sundial

in the garden, as she desired no one to be in our confidence. I saw no

reason for such secrecy, but I did as she asked, accepting the

appointment. She asked me to destroy her note and I burned it in the

schoolroom grate. She was very much afraid of her husband, who treated

her with a harshness for which I frequently reproached him, and I could

only imagine that she acted in this way because she did not wish him to

know of our interview."

"Yet she kept your reply very carefully?"

"Yes. I was surprised to hear that she had it in her hand when she

died."

"Well, what happened then?"

"I went down as I had promised. When I reached the bridge she was

waiting for me. Never did I realize till that moment how this poor

creature hated me. She was like a mad woman--indeed, I think she was a

mad woman, subtly mad with the deep power of deception which insane

people may have. How else could she have met me with unconcern every

day and yet had so raging a hatred of me in her heart? I will not say

what she said. She poured her whole wild fury out in burning and

horrible words. I did not even answer--I could not. It was dreadful

to see her. I put my hands to my ears and rushed away. When I left

her she was standing still shrieking out her curses at me, in the mouth

of the bridge."

"Where she was afterwards found?"

"Within a few yards from the spot."

"And yet, presuming that she met her death shortly after you left her,

you heard no shot?"

"No, I heard nothing. But, indeed, Mr. Holmes, I was so agitated and

horrified by this terrible outbreak that I rushed to get back to the

peace of my own room, and I was incapable of noticing anything which

happened."

"You say that you returned to your room. Did you leave it again before

next morning?"

"Yes; when the alarm came that the poor creature had met her death I

ran out with the others."

"Did you see Mr. Gibson?"

"Yes; he had just returned from the bridge when I saw him. He had sent

for the doctor and the police."

"Did he seem to you much perturbed?"

"Mr. Gibson is a very strong, self-contained man. I do not think that

he would ever show his emotions on the surface. But I, who knew him so

well, could see that he was deeply concerned."

"Then we come to the all-important point. This pistol that was found

in your room. Had you ever seen it before?"

"Never, I swear it."

"When was it found?"

"Next morning, when the police made their search."

"Among your clothes?"

"Yes; on the floor of my wardrobe under my dresses."

"You could not guess how long it had been there?"

"It had not been there the morning before."

"How do you know?"

"Because I tidied out the wardrobe."

"That is final. Then someone came into your room and placed the pistol

there in order to inculpate you."

"It must have been so."

"And when?"

"It could only have been at meal-time, or else at the hours when I

would be in the schoolroom with the children."

"As you were when you got the note?"

"Yes; from that time onwards for the whole morning."

"Thank you, Miss Dunbar. Is there any other point which could help me

in the investigation?"

"I can think of none."

"There was some sign of violence on the stonework of the bridge--a

perfectly fresh chip just opposite the body. Could you suggest any

possible explanation of that?"

"Surely it must be a mere coincidence."

"Curious, Miss Dunbar, very curious. Why should it appear at the very

time of the tragedy and why at the very place?"

"But what could have caused it? Only great violence could have such an

effect."

Holmes did not answer. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that

tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the

supreme manifestations of his genius. So evident was the crisis in his

mind that none of us dared to speak, and we sat, barrister, prisoner,

and myself, watching him in a concentrated and absorbed silence.

Suddenly he sprang from his chair, vibrating with nervous energy and

the pressing need for action.

"Come, Watson, come!" he cried.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"

"Never mind, my dear lady. You will hear from me, Mr. Cummings. With

the help of the God of justice I will give you a case which will make

England ring. You will get news by to-morrow, Miss Dunbar, and

meanwhile take my assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I have

every hope that the light of truth is breaking through."

It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but it was

long to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evident that it

seemed endless; for, in his nervous restlessness, he could not sit

still, but paced the carriage or drummed with his long, sensitive

fingers upon the cushions beside him. Suddenly, however, as we neared

our destination he seated himself opposite to me--we had a first-class

carriage to ourselves--and laying a hand upon each of my knees he

looked into my eyes with the peculiarly mischievous gaze which was

characteristic of his more imp-like moods.

"Watson," said he, "I have some recollection that you go armed upon

these excursions of ours."

It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his

own safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem, so that more

than once my revolver had been a good friend in need. I reminded him

of the fact.

"Yes, yes, I am a little absent-minded in such matters. But have you

your revolver on you?"

I produced it from my hip-pocket, a short, handy, but very serviceable

little weapon. He undid the catch, shook out the cartridges, and

examined it with care.

"It's heavy--remarkably heavy," said he.

"Yes, it is a solid bit of work."

He mused over it for a minute.

"Do you know, Watson," said he, "I believe your revolver is going to

have a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are

investigating."

"My dear Holmes, you are joking."

"No, Watson, I am very serious. There is a test before us. If the

test comes off, all will be clear. And the test will depend upon the

conduct of this little weapon. One cartridge out. Now we will replace

the other five and put on the safety-catch. So! That increases the

weight and makes it a better reproduction."

I had no glimmer of what was in his mind nor did he enlighten me, but

sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the little Hampshire station.

We secured a ramshackle trap, and in a quarter of an hour were at the

house of our confidential friend, the sergeant.

"A clue, Mr. Holmes? What is it?"

"It all depends upon the behaviour of Dr. Watson's revolver," said my

friend. "Here it is. Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of

string?"

The village shop provided a ball of stout twine.

"I think that this is all we will need," said Holmes. "Now, if you

please, we will get off on what I hope is the last stage of our

journey."

The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moor into a

wonderful autumnal panorama. The sergeant, with many critical and

incredulous glances, which showed his deep doubts of the sanity of my

companion, lurched along beside us. As we approached the scene of the

crime I could see that my friend under all his habitual coolness was in

truth deeply agitated.

"Yes," he said, in answer to my remark, "you have seen me miss my mark

before, Watson. I have an instinct for such things, and yet it has

sometimes played me false. It seemed a certainty when first it flashed

across my mind in the cell at Winchester, but one drawback of an active

mind is that one can always conceive alternative explanations which

would make our scent a false one. And yet--and yet---- Well, Watson,

we can but try."

As he walked he had firmly tied one end of the string to the handle of

the revolver. We had now reached the scene of the tragedy. With great

care he marked out under the guidance of the policeman the exact spot

where the body had been stretched. He then hunted among the heather

and the ferns until he found a considerable stone. This he secured to

the other end of his line of string, and he hung it over the parapet of

the bridge so that it swung clear above the water. He then stood on

the fatal spot, some distance from the edge of the bridge, with my

revolver in his hand, the string being taut between the weapon and the

heavy stone on the farther side.

"Now for it!" he cried.

At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go his

grip. In an instant it had been whisked away by the weight of the

stone, had struck with a sharp crack against the parapet, and had

vanished over the side into the water. It had hardly gone before

Holmes was kneeling beside the stonework, and a joyous cry showed that

he had found what he expected.

"Was there ever a more exact demonstration?" he cried. "See, Watson,

your revolver has solved the problem!" As he spoke he pointed to a

second chip of the exact size and shape of the first which had appeared

on the under edge of the stone balustrade.

"We'll stay at the inn to-night," he continued, as he rose and faced

the astonished sergeant. "You will, of course, get a grappling-hook

and you will easily restore my friend's revolver. You will also find

beside it the revolver, string and weight with which this vindictive

woman attempted to disguise her own crime and to fasten a charge of

murder upon an innocent victim. You can let Mr. Gibson know that I

will see him in the morning, when steps can be taken for Miss Dunbar's

vindication."

Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in the village

inn, Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed.

"I fear, Watson," said he, "that you will not improve any reputation

which I may have acquired by adding the Case of the Thor Bridge Mystery

to your annals. I have been sluggish in mind and wanting in that

mixture of imagination and reality which is the basis of my art. I

confess that the chip in the stonework was a sufficient clue to suggest

the true solution, and that I blame myself for not having attained it

sooner.

"It must be admitted that the workings of this unhappy woman's mind

were deep and subtle, so that it was no very simple matter to unravel

her plot. I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come

across a stranger example of what perverted love can bring about.

Whether Miss Dunbar was her rival in a physical or in a merely mental

sense seems to have been equally unforgivable in her eyes. No doubt

she blamed this innocent lady for all those harsh dealings and unkind

words with which her husband tried to repel her too demonstrative

affection. Her first resolution was to end her own life. Her second

was to do it in such a way as to involve her victim in a fate which was

worse far than any sudden death could be.

"We can follow the various steps quite clearly, and they show a

remarkable subtlety of mind. A note was extracted very cleverly from

Miss Dunbar which would make it appear that she had chosen the scene of

the crime. In her anxiety that it should be discovered she somewhat

overdid it, by holding it in her hand to the last. This alone should

have excited my suspicions earlier than it did.

"Then she took one of her husband's revolvers--there was, as you saw,

an arsenal in the house--and kept it for her own use. A similar one

she concealed that morning in Miss Dunbar's wardrobe after discharging

one barrel, which she could easily do in the woods without attracting

attention. She then went down to the bridge where she had contrived

this exceedingly ingenious method for getting rid of her weapon. When

Miss Dunbar appeared she used her last breath in pouring out her

hatred, and then, when she was out of hearing, carried out her terrible

purpose. Every link is now in its place and the chain is complete.

The papers may ask why the mere was not dragged in the first instance,

but it is easy to be wise after the event, and in any case the expanse

of a reed-filled lake is no easy matter to drag unless you have a clear

perception of what you are looking for and where. Well, Watson, we

have helped a remarkable woman, and also a formidable man. Should they

in the future join their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial

world may find that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that

schoolroom of Sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught."

VIII

THE ADVENTURE OF THE CREEPING MAN

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was always of opinion that I should publish the

singular facts connected with Professor Presbury, if only to dispel

once for all the ugly rumours which some twenty years ago agitated the

University and were echoed in the learned societies of London. There

were, however, certain obstacles in the way, and the true history of

this curious case remained entombed in the tin box which contains so

many records of my friend's adventures. Now we have at last obtained

permission to ventilate the facts which formed one of the very last

cases handled by Holmes before his retirement from practice. Even now

a certain reticence and discretion have to be observed in laying the

matter before the public.

It was one Sunday evening early in September of the year 1903 that I

received one of Holmes's laconic messages: "Come at once if

convenient--if inconvenient come all the same.--S.H." The relations

between us in those latter days were peculiar. He was a man of habits,

narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. As an

institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black

pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less excusable. When it was

a case of active work and a comrade was needed upon whose nerve he

could place some reliance, my role was obvious. But apart from this I

had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind. I stimulated him. He liked

to think aloud in my presence. His remarks could hardly be said to be

made to me--many of them would have been as appropriately addressed to

his bedstead--but none the less, having formed the habit, it had become

in some way helpful that I should register and interject. If I

irritated him by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality, that

irritation served only to make his own flame-like intuitions and

impressions flash up the more vividly and swiftly. Such was my humble

role in our alliance.

When I arrived at Baker Street I found him huddled up in his arm-chair

with updrawn knees, his pipe in his mouth and his brow furrowed with

thought. It was clear that he was in the throes of some vexatious

problem. With a wave of his hand he indicated my old arm-chair, but

otherwise for half an hour he gave no sign that he was aware of my

presence. Then with a start he seemed to come from his reverie, and,

with his usual whimsical smile, he greeted me back to what had once

been my home.

"You will excuse a certain abstraction of mind, my dear Watson," said

he. "Some curious facts have been submitted to me within the last

twenty-four hours, and they in turn have given rise to some

speculations of a more general character. I have serious thoughts of

writing a small monograph upon the uses of dogs in the work of the

detective."

"But surely, Holmes, this has been explored," said I.

"Bloodhounds--sleuth-hounds----"

"No, no, Watson; that side of the matter is, of course, obvious. But

there is another which is far more subtle. You may recollect that in

the case which you, in your sensational way, coupled with the Copper

Beeches, I was able, by watching the mind of the child, to form a

deduction as to the criminal habits of the very smug and respectable

father."

"Yes, I remember it well."

"My line of thoughts about dogs is analogous. A dog reflects the

family life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad dog

in a happy one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous people

have dangerous ones. And their passing moods may reflect the passing

moods of others."

I shook my head. "Surely, Holmes, this is a little far-fetched," said

I.

He had refilled his pipe and resumed his seat, taking no notice of my

comment.

"The practical application of what I have said is very close to the

problem which I am investigating. It is a tangled skein, you

understand, and I am looking for a loose end. One possible loose end

lies in the question: Why does Professor Presbury's faithful

wolf-hound, Roy, endeavour to bite him?"

I sank back in my chair in some disappointment. Was it for so trivial

a question as this that I had been summoned from my work? Holmes

glanced across at me.

"The same old Watson!" said he. "You never learn that the gravest

issues may depend upon the smallest things. But is it not on the face

of it strange that a staid, elderly philosopher--you've heard of

Presbury, of course, the famous Camford physiologist?--that such a man,

whose friend has been his devoted wolf-hound, should now have been

twice attacked by his own dog? What do you make of it?"

"The dog is ill."

"Well, that has to be considered. But he attacks no one else, nor does

he apparently molest his master, save on very special occasions.

Curious, Watson--very curious. But young Mr. Bennett is before his

time, if that is his ring. I had hoped to have a longer chat with you

before he came."

There was a quick step on the stairs, a sharp tap at the door, and a

moment later the new client presented himself. He was a tall, handsome

youth about thirty, well dressed and elegant, but with something in his

bearing which suggested the shyness of the student rather than the

self-possession of the man of the world. He shook hands with Holmes,

and then looked with some surprise at me.

"This matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Consider the

relation in which I stand to Professor Presbury, both privately and

publicly. I really can hardly justify myself if I speak before any

third person."

"Have no fear, Mr. Bennett. Dr. Watson is the very soul of discretion,

and I can assure you that this is a matter in which I am very likely to

need an assistant."

"As you like, Mr. Holmes. You will, I am sure, understand my having

some reserves in the matter."

"You will appreciate it, Watson, when I tell you that this gentleman,

Mr. Trevor Bennett, is professional assistant to the great scientist,

lives under his roof, and is engaged to his only daughter. Certainly

we must agree that the Professor has every claim upon his loyalty and

devotion. But it may best be shown by taking the necessary steps to

clear up this strange mystery."

"I hope so, Mr. Holmes. That is my one object. Does Dr. Watson know

the situation?"

"I have not had time to explain it."

"Then perhaps I had better go over the ground again before explaining

some fresh developments."

"I will do so myself," said Holmes, "in order to show that I have the

events in their due order. The Professor, Watson, is a man of European

reputation. His life has been academic. There has never been a breath

of scandal. He is a widower with one daughter, Edith. He is, I

gather, a man of very virile and positive, one might almost say

combative, character. So the matter stood until a very few months ago.

"Then the current of his life was broken. He is sixty-one years of

age, but he became engaged to the daughter of Professor Morphy, his

colleague in the chair of Comparative Anatomy. It was not, as I

understand, the reasoned courting of an elderly man, but rather the

passionate frenzy of youth, for no one could have shown himself a more

devoted lover. The lady, Alice Morphy, was a very perfect girl both in

mind and body, so that there was every excuse for the Professor's

infatuation. Nonetheless, it did not meet with full approval in his

own family."

"We thought it rather excessive," said our visitor.

"Exactly. Excessive and a little violent and unnatural. Professor

Presbury was rich, however, and there was no objection upon the part of

the father. The daughter, however, had other views, and there were

already several candidates for her hand, who, if they were less

eligible from a worldly point of view, were at least more of an age.

The girl seemed to like the Professor in spite of his eccentricities.

It was only age which stood in the way.

"About this time a little mystery suddenly clouded the normal routine

of the Professor's life. He did what he had never done before. He

left home and gave no indication where he was going. He was away a

fortnight, and returned looking rather travel-worn. He made no

allusion to where he had been, although he was usually the frankest of

men. It chanced, however, that our client here, Mr. Bennett, received

a letter from a fellow-student in Prague, who said that he was glad to

have seen Professor Presbury there, although he had not been able to

talk to him. Only in this way did his own household learn where he had

been.

"Now comes the point. From that time onwards a curious change came

over the Professor. He became furtive and sly. Those around him had

always the feeling that he was not the man that they had known, but

that he was under some shadow which had darkened his higher qualities.

His intellect was not affected. His lectures were as brilliant as

ever. But always there was something new, something sinister and

unexpected. His daughter, who was devoted to him, tried again and

again to resume the old relations and to penetrate this mask which her

father seemed to have put on. You, sir, as I understand, did the

same--but all was in vain. And now, Mr. Bennett, tell in your own

words the incident of the letters."

"You must understand, Dr. Watson, that the Professor had no secrets

from me. If I were his son or his younger brother, I could not have

more completely enjoyed his confidence. As his secretary I handled

every paper which came to him, and I opened and subdivided his letters.

Shortly after his return all this was changed. He told me that certain

letters might come to him from London which would be marked by a cross

under the stamp. These were to be set aside for his own eyes only. I

may say that several of these did pass through my hands, that they had

the E.C. mark, and were in an illiterate handwriting. If he answered

them at all the answers did not pass through my hands nor into the

letter-basket in which our correspondence was collected."

"And the box," said Holmes.

"Ah, yes, the box. The Professor brought back a little wooden box from

his travels. It was the one thing which suggested a Continental tour,

for it was one of those quaint carved things which one associates with

Germany. This he placed in his instrument cupboard. One day, in

looking for a cannula, I took up the box. To my surprise he was very

angry, and reproved me in words which were quite savage for my

curiosity. It was the first time such a thing had happened and I was

deeply hurt. I endeavoured to explain that it was a mere accident that

I had touched the box, but all the evening I was conscious that he

looked at me harshly and that the incident was rankling in his mind."

Mr. Bennett drew a little diary book from his pocket. "That was on

July 2," said he.

"You are certainly an admirable witness," said Holmes. "I may need

some of these dates which you have noted."

"I learned method among other things from my great teacher. From the

time that I observed abnormality in his behaviour I felt that it was my

duty to study his case. Thus I have it here that it was on that very

day, July 2, that Roy attacked the Professor, as he came from his study

into the hall. Again on July 11, there was a scene of the same sort

and then I have a note of yet another upon July 20. After that we had

to banish Roy to the stables. He was a dear, affectionate animal--but

I fear I weary you."

Mr. Bennett spoke in a tone of reproach, for it was very clear that

Holmes was not listening. His face was rigid and his eyes gazed

abstractedly at the ceiling. With an effort he recovered himself.

"Singular! Most singular!" he murmured. "These details were new to

me, Mr. Bennett. I think we have now fairly gone over the old ground,

have we not? But you spoke of some fresh developments."

The pleasant, open face of our visitor clouded over, shadowed by some

grim remembrance. "What I speak of occurred the night before last,"

said he. "I was lying awake about two in the morning, when I was aware

of a dull muffled sound coming from the passage. I opened my door and

peeped out. I should explain that the Professor sleeps at the end of

the passage----"

"The date being----?" asked Holmes.

Our visitor was clearly annoyed at so irrelevant an interruption.

"I have said, sir, that it was the night before last--that is,

September 4."

Holmes nodded and smiled.

"Pray continue," said he.

"He sleeps at the end of the passage, and would have to pass my door in

order to reach the staircase. It was a really terrifying experience,

Mr. Holmes. I think that I am as strong-nerved as my neighbours, but I

was shaken by what I saw. The passage was dark save that one window

half-way along it threw a patch of light. I could see that something

was coming along the passage, something dark and crouching. Then

suddenly it emerged into the light, and I saw that it was he. He was

crawling, Mr. Holmes--crawling! He was not quite on his hands and

knees. I should rather say on his hands and feet, with his face sunk

between his hands. Yet he seemed to move with ease. I was so

paralysed by the sight that it was not until he had reached my door

that I was able to step forward and ask if I could assist him. His

answer was extraordinary. He sprang up, spat out some atrocious word

at me, and hurried on past me, and down the staircase. I waited about

for an hour, but he did not come back. It must have been daylight

before he regained his room."

"Well, Watson, what make you of that?" asked Holmes, with the air of

the pathologist who presents a rare specimen.

"Lumbago, possibly. I have known a severe attack make a man walk in

just such a way, and nothing would be more trying to the temper."

"Good, Watson! You always keep us flat-footed on the ground. But we

can hardly accept lumbago, since he was able to stand erect in a

moment."

"He was never better in health," said Bennett. "In fact, he is

stronger than I have known him for years. But there are the facts, Mr.

Holmes. It is not a case in which we can consult the police, and yet

we are utterly at our wits' end as to what to do, and we feel in some

strange way that we are drifting towards disaster. Edith--Miss

Presbury--feels as I do, that we cannot wait passively any longer."

"It is certainly a very curious and suggestive case. What do you

think, Watson?"

"Speaking as a medical man," said I, "it appears to be a case for an

alienist. The old gentleman's cerebral processes were disturbed by the

love affair. He made a journey abroad in the hope of breaking himself

of the passion. His letters and the box may be connected with some

other private transaction--a loan, perhaps, or share certificates,

which are in the box."

"And the wolf-hound no doubt disapproved of the financial bargain. No,

no, Watson, there is more in it than this. Now, I can only suggest----"

What Sherlock Holmes was about to suggest will never be known, for at

this moment the door opened and a young lady was shown into the room.

As she appeared Mr. Bennett sprang up with a cry and ran forward with

his hands out to meet those which she had herself outstretched.

"Edith, dear! Nothing the matter, I hope?"

"I felt I must follow you. Oh, Jack, I have been so dreadfully

frightened! It is awful to be there alone."

"Mr. Holmes, this is the young lady I spoke of. This is my fiancée."

"We were gradually coming to that conclusion, were we not, Watson?"

Holmes answered, with a smile. "I take it, Miss Presbury, that there

is some fresh development in the case, and that you thought we should

know?"

Our new visitor, a bright, handsome girl of a conventional English

type, smiled back at Holmes as she seated herself beside Mr. Bennett.

"When I found Mr. Bennett had left his hotel I thought I should

probably find him here. Of course, he had told me that he would

consult you. But, oh, Mr. Holmes, can you do nothing for my poor

father?"

"I have hopes, Miss Presbury, but the case is still obscure. Perhaps

what you have to say may throw some fresh light upon it."

"It was last night, Mr. Holmes. He had been very strange all day. I

am sure that there are times when he has no recollection of what he

does. He lives as in a strange dream. Yesterday was such a day. It

was not my father with whom I lived. His outward shell was there, but

it was not really he."

"Tell me what happened."

"I was awakened in the night by the dog barking most furiously. Poor

Roy, he is chained now near the stable. I may say that I always sleep

with my door locked; for, as Jack--as Mr. Bennett--will tell you, we

all have a feeling of impending danger. My room is on the second

floor. It happened that the blind was up in my window, and there was

bright moonlight outside. As I lay with my eyes fixed upon the square

of light, listening to the frenzied barkings of the dog, I was amazed

to see my father's face looking in at me. Mr. Holmes, I nearly died of

surprise and horror. There it was pressed against the window-pane, and

one hand seemed to be raised as if to push up the window. If that

window had opened, I think I should have gone mad. It was no delusion,

Mr. Holmes. Don't deceive yourself by thinking so. I dare say it was

twenty seconds or so that I lay paralysed and watched the face. Then

it vanished, but I could not--I could not spring out of bed and look

out after it. I lay cold and shivering till morning. At breakfast he

was sharp and fierce in manner, and made no allusion to the adventure

of the night. Neither did I, but I gave an excuse for coming to

town--and here I am."

Holmes looked thoroughly surprised at Miss Presbury's narrative.

"My dear young lady, you say that your room is on the second floor. Is

there a long ladder in the garden?"

"No, Mr. Holmes; that is the amazing part of it. There is no possible

way of reaching the window--and yet he was there."

"The date being September 5," said Holmes. "That certainly complicates

matters."

It was the young lady's turn to look surprised. "This is the second

time that you have alluded to the date, Mr. Holmes," said Bennett. "Is

it possible that it has any bearing upon the case?"

"It is possible--very possible--and yet I have not my full material at

present."

"Possibly you are thinking of the connection between insanity and

phases of the moon?"

"No, I assure you. It was quite a different line of thought. Possibly

you can leave your notebook with me and I will check the dates. Now I

think, Watson, that our line of action is perfectly clear. This young

lady has informed us--and I have the greatest confidence in her

intuition--that her father remembers little or nothing which occurs

upon certain dates. We will therefore call upon him as if he had given

us an appointment upon such a date. He will put it down to his own

lack of memory. Thus we will open our campaign by having a good close

view of him."

"That is excellent," said Mr. Bennett. "I warn you, however, that the

Professor is irascible and violent at times."

Holmes smiled. "There are reasons why we should come at once--very

cogent reasons if my theories hold good. To-morrow, Mr. Bennett, will

certainly see us in Camford. There is, if I remember right, an inn

called the 'Chequers' where the port used to be above mediocrity, and

the linen was above reproach. I think, Watson, that our lot for the

next few days might lie in less pleasant places."

Monday morning found us on our way to the famous University town--an

easy effort on the part of Holmes, who had no roots to pull up, but one

which involved frantic planning and hurrying on my part, as my practice

was by this time not inconsiderable. Holmes made no allusion to the

case until after we had deposited our suit-cases at the ancient hostel

of which he had spoken.

"I think, Watson, that we can catch the Professor just before lunch.

He lectures at eleven, and should have an interval at home."

"What possible excuse have we for calling?"

Holmes glanced at his notebook.

"There was a period of excitement upon August 26. We will assume that

he is a little hazy as to what he does at such times. If we insist

that we are there by appointment I think he will hardly venture to

contradict us. Have you the effrontery necessary to put it through?"

"We can but try."

"Excellent, Watson! Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior. We can

but try--the motto of the firm. A friendly native will surely guide

us."

Such a one on the back of a smart hansom swept us past a row of ancient

colleges, and finally turning into a tree-lined drive pulled up at the

door of a charming house, girt round with lawns and covered with purple

wistaria. Professor Presbury was certainly surrounded with every sign

not only of comfort but of luxury. Even as we pulled up a grizzled

head appeared at the front window, and we were aware of a pair of keen

eyes from under shaggy brows which surveyed us through large horn

glasses. A moment later we were actually in his sanctum, and the

mysterious scientist, whose vagaries had brought us from London, was

standing before us. There was certainly no sign of eccentricity either

in his manner or appearance, for he was a portly, large-featured man,

grave, tall, and frock-coated, with the dignity of bearing which a

lecturer needs. His eyes were his most remarkable feature, keen,

observant, and clever to the verge of cunning.

He looked at our cards. "Pray sit down, gentlemen. What can I do for

you?"

Mr. Holmes smiled amiably.

"It was the question which I was about to put to you, Professor."

"To me, sir!"

"Possibly there is some mistake. I heard through a second person that

Professor Presbury of Camford had need of my services."

"Oh, indeed!" It seemed to me that there was a malicious sparkle in

the intense grey eyes. "You heard that, did you? May I ask the name

of your informant?"

"I am sorry, Professor, but the matter was rather confidential. If I

have made a mistake there is no harm done. I can only express my

regret."

"Not at all. I should wish to go further into this matter. It

interests me. Have you any scrap of writing, any letter or telegram,

to bear out your assertion?"

"No, I have not."

"I presume that you do not go so far as to assert that I summoned you?"

"I would rather answer no questions," said Holmes.

"No, I dare say not," said the Professor, with asperity. "However,

that particular one can be answered very easily without your aid."

He walked across the room to the bell. Our London friend, Mr. Bennett,

answered the call.

"Come in, Mr. Bennett. These two gentlemen have come from London under

the impression that they have been summoned. You handle all my

correspondence. Have you a note of anything going to a person named

Holmes?"

"No, sir," Bennett answered, with a flush.

"That is conclusive," said the Professor, glaring angrily at my

companion. "Now, sir"--he leaned forward with his two hands upon the

table--"it seems to me that your position is a very questionable one."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"I can only repeat that I am sorry that we have made a needless

intrusion."

"Hardly enough, Mr. Holmes!" the old man cried, in a high screaming

voice, with extraordinary malignancy upon his face. He got between us

and the door as he spoke, and he shook his two hands at us with furious

passion. "You can hardly get out of it so easily as that." His face

was convulsed and he grinned and gibbered at us in his senseless rage.

I am convinced that we should have had to fight our way out of the room

if Mr. Bennett had not intervened.

"My dear Professor," he cried, "consider your position! Consider the

scandal at the University! Mr. Holmes is a well-known man. You cannot

possibly treat him with such discourtesy."

Sulkily our host--if I may call him so--cleared the path to the door.

We were glad to find ourselves outside the house, and in the quiet of

the tree-lined drive. Holmes seemed greatly amused by the episode.

"Our learned friend's nerves are somewhat out of order," said he.

"Perhaps our intrusion was a little crude, and yet we have gained that

personal contact which I desired. But, dear me, Watson, he is surely

at our heels. The villain still pursues us."

There were the sounds of running feet behind, but it was, to my relief,

not the formidable Professor but his assistant who appeared round the

curve of the drive. He came panting up to us.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes. I wished to apologize."

"My dear sir, there is no need. It is all in the way of professional

experience."

"I have never seen him in a more dangerous mood. But he grows more

sinister. You can understand now why his daughter and I are alarmed.

And yet his mind is perfectly clear."

"Too clear!" said Holmes. "That was my miscalculation. It is evident

that his memory is much more reliable than I had thought. By the way,

can we, before we go, see the window of Miss Presbury's room?"

Mr. Bennett pushed his way through some shrubs and we had a view of the

side of the house.

"It is there. The second on the left."

"Dear me, it seems hardly accessible. And yet you will observe that

there is a creeper below and a water-pipe above which give some

foothold."

"I could not climb it myself," said Mr. Bennett.

"Very likely. It would certainly be a dangerous exploit for any normal

man."

"There was one other thing I wished to tell you, Mr. Holmes. I have

the address of the man in London to whom the Professor writes. He

seems to have written this morning and I got it from his

blotting-paper. It is an ignoble position for a trusted secretary, but

what else can I do?"

Holmes glanced at the paper and put it into his pocket.

"Dorak--a curious name. Slavonic, I imagine. Well, it is an important

link in the chain. We return to London this afternoon, Mr. Bennett. I

see no good purpose to be served by our remaining. We cannot arrest

the Professor, because he has done no crime, nor can we place him under

constraint, for he cannot be proved to be mad. No action is as yet

possible."

"Then what on earth are we to do?"

"A little patience, Mr. Bennett. Things will soon develop. Unless I

am mistaken next Tuesday may mark a crisis. Certainly we shall be in

Camford on that day. Meanwhile, the general position is undeniably

unpleasant, and if Miss Presbury can prolong her visit----"

"That is easy."

"Then let her stay till we can assure her that all danger is past.

Meanwhile, let him have his way and do not cross him. So long as he is

in a good humour all is well."

"There he is!" said Bennett, in a startled whisper. Looking between

the branches we saw the tall, erect figure emerge from the hall door

and look around him. He stood leaning forward, his hands swinging

straight before him, his head turning from side to side. The secretary

with a last wave slipped off among the trees, and we saw him presently

rejoin his employer, the two entering the house together in what seemed

to be animated and even excited conversation.

"I expect the old gentleman has been putting two and two together,"

said Holmes, as we walked hotelwards. "He struck me as having a

particularly clear and logical brain, from the little I saw of him.

Explosive, no doubt, but then from his point of view he has something

to explode about if detectives are put on his track and he suspects his

own household of doing it. I rather fancy that friend Bennett is in

for an uncomfortable time."

Holmes stopped at a post office and sent off a telegram on our way.

The answer reached us in the evening, and he tossed it across to me.

"Have visited the Commercial Road and seen Dorak. Suave person,

Bohemian, elderly. Keeps large general store.--Mercer."

"Mercer is since your time," said Holmes. "He is my general utility

man who looks up routine business. It was important to know something

of the man with whom our Professor was so secretly corresponding. His

nationality connects up with the Prague visit."

"Thank goodness that something connects with something," said I. "At

present we seem to be faced by a long series of inexplicable incidents

with no bearing upon each other. For example, what possible connection

can there be between an angry wolf-hound and a visit to Bohemia, or

either of them with a man crawling down a passage at night? As to your

dates, that is the biggest mystification of all."

Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands. We were, I may say, seated in the

old sitting-room of the ancient hotel, with a bottle of the famous

vintage of which Holmes had spoken on the table between us.

"Well, now, let us take the dates first," said he, his finger-tips

together and his manner as if he were addressing a class. "This

excellent young man's diary shows that there was trouble upon July 2,

and from then onwards it seems to have been at nine-day intervals,

with, so far as I remember, only one exception. Thus the last outbreak

upon Friday was on September 3, which also falls into the series, as

did August 26, which preceded it. The thing is beyond coincidence."

I was forced to agree.

"Let us, then, form the provisional theory that every nine days the

Professor takes some strong drug which has a passing but highly

poisonous effect. His naturally violent nature is intensified by it.

He learned to take this drug while he was in Prague, and is now

supplied with it by a Bohemian intermediary in London. This all hangs

together, Watson!"

"But the dog, the face at the window, the creeping man in the passage?"

"Well, well, we have made a beginning. I should not expect any fresh

developments until next Tuesday. In the meantime we can only keep in

touch with friend Bennett and enjoy the amenities of this charming

town."

In the morning Mr. Bennett slipped round to bring us the latest report.

As Holmes had imagined, times had not been easy with him. Without

exactly accusing him of being responsible for our presence, the

Professor had been very rough and rude in his speech, and evidently

felt some strong grievance. This morning he was quite himself again,

however, and had delivered his usual brilliant lecture to a crowded

class. "Apart from his queer fits," said Bennett, "he has actually

more energy and vitality than I can ever remember, nor was his brain

ever clearer. But it's not he--it's never the man whom we have known."

"I don't think you have anything to fear now for a week at least,"

Holmes answered. "I am a busy man, and Dr. Watson has his patients to

attend to. Let us agree that we meet here at this hour next Tuesday,

and I shall be surprised if before we leave you again we are not able

to explain, even if we cannot perhaps put an end to, your troubles.

Meanwhile, keep us posted in what occurs."

I saw nothing of my friend for the next few days, but on the following

Monday evening I had a short note asking me to meet him next day at the

train. From what he told me as we travelled up to Camford all was

well, the peace of the Professor's house had been unruffled, and his

own conduct perfectly normal. This also was the report which was given

us by Mr. Bennett himself when he called upon us that evening at our

old quarters in the "Chequers." "He heard from his London

correspondent to-day. There was a letter and there was a small packet,

each with the cross under the stamp which warned me not to touch them.

There has been nothing else."

"That may prove quite enough," said Holmes grimly. "Now, Mr. Bennett,

we shall, I think, come to some conclusion to-night. If my deductions

are correct we should have an opportunity of bringing matters to a

head. In order to do so it is necessary to hold the Professor under

observation. I would suggest, therefore, that you remain awake and on

the look out. Should you hear him pass your door do not interrupt him,

but follow him as discreetly as you can. Dr. Watson and I will not be

far off. By the way, where is the key of that little box of which you

spoke?"

"Upon his watch-chain."

"I fancy our researches must lie in that direction. At the worst the

lock should not be very formidable. Have you any other able-bodied man

on the premises?"

"There is the coachman, Macphail."

"Where does he sleep?"

"Over the stables."

"We might possibly want him. Well, we can do no more until we see how

things develop. Good-bye--but I expect that we shall see you before

morning."

It was nearly midnight before we took our station among some bushes

immediately opposite the hall door of the Professor. It was a fine

night, but chilly, and we were glad of our warm overcoats. There was a

breeze, and clouds were scudding across the sky, obscuring from time to

time the half-moon. It would have been a dismal vigil were it not for

the expectation and excitement which carried us along, and the

assurance of my comrade that we had probably reached the end of the

strange sequence of events which had engaged our attention.

"If the cycle of nine days holds good then we shall have the Professor

at his worst to-night," said Holmes. "The fact that these strange

symptoms began after his visit to Prague, that he is in secret

correspondence with a Bohemian dealer in London, who presumably

represents someone in Prague, and that he received a packet from him

this very day, all point in one direction. What he takes and why he

takes it are still beyond our ken, but that it emanates in some way

from Prague is clear enough. He takes it under definite directions

which regulate this ninth-day system, which was the first point which

attracted my attention. But his symptoms are most remarkable. Did you

observe his knuckles?"

I had to confess that I did not.

"Thick and horny in a way which is quite new in my experience. Always

look at the hands first, Watson. Then cuffs, trouser-knees, and boots.

Very curious knuckles which can only be explained by the mode of

progression observed by----" Holmes paused, and suddenly clapped his

hand to his forehead. "Oh, Watson, Watson, what a fool I have been!

It seems incredible, and yet it must be true. All points in one

direction. How could I miss seeing the connection of ideas? Those

knuckles--how could I have passed those knuckles? And the dog! And

the ivy! It's surely time that I disappeared into that little farm of

my dreams. Look out, Watson! Here he is! We shall have the chance of

seeing for ourselves."

The hall door had slowly opened, and against the lamp-lit background we

saw the tall figure of Professor Presbury. He was clad in his

dressing-gown. As he stood outlined in the doorway he was erect but

leaning forward with dangling arms, as when we saw him last.

Now he stepped forward into the drive, and an extraordinary change came

over him. He sank down into a crouching position, and moved along upon

his hands and feet, skipping every now and then as if he were

overflowing with energy and vitality. He moved along the face of the

house and then round the corner. As he disappeared Bennett slipped

through the hall door and softly followed him.

"Come, Watson, come!" cried Holmes, and we stole as softly as we could

through the bushes until we had gained a spot whence we could see the

other side of the house, which was bathed in the light of the

half-moon. The Professor was clearly visible crouching at the foot of

the ivy-covered wall. As we watched him he suddenly began with

incredible agility to ascend it. From branch to branch he sprang, sure

of foot and firm of grasp, climbing apparently in mere joy at his own

powers, with no definite object in view. With his dressing-gown

flapping on each side of him he looked like some huge bat glued against

the side of his own house, a great square dark patch upon the moonlit

wall. Presently he tired of this amusement, and, dropping from branch

to branch, he squatted down into the old attitude and moved towards the

stables, creeping along in the same strange way as before. The

wolf-hound was out now, barking furiously, and more excited than ever

when it actually caught sight of its master. It was straining on its

chain, and quivering with eagerness and rage. The Professor squatted

down very deliberately just out of reach of the hound, and began to

provoke it in every possible way. He took handfuls of pebbles from the

drive and threw them in the dog's face, prodded him with a stick which

he had picked up, flicked his hands about only a few inches from the

gaping mouth, and endeavoured in every way to increase the animal's

fury, which was already beyond all control. In all our adventures I do

not know that I have ever seen a more strange sight than this impassive

and still dignified figure crouching frog-like upon the ground and

goading to a wilder exhibition of passion the maddened hound, which

ramped and raged in front of him, by all manner of ingenious and

calculated cruelty.

And then in a moment it happened! It was not the chain that broke, but

it was the collar that slipped, for it had been made for a thick-necked

Newfoundland. We heard the rattle of falling metal, and the next

instant dog and man were rolling on the ground together, the one

roaring in rage, the other screaming in a strange shrill falsetto of

terror. It was a very narrow thing for the Professor's life. The

savage creature had him fairly by the throat, its fangs had bitten

deep, and he was senseless before we could reach them and drag the two

apart. It might have been a dangerous task for us, but Bennett's voice

and presence brought the great wolf-hound instantly to reason. The

uproar had brought the sleepy and astonished coachman from his room

above the stables. "I'm not surprised," said he, shaking his head.

"I've seen him at it before. I knew the dog would get him sooner or

later."

The hound was secured, and together we carried the Professor up to his

room, where Bennett, who had a medical degree, helped me to dress his

torn throat. The sharp teeth had passed dangerously near the carotid

artery, and the hemorrhage was serious. In half an hour the danger was

past, I had given the patient an injection of morphia, and he had sunk

into deep sleep. Then, and only then, were we able to look at each

other and to take stock of the situation.

"I think a first-class surgeon should see him," said I.

"For God's sake, no!" cried Bennett. "At present the scandal is

confined to our own household. It is safe with us. If it gets beyond

these walls it will never stop. Consider his position at the

University, his European reputation, the feelings of his daughter."

"Quite so," said Holmes. "I think it may be quite possible to keep the

matter to ourselves, and also to prevent its recurrence now that we

have a free hand. The key from the watch-chain, Mr. Bennett. Macphail

will guard the patient and let us know if there is any change. Let us

see what we can find in the Professor's mysterious box."

There was not much, but there was enough--an empty phial, another

nearly full, a hypodermic syringe, several letters in a crabbed,

foreign hand. The marks on the envelopes showed that they were those

which had disturbed the routine of the secretary, and each was dated

from the Commercial Road and signed "A. Dorak." They were mere

invoices to say that a fresh bottle was being sent to Professor

Presbury, or receipts to acknowledge money. There was one other

envelope, however, in a more educated hand and bearing the Austrian

stamp with the postmark of Prague. "Here we have our material!" cried

Holmes, as he tore out the enclosure.

"HONOURED COLLEAGUE," it ran. "Since your esteemed visit I have

thought much of your case, and though in your circumstances there are

some special reasons for the treatment, I would none the less enjoin

caution, as my results have shown that it is not without danger of a

kind.

"It is possible that the Serum of Anthropoid would have been better. I

have, as I explained to you, used black-faced Langur because a specimen

was accessible. Langur is, of course, a crawler and climber, while

Anthropoid walks erect, and is in all ways nearer.

"I beg you to take every possible precaution that there be no premature

revelation of the process. I have one other client in England, and

Dorak is my agent for both.

"Weekly reports will oblige.

"Yours with high esteem,

"H. LOWENSTEIN."

Lowenstein! The name brought back to me the memory of some snippet

from a newspaper which spoke of an obscure scientist who was striving

in some unknown way for the secret of rejuvenescence and the elixir of

life. Lowenstein of Prague! Lowenstein with the wondrous

strength-giving serum, tabooed by the profession because he refused to

reveal its source. In a few words I said what I remembered. Bennett

had taken a manual of Zoology from the shelves. "'Langur,'" he read,

"'the great black-faced monkey of the Himalayan slopes, biggest and

most human of climbing monkeys.' Many details are added. Well, thanks

to you, Mr. Holmes, it is very clear that we have traced the evil to

its source."

"The real source," said Holmes, "lies, of course, in that untimely love

affair which gave our impetuous Professor the idea that he could only

gain his wish by turning himself into a younger man. When one tries to

rise above Nature one is liable to fall below it. The highest type of

man may revert to the animal if he leaves the straight road of

destiny." He sat musing for a little with the phial in his hand,

looking at the clear liquid within. "When I have written to this man

and told him that I hold him criminally responsible for the poisons

which he circulates, we will have no more trouble. But it may recur.

Others may find a better way. There is danger there--a very real

danger to humanity. Consider, Watson, that the material, the sensual,

the worldly would all prolong their worthless lives. The spiritual

would not avoid the call to something higher. It would be the survival

of the least fit. What sort of cesspool may not our poor world

become?" Suddenly the dreamer disappeared, and Holmes, the man of

action, sprang from his chair. "I think there is nothing more to be

said, Mr. Bennett. The various incidents will now fit themselves

easily into the general scheme. The dog, of course, was aware of the

change far more quickly than you. His smell would ensure that. It was

the monkey, not the Professor, whom Roy attacked, just as it was the

monkey who teased Roy. Climbing was a joy to the creature, and it was

a mere chance, I take it, that the pastime brought him to the young

lady's window. There is an early train to town, Watson, but I think we

shall just have time for a cup of tea at the 'Chequers' before we catch

it."

IX

THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION'S MANE

It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as

abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional

career should have come to me after my retirement; and be brought, as

it were, to my very door. It occurred after my withdrawal to my little

Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life

of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent

amid the gloom of London. At this period of my life the good Watson

had passed almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the

most that I ever saw of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler.

Ah! had he but been with me, how much he might have made of so

wonderful a happening and of my eventual triumph against every

difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs tell my tale in my own

plain way, showing by my words each step upon the difficult road which

lay before me as I searched for the mystery of the Lion's Mane.

My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the Downs, commanding a

great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line is entirely of

chalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long, tortuous

path, which is steep and slippery. At the bottom of the path lie a

hundred yards of pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at full.

Here and there, however, there are curves and hollows which make

splendid swimming-pools filled afresh with each flow. This admirable

beach extends for some miles in each direction, save only at one point

where the little cove and village of Fulworth break the line.

My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estate

all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold Stackhurst's

well-known coaching establishment. The Gables, quite a large place,

which contains some score of young fellows preparing for various

professions, with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst himself was a

well-known rowing Blue in his day, and an excellent all-round scholar.

He and I were always friendly from the day I came to the coast, and he

was the one man who was on such terms with me that we could drop in on

each other in the evenings without an invitation.

Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind

blowing up-Channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs, and

leaving a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I

speak the wind had abated, and all Nature was newly washed and fresh.

It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled out

before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite air. I walked along the cliff

path which led to the steep descent to the beach. As I walked I heard

a shout behind me, and there was Harold Stackhurst waving his hand in

cheery greeting.

"What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out."

"Going for a swim, I see."

"At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging pocket.

"Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there."

Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young

fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following

rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in

every game which did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer and

winter he went for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I have

often joined him.

At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the edge

of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared at

the top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up

his hands, and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face. Stackhurst

and I rushed forward--it may have been fifty yards--and turned him on

his back. He was obviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and

dreadful livid cheeks could mean nothing else. One glimmer of life

came into his face for an instant, and he uttered two or three words

with an eager air of warning. They were slurred and indistinct, but to

my ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek from his lips, were

"the lion's mane." It was utterly irrelevant and unintelligible, and

yet I could twist the sound into no other sense. Then he half raised

himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air and fell forward

on his side. He was dead.

My companion was paralysed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may

well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for it

was speedily evident that we were in the presence of an extraordinary

case. The man was dressed only in his Burberry overcoat, his trousers,

and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he fell over, his Burberry,

which had been simply thrown round his shoulders, slipped off, exposing

his trunk. We stared at it in amazement. His back was covered with

dark red lines as though he had been terribly flogged by a thin wire

scourge. The instrument with which this punishment had been inflicted

was clearly flexible, for the long, angry weals curved round his

shoulders and ribs. There was blood dripping down his chin, for he had

bitten through his lower lip in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn

and distorted face told how terrible that agony had been.

I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell

across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch was

the mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man, so

taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend. He

seemed to live in some high, abstract region of surds and conic

sections with little to connect him with ordinary life. He was looked

upon as an oddity by the students, and would have been their butt, but

there was some strange outlandish blood in the man, which showed itself

not only in his coal-black eyes and swarthy face, but also in

occasional outbreaks of temper, which could only be described as

ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog belonging to

McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled it through the

plate-glass window, an action for which Stackhurst would certainly have

given him his dismissal had he not been a very valuable teacher. Such

was the strange, complex man who now appeared beside us. He seemed to

be honestly shocked at the sight before him, though the incident of the

dog may show that there was no great sympathy between the dead man and

himself.

"Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?"

"Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?"

"No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I

have come straight from The Gables. What can I do?"

"You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter at

once."

Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the

matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by

the body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach.

From the top of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it was

absolutely deserted save that two or three dark figures could be seen

far away moving towards the village of Fulworth. Having satisfied

myself upon this point, I walked slowly down the path. There was clay

or soft marl mixed with the chalk, and every here and there I saw the

same footstep, both ascending and descending. No one else had gone

down to the beach by this track that morning. At one place I observed

the print of an open hand with the fingers towards the incline. This

could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen as he ascended. There

were rounded depressions, too, which suggested that he had come down

upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of the path was the

considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At the side of it

McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a rock. It was

folded and dry, so that it would seem that after all he had never

entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amid the hard

shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of his canvas

shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The latter fact

proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the towel indicated

that he had not actually done so.

And here was the problem clearly defined--as strange a one as had ever

confronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a quarter

of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The Gables,

so there could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe and had

stripped, as the naked footsteps showed. Then he had suddenly huddled

on his clothes again--they were all dishevelled and unfastened--and he

had returned without bathing, or at any rate without drying himself.

And the reason for his change of purpose had been that he had been

scourged in some savage, inhuman fashion, tortured until he bit his lip

through in his agony, and was left with only strength enough to crawl

away and to die. Who had done this barbarous deed? There were, it is

true, small grottos and caves in the base of the cliffs, but the low

sun shone directly into them, and there was no place for concealment.

Then, again, there were those distant figures on the beach. They

seemed too far away to have been connected with the crime, and the

broad lagoon in which McPherson had intended to bathe lay between him

and them, lapping up to the rocks. On the sea two or three

fishing-boats were at no great distance. Their occupants might be

examined at our leisure. There were several roads for inquiry, but

none which led to any very obvious goal.

When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of

wandering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course, still

there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the village

constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid Sussex

breed--a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy, silent

exterior. He listened to everything, took note of all we said, and

finally drew me aside.

"I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for me to

handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."

I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor;

also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as

possible to be made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the

dead man's pockets. There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a

small folding card-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I

unfolded and handed to the constable. There was written on it in a

scrawling, feminine hand: "I will be there, you may be sure.--Maudie."

It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where were

a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned it

with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as nothing

more suggested itself, I walked back to my house for breakfast, having

first arranged that the base of the cliffs should be thoroughly

searched.

Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had

been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He

brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected,

nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had

examined the papers in McPherson's desk, and there were several which

showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of

Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the writer of the

note.

"The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring them.

But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no

reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save,

indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him."

"But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of

using," I remarked.

"It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not

with McPherson."

"Was it mere chance?"

Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.

"Ian Murdoch held them back," said he; "he would insist upon some

algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully

cut up about it all."

"And yet I gather that they were not friends."

"At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been as

near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a very

sympathetic disposition by nature."

"So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a

quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."

"That blew over all right."

"But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."

"No, no; I am sure they were real friends."

"Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know her?"

"Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood--a real

beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew that

McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone so

far as these letters would seem to indicate."

"But who is she?"

"She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats and

bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is now

a man of some substance. He and his son William run the business."

"Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"

"On what pretext?"

"Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not

ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the

handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the

injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was surely

limited. Let us follow it up in every direction and we can hardly fail

to come upon the motive, which in turn should lead us to the criminal."

It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented Downs had

our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The

village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round the

bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have been

built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that Stackhurst

guided me.

"That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner tower

and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing but---- By

Jove, look at that!"

The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There

was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian

Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the

road.

"Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance

from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his principal

pulled him up.

"What were you doing there?" he asked.

Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir, under

your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private

actions."

Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.

Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper

completely.

"In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch."

"Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."

"This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your

insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly

make fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can."

"I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made

The Gables habitable."

He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood

glaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?" he

cried.

The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that Mr.

Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape from

the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now

beginning to take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the

Bellamys might throw some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst

pulled himself together and we went forward to the house.

Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.

He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid

as his hair.

"No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here"--indicating a

powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the

sitting-room--"is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions

to Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the word 'marriage' was never

mentioned, and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal

more of which neither of us could approve. She has no mother, and we

are her only guardians. We are determined----"

But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady

herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any

assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower

would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have

seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my

heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all

the soft freshness of the Downlands in her delicate colouring, without

realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed. Such was

the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now, wide-eyed and

intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.

"I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid to

tell me the particulars."

"This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained the

father.

"There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,"

growled the younger man. The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon

him. "This is my business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in

my own way. By all accounts there has been a crime committed. If I

can help to show who did it, it is the least I can do for him who is

gone."

She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed

concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as

well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as

a most complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already knew

me by sight, for she turned to me at the end.

"Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my help,

whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at

her father and brother as she spoke.

"Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters. You

use the word 'they.' You think that more than one was concerned?"

"I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and a

strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an outrage

upon him."

"Might I have one word with you alone?"

"I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her

father angrily.

She looked at me helplessly. "What can I do?"

"The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no harm

if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have preferred privacy, but

if your father will not allow it, he must share the deliberations."

Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the dead man's pocket.

"It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I ask you to throw any

light upon it that you can?"

"I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to be

married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is

very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had

married against his wish. There was no other reason."

"You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.

"So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."

"I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."

"It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling you.

As to this appointment"--she fumbled in her dress and produced a

crumpled note--"it was in answer to this."

"DEAREST," ran the message: "The old place on the beach just after

sunset on Tuesday. It is the only time I can get away.--F.M."

"Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."

I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get

it?"

"I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do

with the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bears

upon that I will most freely answer."

She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful in

our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiancé had any

hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm admirers.

"May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"

She blushed and seemed confused.

"There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed when

he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."

Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking more

definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be

privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his

mind also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The

Haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was already

in our hands.

A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and had

been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet

inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search

of his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over the whole

ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new

conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which

brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my

imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery. And then there

came the incident of the dog.

It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange

wireless by which such people collect the news of the country-side.

"Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one evening.

I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my

attention.

"What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"

"Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master."

"Who told you this?"

"Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has

eaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from

The Gables found it dead--down on the beach, sir, at the very place

where its master met his end."

"At the very place." The words stood out clear in my memory. Some dim

perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog

should die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But 'in

the very place'! Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it

possible that it also, had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud?

Was it possible----? Yes, the perception was dim, but already

something was building up in my mind. In a few minutes I was on my way

to The Gables, where I found Stackhurst in his study. At my request he

sent for Sudbury and Blount, the two students who had found the dog.

"Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them. "It must

have followed the trail of its dead master."

I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out upon

the mat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes

projecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every line of

it.

From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunk

and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, which

glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and there

was no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and screaming

overhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the little dog's

spoor upon the sand round the very rock on which his master's towel had

been laid. For a long time I stood in deep meditation while the

shadows grew darker around me. My mind was filled with racing

thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a nightmare in which you

feel that there is some all-important thing for which you search and

which you know is there, though it remains for ever just beyond your

reach. That was how I felt that evening as I stood alone by that place

of death. Then at last I turned and walked slowly homewards. I had

just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a flash, I

remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly grasped.

You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast store

of out-of-the-way knowledge, without scientific system, but very

available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room

with packets of all sorts stowed away therein--so many that I may well

have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known that there

was something which might bear upon this matter. It was still vague,

but at least I knew how I could make it clear. It was monstrous,

incredible, and yet it was always a possibility. I would test it to

the full. There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed

with books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour.

At the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver

volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim

remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely

proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if it

might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind eagerly

awaiting the work of the morrow.

But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly

swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I had

a call from Inspector Bardie of the Sussex Constabulary--a steady,

solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with a

very troubled expression.

"I know your immense experience, sir," said he. "This is quite

unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up

against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an

arrest, or shall I not?"

"Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?"

"Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it.

That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very

small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?"

"What have you against him?"

He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch's

character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. His

furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The

fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that there

was some reason to think that he might have resented his attentions to

Miss Bellamy. He had all my points, but no fresh ones, save that

Murdoch seemed to be making every preparation for departure.

"What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this

evidence against him?" The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled

in his mind.

"Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case. On the

morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with

his scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of

McPherson's appearance he came upon us from behind. Then bear in mind

the absolute impossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted

this outrage upon a man quite as strong as himself. Finally, there is

this question of the instrument with which these injuries were

inflicted."

"What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?"

"Have you examined the marks?" I asked.

"I have seen them. So has the doctor."

"But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have

peculiarities."

"What are they, Mr. Holmes?"

I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. "This

is my method in such cases," I explained.

"You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes."

"I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this

weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing

remarkable?"

"I can't say I do."

"Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a

dot of extravasated blood, here, and another there. There are similar

indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?"

"I have no idea. Have you?"

"Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon.

Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long way

towards the criminal."

"It is, of course, an absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a

red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these

better-marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each

other."

"A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff

cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?"

"By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it."

"Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardie. But your case

is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last

words--'Lion's Mane.'"

"I have wondered whether Ian----"

"Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any

resemblance to Murdoch--but it did not. He gave it almost in a shriek.

I am sure that it was 'Mane.'"

"Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?"

"Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is

something more solid to discuss."

"And when will that be?"

"In an hour--possibly less."

The Inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.

"I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it's

those fishing-boats."

"No, no; they were too far out."

"Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too

sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?"

"No, no; you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile.

"Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were

to meet me here at midday----?"

So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which was

the beginning of the end. My outer door was flung open, there were

blundering footsteps in the passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the

room, pallid, dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with

his bony hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. "Brandy!

Brandy!" he gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.

He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting,

almost as distrait as his companion.

"Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried. "The man is at his last gasp. It was

all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way."

Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He

pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from off his shoulders.

"For God's sake! oil, opium, morphia!" he cried. "Anything to ease

this infernal agony!"

The Inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, criss-crossed upon

the man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of

red, inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy McPherson.

The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the

sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn black,

and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while his

brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die. More and

more brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing him

back to life. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to take

the agony from the strange wounds. At last his head fell heavily upon

the cushion. Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in its last storehouse

of vitality. It was half a sleep and half a faint, but at least it was

ease from pain.

To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured of

his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.

"My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes? What is it?"

"Where did you find him?"

"Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If this

man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not be here now.

More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It was too

far to The Gables, so I made for you."

"Did you see him on the beach?"

"I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge

of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw some

clothes about him, and brought him up. For Heaven's sake, Holmes, use

all the powers you have and spare no pains to lift the curse from this

place, for life is becoming unendurable. Can you, with all your

world-wide reputation, do nothing for us?"

"I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector,

come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your

hands."

Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we all

three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there was piled a

little heap of towels and clothes, left by the stricken man. Slowly I

walked round the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file behind

me. Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff where the

beach was hollowed out it was four or five feet deep. It was to this

part that a swimmer would naturally go, for it formed a beautiful

pellucid green pool as clear as crystal. A line of rocks lay above it

at the base of the cliff, and along this I led the way, peering eagerly

into the depths beneath me. I had reached the deepest and stillest

pool when my eyes caught that for which they were searching, and I

burst into a shout of triumph.

"Cyanea!" I cried. "Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!"

The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled

mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some

three feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy creature

with streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It pulsated with a

slow, heavy dilation and contraction.

"It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!" I cried. "Help me,

Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer for ever."

There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until it

fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples had

cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping

edge of yellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath it. A thick

oily scum oozed out from below the stone and stained the water round,

rising slowly to the surface.

"Well, this gets me!" cried the Inspector. "What was it, Mr. Holmes?

I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It

don't belong to Sussex."

"Just as well for Sussex," I remarked. "It may have been the

south-west gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of

you, and I will give you the terrible experience of one who has good

reason to remember his own meeting with the same peril of the seas."

When we reached my study, we found that Murdoch was so far recovered

that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now and then was

shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that he had

no notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangs had

suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his fortitude to

reach the bank.

"Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which first

brought light into what might have been for ever dark. It is _Out of

Doors_, by the famous observer J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly

perished from contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a very

full knowledge. _Cyanea Capillata_ is the miscreant's full name, and

he can be as dangerous to life as, and far more painful than, the bite

of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.

"'If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny membranes and

fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion's mane and silver

paper, let him beware, for this is the fearful stinger, _Cyanea

Capillata_.' Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?

"He goes on to tell his own encounter with one when swimming off the

coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost invisible

filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone within that

circumference from the deadly centre was in danger of death. Even at a

distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal. 'The multitudinous

threads caused light scarlet lines upon the skin which on closer

examination resolved into minute dots or pustules, each dot charged as

it were with a red-hot needle making its way through the nerves.'

"The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite

torment. 'Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if

struck by a bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart

would give six or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the

chest.'

"It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the

disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool.

He says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white,

wrinkled and shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole

bottleful, and it seems to have saved his life. There is the book,

Inspector. I leave it with you, and you cannot doubt that it contains

a full explanation of the tragedy of poor McPherson."

"And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry

smile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your

suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I

have only cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend."

"No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as

early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific

experience."

"But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"

"I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for

trifles. That phrase 'Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I knew that I had

seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it does

describe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on the

water when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only one by

which he could convey to us a warning as to the creature which had been

his death."

"Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his

feet. "There are one or two words of explanation which I should give,

for I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true

that I loved this lady, but from the day when she chose my friend

McPherson my one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well

content to stand aside and act as their go-between. Often I carried

their messages, and it was because I was in their confidence and

because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell her of my

friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden and

heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest

you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I must

try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome."

Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at

concert-pitch," said he. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall

understand each other better in the future." They passed out together

with their arms linked in friendly fashion. The Inspector remained,

staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.

"Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but I

never believed it. It's wonderful!"

I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower

one's own standards.

"I was slow at the outset--culpably slow. Had the body been found in

the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which misled

me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I in turn

was led to believe that he had never been in the water. Why, then,

should the attack of any water creature suggest itself to me? That was

where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff

you gentlemen of the police force, but _Cyanea Capillata_ very nearly

avenged Scotland Yard."

X

THE ADVENTURE OF THE VEILED LODGER

When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice for

twenty-three years, and that during seventeen of these I was allowed to

co-operate with him and to keep notes of his doings, it will be clear

that I have a mass of material at my command. The problem has always

been, not to find, but to choose. There is the long row of year-books

which fill a shelf, and there are the dispatch-cases filled with

documents, a perfect quarry for the student, not only of crime, but of

the social and official scandals of the late Victorian era. Concerning

these latter, I may say that the writers of agonized letters, who beg

that the honour of their families or the reputation of famous forbears

may not be touched, have nothing to fear. The discretion and high

sense of professional honour which have always distinguished my friend

are still at work in the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence

will be abused. I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the

attempts which have been made lately to get at and to destroy these

papers. The source of these outrages is known, and if they are

repeated I have Mr. Holmes's authority for saying that the whole story

concerning the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant

will be given to the public. There is at least one reader who will

understand.

It is not reasonable to suppose that every one of these cases gave

Holmes the opportunity of showing those curious gifts of instinct and

observation which I have endeavoured to set forth in these memoirs.

Sometimes he had with much effort to pick the fruit, sometimes it fell

easily into his lap. But the most terrible human tragedies were often

involved in these cases which brought him the fewest personal

opportunities, and it is one of these which I now desire to record. In

telling it, I have made a slight change of name and place, but

otherwise the facts are as stated.

One forenoon--it was late in 1896--I received a hurried note from

Holmes asking for my attendance. When I arrived, I found him seated in

a smoke-laden atmosphere, with an elderly, motherly woman of the buxom

landlady type in the corresponding chair in front of him.

"This is Mrs. Merrilow, of South Brixton," said my friend, with a wave

of the hand. "Mrs. Merrilow does not object to tobacco, Watson, if you

wish to indulge your filthy habits. Mrs. Merrilow has an interesting

story to tell which may well lead to further developments in which your

presence may be useful."

"Anything I can do----"

"You will understand, Mrs. Merrilow, that if I come to Mrs. Ronder I

should prefer to have a witness. You will make her understand that

before we arrive."

"Lord bless you, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor, "she is that anxious to

see you that you might bring the whole parish at your heels!"

"Then we shall come early in the afternoon. Let us see that we have

our facts correct before we start. If we go over them it will help Dr.

Watson to understand the situation. You say that Mrs. Ronder has been

your lodger for seven years and that you have only once seen her face."

"And I wish to God I had not!" said Mrs. Merrilow.

"It was, I understand, terribly mutilated."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, you would hardly say it was a face at all. That's

how it looked. Our milkman got a glimpse of her once peeping out of

the upper window, and he dropped his tin and the milk all over the

front garden. That is the kind of face it is. When I saw her--I

happened on her unawares--she covered up quick, and then she said,

'Now, Mrs. Merrilow, you know at last why it is that I never raise my

veil.'"

"Do you know anything about her history?"

"Nothing at all."

"Did she give references when she came?"

"No, sir, but she gave hard cash, and plenty of it. A quarter's rent

right down on the table in advance and no arguing about terms. In

these times a poor woman like me can't afford to turn down a chance

like that."

"Did she give any reason for choosing your house?"

"Mine stands well back from the road and is more private than most.

Then, again, I only take the one, and I have no family of my own. I

reckon she had tried others and found that mine suited her best. It's

privacy she is after, and she is ready to pay for it."

"You say that she never showed her face from first to last save on the

one accidental occasion. Well, it is a very remarkable story, most

remarkable, and I don't wonder that you want it examined."

"I don't, Mr. Holmes. I am quite satisfied so long as I get my rent.

You could not have a quieter lodger, or one who gives less trouble."

"Then what has brought matters to a head?"

"Her health, Mr. Holmes. She seems to be wasting away. And there's

something terrible on her mind. 'Murder!' she cries. 'Murder!' And

once I heard her, 'You cruel beast! You monster!' she cried. It was

in the night, and it fair rang through the house and sent the shivers

through me. So I went to her in the morning. 'Mrs. Ronder,' I says,

'if you have anything that is troubling your soul, there's the clergy,'

I says, 'and there's the police. Between them you should get some

help.' 'For God's sake, not the police!' says she, 'and the clergy

can't change what is past. And yet,' she says, 'it would ease my mind

if someone knew the truth before I died.' 'Well,' says I, 'if you

won't have the regulars, there is this detective man what we read

about'--beggin' your pardon, Mr. Holmes. And she, she fair jumped at

it. 'That's the man,' says she. 'I wonder I never thought of it

before. Bring him here, Mrs. Merrilow, and if he won't come, tell him

I am the wife of Ronder's wild beast show. Say that, and give him the

name Abbas Parva.' Here it is as she wrote it, Abbas Parva. 'That will

bring him, if he's the man I think he is.'"

"And it will, too," remarked Holmes. "Very good, Mrs. Merrilow. I

should like to have a little chat with Dr. Watson. That will carry us

till lunch-time. About three o'clock you may expect to see us at your

house in Brixton."

Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room--no other verb can

describe Mrs. Merrilow's method of progression--than Sherlock Holmes

threw himself with fierce energy upon the pile of commonplace books in

the corner. For a few minutes there was a constant swish of the

leaves, and then with a grunt of satisfaction he came upon what he

sought. So excited was he that he did not rise, but sat upon the floor

like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the huge books all round

him, and one open upon his knees.

"The case worried me at the time, Watson. Here are my marginal notes

to prove it. I confess that I could make nothing of it. And yet I was

convinced that the coroner was wrong. Have you no recollection of the

Abbas Parva tragedy?"

"None, Holmes."

"And yet you were with me then. But certainly my own impression was

very superficial, for there was nothing to go by, and none of the

parties had engaged my services. Perhaps you would care to read the

papers?"

"Could you not give me the points?"

"That is very easily done. It will probably come back to your memory

as I talk. Ronder, of course, was a household word. He was the rival

of Wombwell, and of Sanger, one of the greatest showmen of his day.

There is evidence, however, that he took to drink, and that both he and

his show were on the down grade at the time of the great tragedy. The

caravan had halted for the night at Abbas Parva, which is a small

village in Berkshire, when this horror occurred. They were on their

way to Wimbledon, travelling by road, and they were simply camping, and

not exhibiting, as the place is so small a one that it would not have

paid them to open.

"They had among their exhibits a very fine North African lion. Sahara

King was its name, and it was the habit, both of Ronder and his wife,

to give exhibitions inside its cage. Here, you see, is a photograph of

the performance, by which you will perceive that Ronder was a huge

porcine person and that his wife was a very magnificent woman. It was

deposed at the inquest that there had been some signs that the lion was

dangerous, but, as usual, familiarity begat contempt, and no notice was

taken of the fact.

"It was usual for either Ronder or his wife to feed the lion at night.

Sometimes one went, sometimes both, but they never allowed anyone else

to do it, for they believed that so long as they were the food-carriers

he would regard them as benefactors, and would never molest them. On

this particular night, seven years ago, they both went, and a very

terrible happening followed, the details of which have never been made

clear.

"It seems that the whole camp was roused near midnight by the roars of

the animal and the screams of the woman. The different grooms and

_employés_ rushed from their tents, carrying lanterns, and by their

light an awful sight was revealed. Ronder lay, with the back of his

head crushed in and deep claw-marks across his scalp, some ten yards

from the cage, which was open. Close to the door of the cage lay Mrs.

Ronder, upon her back, with the creature squatting and snarling above

her. It had torn her face in such a fashion that it was never thought

that she could live. Several of the circus men, headed by Leonardo,

the strongman, and Griggs, the clown, drove the creature off with

poles, upon which it sprang back into the cage, and was at once locked

in. How it had got loose was a mystery. It was conjectured that the

pair intended to enter the cage, but that when the door was loosed the

creature bounded out upon them. There was no other point of interest

in the evidence, save that the woman in a delirium of agony kept

screaming, 'Coward! Coward!' as she was carried back to the van in

which they lived. It was six months before she was fit to give

evidence, but the inquest was duly held, with the obvious verdict of

death from misadventure."

"What alternative could be conceived?" said I.

"You may well say so. And yet there were one or two points which

worried young Edmunds, of the Berkshire Constabulary. A smart lad

that! He was sent later to Allahabad. That was how I came into the

matter, for he dropped in and smoked a pipe or two over it."

"A thin, yellow-haired man?"

"Exactly. I was sure you would pick up the trail presently."

"But what worried him?"

"Well, we were both worried. It was so deucedly difficult to

reconstruct the affair. Look at it from the lion's point of view. He

is liberated. What does he do? He takes half a dozen bounds forward,

which brings him to Ronder. Ronder turns to fly,--the claw-marks were

on the back of his head--but the lion strikes him down. Then, instead

of bounding on and escaping, he returns to the woman, who was close to

the cage, and he knocks her over and chews her face up. Then, again,

those cries of hers would seem to imply that her husband had in some

way failed her. What could the poor devil have done to help her? You

see the difficulty?"

"Quite."

"And then there was another thing. It comes back to me now as I think

it over. There was some evidence that, just at the time the lion

roared and the woman screamed, a man began shouting in terror."

"This man Ronder, no doubt."

"Well, if his skull was smashed in you would hardly expect to hear from

him again. There were at least two witnesses who spoke of the cries of

a man being mingled with those of a woman."

"I should think the whole camp was crying out by then. As to the other

points, I think I could suggest a solution."

"I should be glad to consider it."

"The two were together, ten yards from the cage, when the lion got

loose. The man turned and was struck down. The woman conceived the

idea of getting into the cage and shutting the door. It was her only

refuge. She made for it, and just as she reached it the beast bounded

after her and knocked her over. She was angry with her husband for

having encouraged the beast's rage by turning. If they had faced it,

they might have cowed it. Hence her cries of 'Coward!'"

"Brilliant, Watson! Only one flaw in your diamond."

"What is the flaw, Holmes?"

"If they were both ten paces from the cage, how came the beast to get

loose?"

"Is it possible that they had some enemy who loosed it?"

"And why should it attack them savagely when it was in the habit of

playing with them, and doing tricks with them inside the cage?"

"Possibly the same enemy had done something to enrage it."

Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments.

"Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. Ronder was a

man of many enemies. Edmunds told me that in his cups he was horrible.

A huge bully of a man, he cursed and slashed at everyone who came in

his way. I expect those cries about a monster, of which our visitor

has spoken, were nocturnal reminiscences of the dear departed.

However, our speculations are futile until we have all the facts.

There is a cold partridge on the sideboard, Watson, and a bottle of

Montrachet. Let us renew our energies before we make a fresh call upon

them."

When our hansom deposited us at the house of Mrs. Merrilow, we found

that plump lady blocking up the open door of her humble but retired

abode. It was very clear that her chief preoccupation was lest she

should lose a valuable lodger, and she implored us, before showing us

up, to say and do nothing which could lead to so undesirable an end.

Then, having reassured her, we followed her up the straight,

badly-carpeted staircase and were shown into the room of the mysterious

lodger.

It was a close, musty, ill-ventilated place, as might be expected,

since its inmate seldom left it. From keeping beasts in a cage, the

woman seemed, by some retribution of Fate, to have become herself a

beast in a cage. She sat now in a broken arm-chair in the shadowy

corner of the room. Long years of inaction had coarsened the lines of

her figure, but at some period it must have been beautiful, and was

still full and voluptuous. A thick dark veil covered her face, but it

was cut off close at her upper lip, and disclosed a perfectly-shaped

mouth and a delicately-rounded chin. I could well conceive that she

had indeed been a very remarkable woman. Her voice, too, was

well-modulated and pleasing.

"My name is not unfamiliar to you, Mr. Holmes," said she. "I thought

that it would bring you."

"That is so, madam, though I do not know how you are aware that I was

interested in your case."

"I learned it when I had recovered my health and was examined by Mr.

Edmunds, the County detective. I fear I lied to him. Perhaps it would

have been wiser had I told the truth."

"It is usually wiser to tell the truth. But why did you lie to him?"

"Because the fate of someone else depended upon it. I know that he was

a very worthless being, and yet I would not have his destruction upon

my conscience. We had been so close--so close!"

"But has this impediment been removed?"

"Yes, sir. The person that I allude to is dead."

"Then why should you not now tell the police anything you know?"

"Because there is another person to be considered. That other person

is myself. I could not stand the scandal and publicity which would

come from a police examination. I have not long to live, but I wish to

die undisturbed. And yet I wanted to find one man of judgment to whom

I could tell my terrible story, so that when I am gone all might be

understood."

"You compliment me, madam. At the same time, I am a responsible

person. I do not promise you that when you have spoken I may not

myself think it my duty to refer the case to the police."

"I think not, Mr. Holmes. I know your character and methods too well,

for I have followed your work for some years. Reading is the only

pleasure which Fate has left me, and I miss little which passes in the

world. But in any case, I will take my chance of the use which you may

make of my tragedy. It will ease my mind to tell it."

"My friend and I would be glad to hear it."

The woman rose and took from a drawer the photograph of a man. He was

clearly a professional acrobat, a man of magnificent physique, taken

with his huge arms folded across his swollen chest and a smile breaking

from under his heavy moustache--the self-satisfied smile of the man of

many conquests.

"That is Leonardo," she said.

"Leonardo, the strongman, who gave evidence?"

"The same. And this--this is my husband."

It was a dreadful face--a human pig, or rather a human wild boar, for

it was formidable in its bestiality. One could imagine that vile mouth

champing and foaming in its rage, and one could conceive those small,

vicious eyes darting pure malignancy as they looked forth upon the

world, Ruffian, bully, beast--it was all written on that heavy-jowled

face.

"Those two pictures will help you, gentlemen, to understand the story.

I was a poor circus girl brought up on the sawdust, and doing springs

through the hoop before I was ten. When I became a woman this man

loved me, if such lust as his can be called love, and in an evil moment

I became his wife. From that day I was in hell, and he the devil who

tormented me. There was no one in the show who did not know of his

treatment. He deserted me for others. He tied me down and lashed me

with his riding-whip when I complained. They all pitied me and they

all loathed him, but what could they do? They feared him, one and all.

For he was terrible at all times, and murderous when he was drunk.

Again and again he was had for assault, and for cruelty to the beasts,

but he had plenty of money and the fines were nothing to him. The best

men all left us and the show began to go downhill. It was only

Leonardo and I who kept it up--with little Jimmy Griggs, the clown.

Poor devil, he had not much to be funny about, but he did what he could

to hold things together.

"Then Leonardo came more and more into my life. You see what he was

like. I know now the poor spirit that was hidden in that splendid

body, but compared to my husband he seemed like the Angel Gabriel. He

pitied me and helped me, till at last our intimacy turned to

love--deep, deep, passionate love, such love as I had dreamed of but

never hoped to feel. My husband suspected it, but I think that he was

a coward as well as a bully, and that Leonardo was the one man that he

was afraid of. He took revenge in his own way by torturing me more

than ever. One night my cries brought Leonardo to the door of our van.

We were near tragedy that night, and soon my lover and I understood

that it could not be avoided. My husband was not fit to live. We

planned that he should die.

"Leonardo had a clever, scheming brain. It was he who planned it. I

do not say that to blame him, for I was ready to go with him every inch

of the way. But I should never have had the wit to think of such a

plan. We made a club--Leonardo made it--and in the leaden head he

fastened five long steel nails, the points outwards, with just such a

spread as the lion's paw. This was to give my husband his death-blow,

and yet to leave the evidence that it was the lion which we would loose

who had done the deed.

"It was a pitch-dark night when my husband and I went down, as was our

custom, to feed the beast. We carried with us the raw meat in a zinc

pail. Leonardo was waiting at the corner of the big van which we

should have to pass before we reached the cage. He was too slow, and

we walked past him before he could strike, but he followed us on tiptoe

and I heard the crash as the club smashed my husband's skull. My heart

leaped with joy at the sound. I sprang forward, and I undid the catch

which held the door of the great lion's cage.

"And then the terrible thing happened. You may have heard how quick

these creatures are to scent human blood, and how it excites them.

Some strange instinct had told the creature in one instant that a human

being had been slain. As I slipped the bars it bounded out, and was on

me in an instant. Leonardo could have saved me. If he had rushed

forward and struck the beast with his club he might have cowed it. But

the man lost his nerve. I heard him shout in his terror, and then I

saw him turn and fly. At the same instant the teeth of the lion met in

my face. Its hot, filthy breath had already poisoned me and I was

hardly conscious of pain. With the palms of my hands I tried to push

the great steaming, blood-stained jaws away from me, and I screamed for

help. I was conscious that the camp was stirring, and then dimly I

remember a group of men, Leonardo, Griggs and others, dragging me from

under the creature's paws. That was my last memory, Mr. Holmes, for

many a weary month. When I came to myself, and saw myself in the

mirror, I cursed that lion--oh, how I cursed him!---not because he had

torn away my beauty, but because he had not torn away my life. I had

but one desire, Mr. Holmes, and I had enough money to gratify it. It

was that I should cover myself so that my poor face should be seen by

none, and that I should dwell where none whom I had ever known should

find me. That was all that was left to me to do--and that is what I

have done. A poor wounded beast that has crawled into its hole to

die--that is the end of Eugenia Ronder."

We sat in silence for some time after the unhappy woman had told her

story. Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and patted her hand with

such a show of sympathy as I had seldom known him to exhibit.

"Poor girl!" he said. "Poor girl! The ways of Fate are indeed hard to

understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the

world is a cruel jest. But what of this man Leonardo?"

"I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have been wrong to

feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon have loved one of the

freaks whom we carried round the country as the thing which the lion

had left. But a woman's love is not so easily set aside. He had left

me under the beast's claws, he had deserted me in my need, and yet I

could not bring myself to give him to the gallows. For myself, I cared

nothing what became of me. What could be more dreadful than my actual

life? But I stood between Leonardo and his fate."

"And he is dead?"

"He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I saw his death

in the paper."

"And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is the most

singular and ingenious part of all your story?"

"I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp, with a

deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths of that

pool----"

"Well, well, it is of little consequence now. The case is closed."

"Yes," said the woman, "the case is closed."

We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman's voice which

arrested Holmes's attention. He turned swiftly upon her.

"Your life is not your own," he said. "Keep your hands off it."

"What use is it to anyone?"

"How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in itself the

most precious of all lessons to an impatient world."

The woman's answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil and stepped

forward into the light.

"I wonder if you would bear it," she said.

It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a face when

the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown eyes looking

sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the view more awful.

Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest, and together

we left the room.

Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed with some

pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I picked it up.

There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rose when I

opened it.

"Prussic acid?" said I.

"Exactly. It came by post. 'I send you my temptation. I will follow

your advice.' That was the message. I think, Watson, we can guess the

name of the brave woman who sent it."

XI

THE ADVENTURE OF SHOSCOMBE OLD PLACE

Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a low-power

microscope. Now he straightened himself up and looked round at me in

triumph.

"It is glue, Watson," said he. "Unquestionably it is glue. Have a

look at these scattered objects in the field!"

I stooped to the eyepiece and focused for my vision.

"Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular grey masses

are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Those brown blobs

in the centre are undoubtedly glue."

"Well," I said, laughing, "I am prepared to take your word for it.

Does anything depend upon it?"

"It is a very fine demonstration," he answered. "In the St. Pancras

case you may remember that a cap was found beside the dead policeman.

The accused man denies that it is his. But he is a picture-frame maker

who habitually handles glue."

"Is it one of your cases?"

"No; my friend, Merivale of the Yard, asked me to look into the case.

Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper filings in the seam

of his cuff they have begun to realize the importance of the

microscope." He looked impatiently at his watch. "I had a new client

calling, but he is overdue. By the way, Watson, you know something of

racing?"

"I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension."

"Then I'll make you my 'Handy Guide to the Turf.' What about Sir

Robert Norberton? Does the name recall anything?"

"Well, I should say so. He lives at Shoscombe Old Place, and I know it

well, for my summer quarters were down there once. Norberton nearly

came within your province once."

"How was that?"

"It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known Curzon Street

moneylender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearly killed the man."

"Ah, he sounds interesting! Does he often indulge in that way?"

"Well, he has the name of being a dangerous man. He is about the most

daredevil rider in England--second in the Grand National a few years

back. He is one of those men who have overshot their true generation.

He should have been a buck in the days of the Regency--a boxer, an

athlete, a plunger on the Turf, a lover of fair ladies, and, by all

account, so far down Queer Street that he may never find his way back

again."

"Capital, Watson! A thumb-nail sketch. I seem to know the man. Now,

can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?"

"Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park, and that the famous

Shoscombe stud and training quarters are to be found there."

"And the head trainer," said Holmes, "is John Mason. You need not look

surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a letter from him which

I am unfolding. But let us have some more about Shoscombe. I seem to

have struck a rich vein."

"There are the Shoscombe spaniels," said I. "You hear of them at every

dog show. The most exclusive breed in England. They are the special

pride of the lady of Shoscombe Old Place."

"Sir Robert Norberton's wife, I presume!"

"Sir Robert has never married. Just as well, I think, considering his

prospects. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Falder."

"You mean that she lives with him?"

"No, no. The place belonged to her late husband, Sir James. Norberton

has no claim on it at all. It is only a life interest and reverts to

her husband's brother. Meantime, she draws the rents every year."

"And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the said rents?"

"That is about the size of it. He is a devil of a fellow and must lead

her a most uneasy life. Yet I have heard that she is devoted to him.

But what is amiss at Shoscombe?"

"Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I expect, is the man

who can tell us."

The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall, clean-shaven man

with the firm, austere expression which is only seen upon those who

have to control horses or boys. Mr. John Mason had many of both under

his sway, and he looked equal to the task. He bowed with cold

self-possession and seated himself upon the chair to which Holmes had

waved him.

"You had my note, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, but it explained nothing."

"It was too delicate a thing for me to put the details on paper. And

too complicated. It was only face to face I could do it."

"Well, we are at your disposal."

"First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has

gone mad."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "This is Baker Street, not Harley Street,"

said he. "But why do you say so?"

"Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things, there

may be a meaning to it, but when everything he does is queer, then you

begin to wonder. I believe Shoscombe Prince and the Derby have turned

his brain."

"That is a colt you are running?"

"The best in England, Mr. Holmes. I should know, if anyone does. Now,

I'll be plain with you, for I know you are gentlemen of honour and that

it won't go beyond the room. Sir Robert has got to win this Derby.

He's up to the neck, and it's his last chance. Everything he could

raise or borrow is on the horse--and at fine odds, too! You can get

forties now, but it was nearer the hundred when he began to back him."

"But how is that, if the horse is so good?"

"The public don't know how good he is. Sir Robert has been too clever

for the touts. He has the Prince's half-brother out for spins. You

can't tell 'em apart. But there are two lengths in a furlong between

them when it comes to a gallop. He thinks of nothing but the horse and

the race. His whole life is on it. He's holding off the Jews till

then. If the Prince fails him, he is done."

"It seems a rather desperate gamble, but where does the madness come

in?"

"Well, first of all, you have only to look at him. I don't believe he

sleeps at night. He is down at the stables at all hours. His eyes are

wild. It has all been too much for his nerves. Then there is his

conduct to Lady Beatrice!"

"Ah! what is that?"

"They have always been the best of friends. They had the same tastes,

the two of them, and she loved the horses as much as he did. Every day

at the same hour she would drive down to see them--and, above all, she

loved the Prince. He would prick up his ears when he heard the wheels

on the gravel, and he would trot out each morning to the carriage to

get his lump of sugar. But that's all over now."

"Why?"

"Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses. For a week

now she has driven past the stables with never so much as 'good

morning'!"

"You think there has been a quarrel?"

"And a bitter, savage, spiteful quarrel at that. Why else would he

give away her pet spaniel that she loved as if he were her child? He

gave it a few days ago to old Barnes, what keeps the 'Green Dragon,'

three miles off, at Crendall."

"That certainly did seem strange."

"Of course, with her weak heart and dropsy one couldn't expect that she

could get about with him, but he spent two hours every evening in her

room. He might well do what he could, for she has been a rare good

friend to him. But that's all over, too. He never goes near her. And

she takes it to heart. She is brooding and sulky and drinking, Mr.

Holmes--drinking like a fish."

"Did she drink before this estrangement?"

"Well, she took her glass, but now it is often a whole bottle of an

evening. So Stephens, the butler, told me. It's all changed, Mr.

Holmes, and there is something damned rotten about it. But then,

again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night? And

who is the man that meets him there?"

Holmes rubbed his hands.

"Go on, Mr. Mason. You get more and more interesting."

"It was the butler who saw him go. Twelve o'clock at night and raining

hard. So next night I was up at the house and, sure enough, master was

off again. Stephens and I went after him, but it was jumpy work, for

it would have been a bad job if he had seen us. He's a terrible man

with his fists if he gets started, and no respecter of persons. So we

were shy of getting too near, but we marked him down all right. It was

the haunted crypt that he was making for, and there was a man waiting

for him there."

"What is this haunted crypt?"

"Well, sir, there is an old ruined chapel in the park. It is so old

that nobody could fix its date. And under it there's a crypt which has

a bad name among us. It's a dark, damp, lonely place by day, but there

are few in that county that would have the nerve to go near it at

night. But master's not afraid. He never feared anything in his life.

But what is he doing there in the night-time?"

"Wait a bit!" said Holmes. "You say there is another man there. It

must be one of your own stable-men, or someone from the house! Surely

you have only to spot who it is and question him?"

"It's no one I know."

"How can you say that?"

"Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night.

Sir Robert turned and passed us--me and Stephens, quaking in the bushes

like two bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of moon that night. But we

could hear the other moving about behind. We were not afraid of him.

So we up when Sir Robert was gone and pretended we were just having a

walk like in the moonlight, and so we came right on him as casual and

innocent as you please. 'Hullo, mate! who may you be?' says I. I

guess he had not heard us coming, so he looked over his shoulder with a

face as if he had seen the Devil coming out of Hell. He let out a

yell, and away he went as hard as he could lick it in the darkness. He

could run!--I'll give him that. In a minute he was out of sight and

hearing, and who he was, or what he was, we never found."

"But you saw him clearly in the moonlight?"

"Yes, I would swear to his yellow face--a mean dog, I should say. What

could he have in common with Sir Robert?"

Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

"Who keeps Lady Beatrice Falder company?" he asked at last.

"There is her maid, Carrie Evans. She has been with her this five

years."

"And is, no doubt, devoted?"

Mr. Mason shuffled uncomfortably.

"She's devoted enough," he answered at last. "But I won't say to whom."

"Ah!" said Holmes.

"I can't tell tales out of school."

"I quite understand, Mr. Mason. Of course, the situation is clear

enough. From Dr. Watson's description of Sir Robert I can realize that

no woman is safe from him. Don't you think the quarrel between brother

and sister may lie there?"

"Well, the scandal has been pretty clear for a long time."

"But she may not have seen it before. Let us suppose that she has

suddenly found it out. She wants to get rid of the woman. Her brother

will not permit it. The invalid, with her weak heart and inability to

get about, has no means of enforcing her will. The hated maid is still

tied to her. The lady refuses to speak, sulks, takes to drink. Sir

Robert in his anger takes her pet spaniel away from her. Does not all

this hang together?"

"Well, it might do--so far as it goes."

"Exactly! As far as it goes. How would all that bear upon the visits

by night to the old crypt? We can't fit that into our plot."

"No, sir, and there is something more that I can't fit in. Why should

Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?"

Holmes sat up abruptly.

"We only found it out yesterday--after I had written to you. Yesterday

Sir Robert had gone to London, so Stephens and I went down to the

crypt. It was all in order, sir, except that in one corner was a bit

of a human body."

"You informed the police, I suppose?"

Our visitor smiled grimly.

"Well, sir, I think it would hardly interest them. It was just the

head and a few bones of a mummy. It may have been a thousand years

old. But it wasn't there before. That I'll swear, and so will

Stephens. It had been stowed away in a corner and covered over with a

board, but that corner had always been empty before."

"What did you do with it?"

"Well, we just left it there."

"That was wise. You say Sir Robert was away yesterday. Has he

returned?"

"We expect him back to-day."

"When did Sir Robert give away his sister's dog?"

"It was just a week ago to-day. The creature was howling outside the

old well-house, and Sir Robert was in one of his tantrums that morning.

He caught it up and I thought he would have killed it. Then he gave it

to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and told him to take the dog to old Barnes

at the 'Green Dragon,' for he never wished to see it again."

Holmes sat for some time in silent thought. He had lit the oldest and

foulest of his pipes.

"I am not clear yet what you want me to do in this matter, Mr. Mason,"

he said at last. "Can't you make it more definite?"

"Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor.

He took a paper from his pocket and, unwrapping it carefully, he

exposed a charred fragment of bone.

Holmes examined it with interest.

"Where did you get it?"

"There is a central heating furnace in the cellar under Lady Beatrice's

room. It's been off for some time, but Sir Robert complained of cold

and had it on again. Harvey runs it--he's one of my lads. This very

morning he came to me with this which he found raking out the cinders.

He didn't like the look of it."

"Nor do I," said Holmes. "What do you make of it, Watson?"

It was burned to a black cinder, but there could be no question as to

its anatomical significance.

"It's the upper condyle of a human femur," said I.

"Exactly!" Holmes had become very serious. "When does this lad tend

to the furnace?"

"He makes it up every evening and then leaves it."

"Then anyone could visit it during the night?

"Yes, sir."

"Can you enter it from outside?"

"There is one door from outside. There is another which leads up by a

stair to the passage in which Lady Beatrice's room is situated."

"These are deep waters, Mr. Mason; deep and rather dirty. You say that

Sir Robert was not at home last night?"

"No, sir."

"Then, whoever was burning bones, it was not he."

"That's true, sir."

"What is the name of that inn you spoke of?"

"The 'Green Dragon.'"

"Is there good fishing in that part of Berkshire?"

The honest trainer showed very clearly upon his face that he was

convinced that yet another lunatic had come into his harassed life.

"Well, sir, I've heard there are trout in the millstream and pike in

the Hall lake."

"That's good enough. Watson and I are famous fishermen--are we not,

Watson? You may address us in future at the 'Green Dragon.' We should

reach it to-night. I need not say that we don't want to see you, Mr.

Mason, but a note will reach us, and no doubt I could find you if I

want you. When we have gone a little farther into the matter I will

let you have a considered opinion."

Thus it was that on a bright May evening Holmes and I found ourselves

alone in a first-class carriage and bound for the little

"halt-on-demand" station of Shoscombe. The rack above us was covered

with a formidable litter of rods, reels and baskets. On reaching our

destination a short drive took us to an old-fashioned tavern, where a

sporting host, Josiah Barnes, entered eagerly into our plans for the

extirpation of the fish of the neighbourhood.

"What about the Hall lake and the chance of a pike?" said Holmes.

The face of the innkeeper clouded.

"That wouldn't do, sir. You might chance to find yourself in the lake

before you were through."

"How's that, then?"

"It's Sir Robert, sir. He's terrible jealous of touts. If you two

strangers were as near his training quarters as that he'd be after you

as sure as fate. He ain't taking no chances, Sir Robert ain't."

"I've heard he has a horse entered for the Derby."

"Yes, and a good colt, too. He carries all our money for the race, and

all Sir Robert's into the bargain. By the way"--he looked at us with

thoughtful eyes--"I suppose you ain't on the Turf yourselves?"

"No, indeed. Just two weary Londoners who badly need some good

Berkshire air."

"Well, you are in the right place for that. There is a deal of it

lying about. But mind what I have told you about Sir Robert. He's the

sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep clear of the park."

"Surely, Mr. Barnes! We certainly shall. By the way, that was a most

beautiful spaniel that was whining in the hall."

"I should say it was. That was the real Shoscombe breed. There ain't

a better in England."

"I am a dog-fancier myself," said Holmes. "Now, if it is a fair

question, what would a prize dog like that cost?"

"More than I could pay, sir. It was Sir Robert himself who gave me

this one. That's why I have to keep it on a lead. It would be off to

the Hall in a jiffy if I gave it its head."

"We are getting some cards in our hand, Watson," said Holmes, when the

landlord had left us. "It's not an easy one to play, but we may see

our way in a day or two. By the way Sir Robert is still in London, I

hear. We might, perhaps, enter the sacred domain to-night without fear

of bodily assault. There are one or two points on which I should like

reassurance."

"Have you any theory, Holmes?"

"Only this, Watson, that something happened a week or so ago which has

cut deep into the life of the Shoscombe household. What is that

something? We can only guess at it from its effects. They seem to be

of a curiously mixed character. But that should surely help us. It is

only the colourless, uneventful case which is hopeless.

"Let us consider our data. The brother no longer visits the beloved

invalid sister. He gives away her favourite dog. Her dog, Watson!

Does that suggest nothing to you?"

"Nothing but the brother's spite."

"Well, it might be so. Or--well, there is an alternative. Now to

continue our review of the situation from the time that the quarrel, if

there is a quarrel, began. The lady keeps her room, alters her habits,

is not seen save when she drives out with her maid, refuses to stop at

the stables to greet her favourite horse, and apparently takes to

drink. That covers the case, does it not?"

"Save for the business in the crypt."

"That is another line of thought. There are two, and I beg you will

not tangle them. Line A, which concerns Lady Beatrice, has a vaguely

sinister flavour, has it not?"

"I can make nothing of it."

"Well, now, let us take up line B, which concerns Sir Robert. He is

mad keen upon winning the Derby. He is in the hands of the Jews, and

may at any moment be sold up and his racing stables seized by his

creditors. He is a daring and desperate man. He derives his income

from his sister. His sister's maid is his willing tool. So far we

seem to be on fairly safe ground, do we not?"

"But the crypt?"

"Ah, yes, the crypt! Let us suppose, Watson--it is merely a scandalous

supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument's sake--that Sir

Robert has done away with his sister."

"My dear Holmes, it is out of the question."

"Very possibly, Watson. Sir Robert is a man of an honourable stock.

But you do occasionally find a carrion crow among the eagles. Let us

for a moment argue upon this supposition. He could not fly the country

until he had realized his fortune, and that fortune could only be

realized by bringing off this coup with Shoscombe Prince. Therefore,

he has still to stand his ground. To do this he would have to dispose

of the body of his victim, and he would also have to find a substitute

who would impersonate her. With the maid as his confidante that would

not be impossible. The woman's body might be conveyed to the crypt,

which is a place so seldom visited, and it might be secretly destroyed

at night in the furnace, leaving behind it such evidence as we have

already seen. What say you to that, Watson?"

"Well, it is all possible if you grant the original monstrous

supposition."

"I think that there is a small experiment which we may try to-morrow,

Watson, in order to throw some light on the matter. Meanwhile, if we

mean to keep up our characters, I suggest that we have our host in for

a glass of his own wine and hold some high converse upon eels and dace,

which seems to be the straight road to his affections. We may chance

to come upon some useful local gossip in the process."

In the morning Holmes discovered that we had come without our

spoon-bait for jack, which absolved us from fishing for the day. About

eleven o'clock we started for a walk, and he obtained leave to take the

black spaniel with us.

"This is the place," said he, as we came to two high park gates with

heraldic griffins towering above them. "About midday, Mr. Barnes

informs me, the old lady takes a drive, and the carriage must slow down

while the gates are opened. When it comes through, and before it

gathers speed, I want you, Watson, to stop the coachman with some

question. Never mind me. I shall stand behind this holly-bush and see

what I can see."

It was not a long vigil. Within a quarter of an hour we saw the big

open yellow barouche coming down the long avenue, with two splendid,

high-stepping grey carriage horses in the shafts. Holmes crouched

behind his bush with the dog. I stood unconcernedly swinging a cane in

the roadway. A keeper ran out and the gates swung open.

The carriage had slowed to a walk and I was able to get a good look at

the occupants. A highly-coloured young woman with flaxen hair and

impudent eyes sat on the left. At her right was an elderly person with

rounded back and a huddle of shawls about her face and shoulders which

proclaimed the invalid. When the horses reached the high road I held

up my hand with an authoritative gesture, and as the coachman pulled up

I inquired if Sir Robert was at Shoscombe Old Place.

At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel. With a

joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and sprang upon the step.

Then in a moment its eager greeting changed to furious rage, and it

snapped at the black skirt above it.

"Drive on! Drive on!" shrieked a harsh voice. The coachman lashed the

horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.

"Well, Watson, that's done it," said Holmes, as he fastened the lead to

the neck of the excited spaniel. "He thought it was his mistress and

he found it was a stranger. Dogs don't make mistakes."

"But it was the voice of a man!" I cried.

"Exactly! We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs

careful playing, all the same."

My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day, and we did

actually use our fishing tackle in the mill-stream, with the result

that we had a dish of trout for our supper. It was only after that

meal that Holmes showed signs of renewed activity. Once more we found

ourselves upon the same road as in the morning, which led us to the

park gates. A tall, dark figure was awaiting us there, who proved to

be our London acquaintance, Mr. John Mason, the trainer.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said he. "I got your note, Mr. Holmes. Sir

Robert has not returned yet, but I hear that he is expected to-night."

"How far is this crypt from the house?" asked Holmes.

"A good quarter of a mile."

"Then I think we can disregard him altogether."

"I can't afford to do that, Mr. Holmes. The moment he arrives he will

want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe Prince."

"I see! In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason. You can

show us the crypt and then leave us."

It was pitch-dark and without a moon, but Mason led us over the

grass-lands until a dark mass loomed up in front of us which proved to

be the ancient chapel. We entered the broken gap which was once the

porch and our guide, stumbling among heaps of loose masonry, picked his

way to the corner of the building, where a steep stair led down into

the crypt. Striking a match, he illuminated the melancholy

place--dismal and evil-smelling, with ancient crumbling walls of

rough-hewn stone, and piles of coffins, some of lead and some of stone,

extending upon one side right up to the arched and groined roof which

lost itself in the shadows above our heads. Holmes had lit his

lantern, which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the

mournful scene. Its rays were reflected back from the coffin-plates,

many of them adorned with the griffin and coronet of this old family

which carried its honours even to the gate of Death.

"You spoke of some bones, Mr. Mason. Could you show them before you

go?"

"They are here in this corner." The trainer strode across and then

stood in silent surprise as our light was turned upon the place. "They

are gone," said he.

"So I expected," said Holmes, chuckling. "I fancy the ashes of them

might even now be found in that oven which had already consumed a part."

"But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones of a man who

has been dead a thousand years?" asked John Mason.

"That is what we are here to find out," said Holmes. "It may mean a

long search, and we need not detain you. I fancy that we shall get our

solution before morning."

When John Mason had left us, Holmes set to work making a very careful

examination of the graves, ranging from a very ancient one, which

appeared to be Saxon, in the centre, through a long line of Norman

Hugos and Odos, until we reached the Sir William and Sir Denis Falder

of the eighteenth century. It was an hour or more before Holmes came

to a leaden coffin standing on end before the entrance to the vault. I

heard his little cry of satisfaction, and was aware from his hurried

but purposeful movements that he had reached a goal. With his lens he

was eagerly examining the edges of the heavy lid. Then he drew from

his pocket a short jemmy, a box-opener, which he thrust into a chink,

levering back the whole front, which seemed to be secured by only a

couple of clamps. There was a rending, tearing sound as it gave way,

but it had hardly hinged back and partly revealed the contents before

we had an unforeseen interruption.

Someone was walking in the chapel above. It was the firm, rapid step

of one who came with a definite purpose and knew well the ground upon

which he walked. A light streamed down the stairs, and an instant

later the man who bore it was framed in the Gothic archway. He was a

terrible figure, huge in stature and fierce in manner. A large

stable-lantern which he held in front of him shone upwards upon a

strong, heavily-moustached face and angry eyes, which glared round him

into every recess of the vault, finally fixing themselves with a deadly

stare upon my companion and myself.

"Who the devil are you?" he thundered. "And what are you doing upon my

property?" Then, as Holmes returned no answer, he took a couple of

steps forward and raised a heavy stick which he carried. "Do you hear

me?" he cried. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" His cudgel

quivered in the air.

But instead of shrinking, Holmes advanced to meet him.

"I also have a question to ask you, Sir Robert," he said in his

sternest tone. "Who is this? And what is it doing here?"

He turned and tore open the coffin-lid behind him. In the glare of the

lantern I saw a body swathed in a sheet from head to foot, with

dreadful, witch-like features, all nose and chin, projecting at one

end, the dim, glazed eyes staring from a discoloured and crumbling face.

The Baronet had staggered back with a cry and supported himself against

a stone sarcophagus.

"How came you to know of this?" he cried. And then, with some return

of his truculent manner: "What business is it of yours?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my companion. "Possibly it is

familiar to you. In any case, my business is that of every other good

citizen--to uphold the law. It seems to me that you have much to

answer for."

Sir Robert glared for a moment, but Holmes's quiet voice and cool,

assured manner had their effect.

"'Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it's all right," said he. "Appearances are

against me, I'll admit, but I could act no otherwise."

"I should be happy to think so, but I fear your explanations must be

for the police."

Sir Robert shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Well, if it must be, it must. Come up to the house and you can judge

for yourself how the matter stands."

Quarter of an hour later we found ourselves in what I judge, from the

lines of polished barrels behind glass covers, to be the gun-room of

the old house. It was comfortably furnished, and here Sir Robert left

us for a few moments. When he returned he had two companions with him;

the one, the florid young woman whom we had seen in the carriage; the

other, a small rat-faced man with a disagreeably furtive manner. These

two wore an appearance of utter bewilderment, which showed that the

Baronet had not yet had time to explain to them the turn events had

taken.

"There," said Sir Robert, with a wave of his hand, "are Mr. and Mrs.

Norlett. Mrs. Norlett, under her maiden name of Evans, has for some

years been my sister's confidential maid. I have brought them here

because I feel that my best course is to explain the true position to

you, and they are the two people upon earth who can substantiate what I

say."

"Is this necessary, Sir Robert? Have you thought what you are doing?"

cried the woman.

"As to me, I entirely disclaim all responsibility," said her husband.

Sir Robert gave him a glance of contempt. "I will take all

responsibility," said he. "Now, Mr. Holmes, listen to a plain

statement of the facts.

"You have clearly gone pretty deeply into my affairs or I should not

have found you where I did. Therefore, you know already, in all

probability, that I am running a dark horse for the Derby and that

everything depends upon my success. If I win, all is easy. If I

lose--well, I dare not think of that!"

"I understand the position," said Holmes.

"I am dependent upon my sister, Lady Beatrice, for everything. But it

is well known that her interest in the estate is for her own life only.

For myself, I am deeply in the hands of the Jews. I have always known

that if my sister were to die my creditors would be on to my estate

like a flock of vultures. Everything would be seized; my stables, my

horses--everything. Well, Mr. Holmes, my sister _did_ die just a week

ago."

"And you told no one!"

"What could I do? Absolute ruin faced me. If I could stave things off

for three weeks all would be well. Her maid's husband--this man

here--is an actor. It came into our heads--it came into my head--that

he could for that short period personate my sister. It was but a case

of appearing daily in the carriage, for no one need enter her room save

the maid. It was not difficult to arrange. My sister died of the

dropsy which had long afflicted her."

"That will be for a coroner to decide."

"Her doctor would certify that for months her symptoms have threatened

such an end."

"Well, what did you do?"

"The body could not remain there. On the first night Norlett and I

carried it out to the old well-house, which is now never used. We were

followed, however, by her pet spaniel, which yapped continually at the

door, so I felt some safer place was needed. I got rid of the spaniel

and we carried the body to the crypt of the church. There was no

indignity or irreverence, Mr. Holmes. I do not feel that I have

wronged the dead."

"Your conduct seems to me inexcusable, Sir Robert."

The Baronet shook his head impatiently. "It is easy to preach," said

he. "Perhaps you would have felt differently if you had been in my

position. One cannot see all one's hopes and all one's plans shattered

at the last moment and make no effort to save them. It seemed to me

that it would be no unworthy resting-place if we put her for the time

in one of the coffins of her husband's ancestors lying in what is still

consecrated ground. We opened such a coffin, removed the contents, and

placed her as you have seen her. As to the old relics which we took

out, we could not leave them on the floor of the crypt. Norlett and I

removed them, and he descended at night and burned them in the central

furnace. There is my story, Mr. Holmes, though how you forced my hand

so that I have to tell it is more than I can say."

Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

"There is one flaw in your narrative, Sir Robert," he said at last.

"Your bets on the race, and therefore your hopes for the future, would

hold good even if your creditors seized your estate."

"The horse would be part of the estate. What do they care for my bets?

As likely as not they would not run him at all. My chief creditor is,

unhappily, my most bitter enemy--a rascally fellow, Sam Brewer, whom I

was once compelled to horsewhip on Newmarket Heath. Do you suppose

that he would try to save me?"

"Well, Sir Robert," said Holmes, rising, "this matter must, of course,

be referred to the police. It was my duty to bring the facts to light

and there I must leave it. As to the morality or decency of your own

conduct, it is not for me to express an opinion. It is nearly

midnight, Watson, and I think we may make our way back to our humble

abode."

It is generally known now that this singular episode ended upon a

happier note than Sir Robert's actions deserved. Shoscombe Prince did

win the Derby, the sporting owner did net eighty thousand pounds in

bets, and the creditors did hold their hand until the race was over,

when they were paid in full, and enough was left to re-establish Sir

Robert in a fair position in life. Both police and coroner took a

lenient view of the transaction, and beyond a mild censure for the

delay in registering the lady's decease, the lucky owner got away

scatheless from this strange incident in a career which has now

outlived its shadows and promises to end in an honoured old age.

XII

THE ADVENTURE OF THE RETIRED COLOURMAN

Sherlock Holmes was in a melancholy and philosophic mood that morning.

His alert practical nature was subject to such reactions.

"Did you see him?" he asked.

"You mean the old fellow who has just gone out?"

"Precisely."

"Yes, I met him at the door."

"What did you think of him?"

"A pathetic, futile, broken creature."

"Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic

and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We

grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse

than a shadow--misery."

"Is he one of your clients?"

"Well, I suppose I may call him so. He has been sent on by the Yard.

Just as medical men occasionally send their incurables to a quack.

They argue that they can do nothing more, and that whatever happens the

patient can be no worse than he is."

"What is the matter?"

Holmes took a rather soiled card from the table. "Josiah Amberley. He

says he was junior partner of Brickfall and Amberley, who are

manufacturers of artistic materials. You will see their names upon

paint-boxes. He made his little pile, retired from business at the age

of sixty-one, bought a house at Lewisham, and settled down to rest

after a life of ceaseless grind. One would think his future was

tolerably assured."

"Yes, indeed."

Holmes glanced over some notes which he had scribbled upon the back of

an envelope.

"Retired in 1896, Watson. Early in 1897 he married a woman twenty

years younger than himself--a good-looking woman, too, if the

photograph does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure--it seemed

a straight road which lay before him. And yet within two years he is,

as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature as crawls beneath

the sun."

"But what has happened?"

"The old story, Watson. A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. It

would appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is chess. Not

far from him at Lewisham there lives a young doctor who is also a

chess-player. I have noted his name as Dr. Ray Ernest. Ernest was

frequently in the house, and an intimacy between him and Mrs. Amberley

was a natural sequence, for you must admit that our unfortunate client

has few outward graces, whatever his inner virtues may be. The couple

went off together last week--destination untraced. What is more, the

faithless spouse carried off the old man's deed-box as her personal

luggage with a good part of his life's savings within. Can we find the

lady? Can we save the money? A commonplace problem so far as it has

developed, and yet a vital one for Josiah Amberley."

"What will you do about it?"

"Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens to be, What will

_you_ do?--if you will be good enough to understudy me. You know that

I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic Patriarchs, which

should come to a head to-day. I really have not time to go out to

Lewisham, and yet evidence taken on the spot has a special value. The

old fellow was quite insistent that I should go, but I explained my

difficulty. He is prepared to meet a representative."

"By all means," I answered. "I confess I don't see that I can be of

much service, but I am willing to do my best." And so it was that on a

summer afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little dreaming that within a

week the affair in which I was engaging would be the eager debate of

all England.

It was late that evening before I returned to Baker Street and gave an

account of my mission. Holmes lay with his gaunt figure stretched in

his deep chair, his pipe curling forth slow wreaths of acrid tobacco,

while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazily that he might almost

have been asleep were it not that at any halt or questionable passage

of my narrative they half lifted, and two grey eyes, as bright and keen

as rapiers, transfixed me with their searching glance.

"The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley's house," I explained.

"I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is like some penurious

patrician who has sunk into the company of his inferiors. You know

that particular quarter, the monotonous brick streets, the weary

suburban highways. Right in the middle of them, a little island of

ancient culture and comfort, lies this old home, surrounded by a high

sun-baked wall mottled with lichens and topped with moss, the sort of

wall----"

"Cut out the poetry, Watson," said Holmes severely. "I note that it

was a high brick wall."

"Exactly. I should not have known which was The Haven had I not asked

a lounger who was smoking in the street. I have a reason for

mentioning him. He was a tall, dark, heavily-moustached, rather

military-looking man. He nodded in answer to my inquiry and gave me a

curiously questioning glance, which came back to my memory a little

later.

"I had hardly entered the gateway before I saw Mr. Amberley coming down

the drive. I only had a glimpse of him this morning, and he certainly

gave me the impression of a strange creature, but when I saw him in

full light his appearance was even more abnormal."

"I have, of course, studied it, and yet I should be interested to have

your impression," said Holmes.

"He seemed to me like a man who was literally bowed down by care. His

back was curved as though he carried a heavy burden. Yet he was not

the weakling that I had at first imagined, for his shoulders and chest

have the framework of a giant, though his figure tapers away into a

pair of spindled legs."

"Left shoe wrinkled, right one smooth."

"I did not observe that."

"No, you wouldn't. I spotted his artificial limb. But proceed."

"I was struck by the snaky locks of grizzled hair which curled from

under his old straw hat, and his face with its fierce, eager expression

and the deeply-lined features."

"Very good, Watson. What did he say?"

"He began pouring out the story of his grievances. We walked down the

drive together, and of course I took a good look round. I have never

seen a worse-kept place. The garden was all running to seed, giving me

an impression of wild neglect in which the plants had been allowed to

find the way of nature rather than of art. How any decent woman could

have tolerated such a state of things, I don't know. The house, too,

was slatternly to the last degree, but the poor man seemed himself to

be aware of it and to be trying to remedy it, for a great pot of green

paint stood in the centre of the hall and he was carrying a thick brush

in his left hand. He had been working on the woodwork.

"He took me into his dingy sanctum, and we had a long chat. Of course,

he was disappointed that you had not come yourself. 'I hardly

expected,' he said, 'that so humble an individual as myself, especially

after my heavy financial loss, could obtain the complete attention of

so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'

"I assured him that the financial question did not arise. 'No, of

course, it is art for art's sake with him,' said he; 'but even on the

artistic side of crime he might have found something here to study.

And human nature, Dr. Watson--the black ingratitude of it all! When

did I ever refuse one of her requests? Was ever a woman so pampered?

And that young man--he might have been my own son. He had the run of

my house. And yet see how they have treated me! Oh, Dr. Watson, it is

a dreadful, dreadful world!'

"That was the burden of his song for an hour or more. He had, it

seems, no suspicion of an intrigue. They lived alone save for a woman

who comes in by the day and leaves every evening at six. On that

particular evening old Amberley, wishing to give his wife a treat, had

taken two upper circle seats at the Haymarket Theatre. At the last

moment she had complained of a headache and had refused to go. He had

gone alone. There seemed to be no doubt about the fact, for he

produced the unused ticket which he had taken for his wife."

"That is remarkable--most remarkable," said Holmes, whose interest in

the case seemed to be rising. "Pray continue, Watson. I find your

narrative most arresting. Did you personally examine this ticket? You

did not, perchance, take the number?"

"It so happens that I did," I answered with some pride. "It chanced to

be my old school number, thirty-one, and so it stuck in my head."

"Excellent, Watson! His seat, then, was either thirty or thirty-two."

"Quite so," I answered, with some mystification. "And on B row."

"That is most satisfactory. What else did he tell you?"

"He showed me his strong-room, as he called it. It really is a

strong-room--like a bank--with iron door and shutter--burglar-proof, as

he claimed. However, the woman seems to have had a duplicate key, and

between them they had carried off some seven thousand pounds' worth of

cash and securities."

"Securities! How could they dispose of those?"

"He said that he had given the police a list and that he hoped they

would be unsalable. He had got back from the theatre about midnight,

and found the place plundered, the door and window open and the

fugitives gone. There was no letter or message, nor has he heard a

word since. He at once gave the alarm to the police."

Holmes brooded for some minutes.

"You say he was painting. What was he painting?"

"Well, he was painting the passage. But he had already painted the

door and woodwork of this room I spoke of."

"Does it not strike you as a strange occupation in the circumstances?"

"'One must do something to ease an aching heart.' That was his own

explanation. It was eccentric, no doubt, but he is clearly an

eccentric man. He tore up one of his wife's photographs in my

presence--tore it up furiously in a tempest of passion. 'I never wish

to see her damned face again,' he shrieked."

"Anything more, Watson?"

"Yes, one thing which struck me more than anything else. I had driven

to the Blackheath Station and had caught my train there, when just as

it was starting I saw a man dart into the carriage next to my own. You

know that I have a quick eye for faces, Holmes. It was undoubtedly the

tall, dark man whom I had addressed in the street. I saw him once more

at London Bridge, and then I lost him in the crowd. But I am convinced

that he was following me."

"No doubt! No doubt!" said Holmes. "A tall, dark, heavily-moustached

man, you say, with grey-tinted sun-glasses?"

"Holmes, you are a wizard. I did not say so, but he had grey-tinted

sun-glasses."

"And a Masonic tie-pin?"

"Holmes!"

"Quite simple, my dear Watson. But let us get down to what is

practical. I must admit to you that the case, which seemed to me to be

so absurdly simple as to be hardly worth my notice, is rapidly assuming

a very different aspect. It is true that though in your mission you

have missed everything of importance, yet even those things which have

obtruded themselves upon your notice give rise to serious thought."

"What have I missed?"

"Don't be hurt, my dear fellow. You know that I am quite impersonal.

No one else would have done better. Some possibly not so well. But

clearly you have missed some vital points. What is the opinion of the

neighbours about this man Amberley and his wife? That surely is of

importance. What of Dr. Ernest? Was he the gay Lothario one would

expect? With your natural advantages, Watson, every lady is your

helper and accomplice. What about the girl at the post office, or the

wife of the greengrocer? I can picture you whispering soft nothings

with the young lady at the 'Blue Anchor,' and receiving hard somethings

in exchange. All this you have left undone."

"It can still be done."

"It has been done. Thanks to the telephone and the help of the Yard, I

can usually get my essentials without leaving this room. As a matter

of fact, my information confirms the man's story. He has the local

repute of being a miser as well as a harsh and exacting husband. That

he had a large sum of money in that strong-room of his is certain. So

also is it that young Dr. Ernest, an unmarried man, played chess with

Amberley, and probably played the fool with his wife. All this seems

plain sailing, and one would think that there was no more to be

said--and yet!--and yet!"

"Where lies the difficulty?"

"In my imagination, perhaps. Well, leave it there, Watson. Let us

escape from this weary workaday world by the side door of music.

Carina sings to-night at the Albert Hall, and we still have time to

dress, dine and enjoy."

In the morning I was up betimes, but some toast crumbs and two empty

egg-shells told me that my companion was earlier still. I found a

scribbled note upon the table.

DEAR WATSON,--

There are one or two points of contact which I should wish to establish

with Mr. Josiah Amberley. When I have done so we can dismiss the

case--or not. I would only ask you to be on hand about three o'clock,

as I conceive it possible that I may want you.

S. H.

I saw nothing of Holmes all day, but at the hour named he returned,

grave, preoccupied and aloof. At such times it was wiser to leave him

to himself.

"Has Amberley been here yet?"

"No."

"Ah! I am expecting him."

He was not disappointed, for presently the old fellow arrived with a

very worried and puzzled expression upon his austere face.

"I've had a telegram, Mr. Holmes. I can make nothing of it." He

handed it over, and Holmes read it aloud.

"Come at once without fail. Can give you information as to your recent

loss.--ELMAN. The Vicarage."

"Dispatched at two-ten from Little Turlington," said Holmes. "Little

Turlington is in Essex, I believe, not far from Frinton. Well, of

course you will start at once. This is evidently from a responsible

person, the vicar of the place. Where is my Crockford? Yes, here we

have him. J. C. Elman, M.A., Living of Mossmoor cum Little Purlington.

Look up the trains, Watson."

"There is one at five-twenty from Liverpool Street."

"Excellent. You had best go with him, Watson. He may need help or

advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair."

But our client seemed by no means eager to start.

"It's perfectly absurd, Mr. Holmes," he said. "What can this man

possibly know of what has occurred? It is waste of time and money."

"He would not have telegraphed to you if he did not know something.

Wire at once that you are coming."

"I don't think I shall go."

Holmes assumed his sternest aspect.

"It would make the worst possible impression both on the police and

upon myself, Mr. Amberley, if when so obvious a clue arose you should

refuse to follow it up. We should feel that you were not really in

earnest in this investigation."

Our client seemed horrified at the suggestion.

"Why, of course I shall go if you look at it in that way," said he.

"On the face of it, it seems absurd to suppose that this parson knows

anything, but if you think----"

"I _do_ think," said Holmes, with emphasis, and so we were launched

upon our journey. Holmes took me aside before we left the room and

gave me one word of counsel which showed that he considered the matter

to be of importance. "Whatever you do, see that he really _does_ go,"

said he. "Should he break away or return, get to the nearest telephone

exchange and send the single word 'Bolted.' I will arrange here that

it shall reach me wherever I am."

Little Purlington is not an easy place to reach, for it is on a branch

line. My remembrance of the journey is not a pleasant one, for the

weather was hot, the train slow, and my companion sullen and silent,

hardly talking at all, save to make an occasional sardonic remark as to

the futility of our proceedings. When we at last reached the little

station it was a two-mile drive before we came to the Vicarage, where a

big, solemn, rather pompous clergyman received us in his study. Our

telegram lay before him.

"Well, gentlemen," he asked, "what can I do for you?"

"We came," I explained, "in answer to your wire."

"My wire! I sent no wire."

"I mean the wire which you sent to Mr. Josiah Amberley about his wife

and his money."

"If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one," said the vicar

angrily. "I have never heard of the gentleman you name, and I have not

sent a wire to anyone."

Our client and I looked at each other in amazement.

"Perhaps there is some mistake," said I; "are there perhaps two

vicarages? Here is the wire itself, signed Elman, and dated from the

Vicarage."

"There is only one vicarage, sir, and only one vicar, and this wire is

a scandalous forgery, the origin of which shall certainly be

investigated by the police. Meanwhile, I can see no possible object in

prolonging this interview."

So Mr. Amberley and I found ourselves on the roadside in what seemed to

me to be the most primitive village in England. We made for the

telegraph office, but it was already closed. There was a telephone,

however, at the little 'Railway Arms,' and by it I got into touch with

Holmes, who shared in our amazement at the result of our journey.

"Most singular!" said the distant voice. "Most remarkable! I much

fear, my dear Watson, that there is no return train to-night. I have

unwittingly condemned you to the horrors of a country inn. However,

there is always Nature, Watson--Nature and Josiah Amberley--you can be

in close commune with both." I heard his dry chuckle as he turned away.

It was soon apparent to me that my companion's reputation as a miser

was not undeserved. He had grumbled at the expense of the journey, had

insisted upon travelling third-class, and was now clamorous in his

objections to the hotel bill. Next morning, when we did at last arrive

in London, it was hard to say which of us was in the worse humour.

"You had best take Baker Street as we pass," said I. "Mr. Holmes may

have some fresh instructions."

"If they are not worth more than the last ones they are not of much

use," said Amberley, with a malevolent scowl. None the less, he kept

me company. I had already warned Holmes by telegram of the hour of our

arrival, but we found a message waiting that he was at Lewisham, and

would expect us there. That was a surprise, but an even greater one

was to find that he was not alone in the sitting-room of our client. A

stern-looking, impassive man sat beside him, a dark man with

grey-tinted glasses and a large Masonic pin projecting from his tie.

"This is my friend Mr. Barker," said Holmes. "He has been interesting

himself also in your business, Mr. Josiah Amberley, though we have been

working independently. But we both have the same question to ask you!"

Mr. Amberley sat down heavily. He sensed impending danger. I read it

in his straining eyes and his twitching features.

"What is the question, Mr. Holmes?"

"Only this: What did you do with the bodies?"

The man sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. He clawed into the

air with his bony hands. His mouth was open, and for the instant he

looked like some horrible bird of prey. In a flash we got a glimpse of

the real Josiah Amberley, a misshapen demon with a soul as distorted as

his body. As he fell back into his chair he clapped his hand to his

lips as if to stifle a cough. Holmes sprang at his throat like a

tiger, and twisted his face towards the ground. A white pellet fell

from between his gasping lips.

"No short cuts, Josiah Amberley. Things must be done decently and in

order. What about it, Barker?"

"I have a cab at the door," said our taciturn companion.

"It is only a few hundred yards to the station. We will go together.

You can stay here, Watson. I shall be back within half an hour."

The old colourman had the strength of a lion in that great trunk of

his, but he was helpless in the hands of the two experienced

man-handlers. Wriggling and twisting he was dragged to the waiting

cab, and I was left to my solitary vigil in the ill-omened house. In

less time than he had named, however, Holmes was back, in company with

a smart young police inspector.

"I've left Barker to look after the formalities," said Holmes. "You

had not met Barker, Watson. He is my hated rival upon the Surrey

shore. When you said a tall dark man it was not difficult for me to

complete the picture. He has several good cases to his credit, has he

not, Inspector?"

"He has certainly interfered several times," the Inspector answered

with reserve.

"His methods are irregular, no doubt, like my own. The irregulars are

useful sometimes, you know. You, for example, with your compulsory

warning about whatever he said being used against him, could never have

bluffed this rascal into what is virtually a confession."

"Perhaps not. But we get there all the same, Mr. Holmes. Don't

imagine that we had not formed our own views of this case, and that we

would not have laid our hands on our man. You will excuse us for

feeling sore when you jump in with methods which we cannot use, and so

rob us of the credit."

"There shall be no such robbery, MacKinnon. I assure you that I efface

myself from now onwards, and as to Barker, he has done nothing save

what I told him."

The Inspector seemed considerably relieved.

"That is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. Praise or blame can matter

little to you, but it is very different to us when the newspapers begin

to ask questions."

"Quite so. But they are pretty sure to ask questions anyhow, so it

would be as well to have answers. What will you say, for example, when

the intelligent and enterprising reporter asks you what the exact

points were which aroused your suspicion, and finally gave you a

certain conviction as to the real facts?"

The Inspector looked puzzled.

"We don't seem to have got any real facts yet, Mr. Holmes. You say

that the prisoner, in the presence of three witnesses, practically

confessed, by trying to commit suicide, that he had murdered his wife

and her lover. What other facts have you?"

"Have you arranged for a search?"

"There are three constables on their way."

"Then you will soon get the clearest fact of all. The bodies cannot be

far away. Try the cellars and the garden. It should not take long to

dig up the likely places. This house is older than the water-pipes.

There must be a disused well somewhere. Try your luck there."

"But how did you know of it, and how was it done?"

"I'll show you first how it was done, and then I will give the

explanation which is due to you, and even more to my long-suffering

friend here, who has been invaluable throughout. But, first, I would

give you an insight into this man's mentality. It is a very unusual

one--so much so that I think his destination is more likely to be

Broadmoor than the scaffold. He has, to a high degree, the sort of

mind which one associates with the mediæval Italian nature rather than

with the modern Briton. He was a miserable miser who made his wife so

wretched by his niggardly ways that she was a ready prey for any

adventurer. Such a one came upon the scene in the person of this

chess-playing doctor. Amberley excelled at chess--one mark, Watson, of

a scheming mind. Like all misers, he was a jealous man, and his

jealousy became a frantic mania. Rightly or wrongly, he suspected an

intrigue. He determined to have his revenge, and he planned it with

diabolical cleverness. Come here!"

Holmes led us along the passage with as much certainty as if he had

lived in the house, and halted at the open door of the strong-room.

"Pooh! What an awful smell of paint!" cried the Inspector.

"That was our first clue," said Holmes. "You can thank Dr. Watson's

observation for that, though he failed to draw the inference. It set

my foot upon the trail. Why should this man at such a time be filling

his house with strong odours? Obviously, to cover some other smell

which he wished to conceal--some guilty smell which would suggest

suspicions. Then came the idea of a room such as you see here with

iron door and shutter--a hermetically sealed room. Put those two facts

together, and whither do they lead? I could only determine that by

examining the house myself. I was already certain that the case was

serious, for I had examined the box-office chart at the Haymarket

Theatre--another of Dr. Watson's bull's-eyes--and ascertained that

neither B thirty nor thirty-two of the upper circle had been occupied

that night. Therefore, Amberley had not been to the theatre, and his

alibi fell to the ground. He made a bad slip when he allowed my astute

friend to notice the number of the seat taken for his wife. The

question now arose how I might be able to examine the house. I sent an

agent to the most impossible village I could think of, and summoned my

man to it at such an hour that he could not possibly get back. To

prevent any miscarriage, Dr. Watson accompanied him. The good vicar's

name I took, of course, out of my Crockford. Do I make it all clear to

you?"

"It is masterly," said the Inspector, in an awed voice.

"There being no fear of interruption I proceeded to burgle the house.

Burglary has always been an alternative profession, had I cared to

adopt it, and I have little doubt that I should have come to the front.

Observe what I found. You see the gas-pipe along the skirting here.

Very good. It rises in the angle of the wall, and there is a tap here

in the corner. The pipe runs out into the strong-room, as you can see,

and ends in that plaster rose in the centre of the ceiling, where it is

concealed by the ornamentation. That end is wide open. At any moment

by turning the outside tap the room could be flooded with gas. With

door and shutter closed and the tap full on I would not give two

minutes of conscious sensation to anyone shut up in that little

chamber. By what devilish device he decoyed them there I do not know,

but once inside the door they were at his mercy."

The Inspector examined the pipe with interest. "One of our officers

mentioned the smell of gas," said he, "but, of course, the window and

door were open then, and the paint--or some of it--was already about.

He had begun the work of painting the day before, according to his

story. But what next, Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, then came an incident which was rather unexpected to myself. I

was slipping through the pantry window in the early dawn when I felt a

hand inside my collar, and a voice said: 'Now, you rascal, what are you

doing in there?' When I could twist my head round I looked into the

tinted spectacles of my friend and rival, Mr. Barker. It was a curious

forgathering, and set us both smiling. It seems that he had been

engaged by Dr. Ray Ernest's family to make some investigations, and had

come to the same conclusion as to foul play. He had watched the house

for some days, and had spotted Dr. Watson as one of the obviously

suspicious characters who had called there. He could hardly arrest

Watson, but when he saw a man actually climbing out of the pantry

window there came a limit to his restraint. Of course, I told him how

matters stood and we continued the case together."

"Why him? Why not us?"

"Because it was in my mind to put that little test which answered so

admirably. I fear you would not have gone so far."

The Inspector smiled.

"Well, maybe not. I understand that I have your word, Mr. Holmes, that

you step right out of the case now and that you turn all your results

over to us."

"Certainly, that is always my custom."

"Well, in the name of the Force I thank you. It seems a clear case, as

you put it, and there can't be much difficulty over the bodies."

"I'll show you a grim little bit of evidence," said Holmes, "and I am

sure Amberley himself never observed it. You'll get results,

Inspector, by always putting yourself in the other fellow's place, and

thinking what you would do yourself. It takes some imagination, but it

pays. Now, we will suppose that you were shut up in this little room,

had not two minutes to live, but wanted to get even with the fiend who

was probably mocking at you from the other side of the door. What

would you do?"

"Write a message."

"Exactly. You would like to tell people how you died. No use writing

on paper. That would be seen. If you wrote on the wall some eye might

rest upon it. Now, look here! Just above the skirting is scribbled

with a purple indelible pencil: 'We we----' That's all."

"What do you make of that?"

"Well, it's only a foot above the ground. The poor devil was on the

floor and dying when he wrote it. He lost his senses before he could

finish."

"He was writing, 'We were murdered.'"

"That's how I read it. If you find an indelible pencil on the body----"

"We'll look out for it, you may be sure. But those securities?

Clearly there was no robbery at all. And yet he _did_ possess those

bonds. We verified that."

"You may be sure he has them hidden in a safe place. When the whole

elopement had passed into history he would suddenly discover them, and

announce that the guilty couple had relented and sent back the plunder

or had dropped it on the way."

"You certainly seem to have met every difficulty," said the Inspector.

"Of course, he was bound to call us in, but why he should have gone to

you I can't understand."

"Pure swank!" Holmes answered. "He felt so clever and so sure of

himself that he imagined no one could touch him. He could say to any

suspicious neighbour, 'Look at the steps I have taken. I have

consulted not only the police, but even Sherlock Holmes.'"

The Inspector laughed.

"We must forgive you your 'even,' Mr. Holmes," said he; "it's as

workmanlike a job as I can remember."

A couple of days later my friend tossed across to me a copy of the

bi-weekly _North Surrey Observer_. Under a series of flaming

headlines, which began with "The Haven Horror" and ended with

"Brilliant Police Investigation," there was a packed column of print

which gave the first consecutive account of the affair. The concluding

paragraph is typical of the whole. It ran thus:

"The remarkable acumen by which Inspector MacKinnon deduced from the

smell of paint that some other smell, that of gas, for example, might

be concealed; the bold deduction that the strongroom might also be the

death-chamber, and the subsequent inquiry which led to the discovery of

the bodies in a disused well, cleverly concealed by a dog-kennel,

should live in the history of crime as a standing example of the

intelligence of our professional detectives."

"Well, well, MacKinnon is a good fellow," said Holmes, with a tolerant

smile. "You can file it in our archives, Watson. Some day the true

story may be told."

Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London

* * * * *

By A. CONAN DOYLE

THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

MICAH CLARKE.

THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLE STAR.

THE SIGN OF FOUR.

THE WHITE COMPANY

THE REFUGEES.

THE STARK MUNRO LETTERS.

THE EXPLOITS OF BRIGADIER GERARD.

RODNEY STONE.

UNCLE BERNAC.

THE TRAGEDY OF THE "KOROSKO."

A DUET, WITH AN OCCASIONAL CHORUS.

THE GREEN FLAG.

THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES.

THE ADVENTURES OF GERARD.

SIR NIGEL.

THROUGH THE MAGIC DOOR.

ROUND THE FIRE STORIES.

THE LAST GALLEY.

THE LOST WORLD.

ROUND THE RED LAMP.

THE VALLEY OF FEAR.

HIS LAST BOW.

DANGER! AND OTHER STORIES.

THE FIRM OF GIRDLESTONE.

TALES OF ADVENTURE AND MEDICAL LIFE.

TALES OF LONG AGO.

TALES OF PIRATES AND BLUE WATER.

TALES OF THE RING AND CAMP.

TALES OF TERROR AND MYSTERY.

TALES OF TWILIGHT AND THE UNSEEN.

SONGS OF ACTION.

SONGS OF THE ROAD.

THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH, AND OTHER POEMS.

POEMS: COLLECTED EDITION.

THREE OF THEM: A REMINISCENCE.

THE MYSTERY OF JOAN OF ARC. BY LÉON

DENIS. Translated from the French by

A. CONAN DOYLE.