sherlock_edited.txt

A STUDY IN SCARLET

Table of contents

Part I
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
The Science Of Deduction
The Lauriston Garden Mystery
What John Rance Had To Tell
Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor
Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do
Light In The Darkness

Part II
On The Great Alkali Plain
The Flower Of Utah
John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet
A Flight For Life
The Avenging Angels
A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D.
The Conclusion

PART I

(Being a reprint from the reminiscences of
John H. Watson, M.D.,
late of the Army Medical Department.)

CHAPTER I
Mr. Sherlock Holmes

In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the
University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the
course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my
studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland
Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India
at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had
broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had
advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy's
country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in
the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in
safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new
duties.

The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had
nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade
and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal
battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail
bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I
should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not
been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who
threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to
the British lines.

Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had
undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to
the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already
improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to
bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric
fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was
despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became
convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board
determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to
England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and
landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health
irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government
to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.

I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as
air--or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day
will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally
gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers
and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for
some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless,
meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably
more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances
become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis
and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a
complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter
alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and to
take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive
domicile.

On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at
the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and
turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser
under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly face in the great
wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In
old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now
I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be
delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to
lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a
hansom.

"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" he asked in
undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets.
"You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut."

I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded
it by the time that we reached our destination.

"Poor devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my
misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"

"Looking for lodgings," I answered. "Trying to solve the problem as
to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable
price."

"That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are the second
man to-day that has used that expression to me."

"And who was the first?" I asked.

"A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the
hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not
get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had
found, and which were too much for his purse."

"By Jove!" I cried, "if he really wants someone to share the rooms
and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a
partner to being alone."

Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass.
"You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "perhaps you would not
care for him as a constant companion."

"Why, what is there against him?"

"Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little
queer in his ideas--an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far
as I know he is a decent fellow enough."

"A medical student, I suppose?" said I.

"No--I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is
well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I
know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His
studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of
out-of-the way knowledge which would astonish his professors."

"Did you never ask him what he was going in for?" I asked.

"No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be
communicative enough when the fancy seizes him."

"I should like to meet him," I said. "If I am to lodge with anyone, I
should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong
enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in
Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How
could I meet this friend of yours?"

"He is sure to be at the laboratory," returned my companion. "He
either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from
morning to night. If you like, we shall drive round together after
luncheon."

"Certainly," I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other
channels.

As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn,
Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I
proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.

"You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he said; "I know
nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally
in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not
hold me responsible."

"If we don't get on it will be easy to part company," I answered. "It
seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking hard at my companion, "that
you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this
fellow's temper so formidable, or what is it? Don't be mealy-mouthed
about it."

"It is not easy to express the inexpressible," he answered with a
laugh. "Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes--it
approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a
little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of
malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in
order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I
think that he would take it himself with the same readiness. He
appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge."

"Very right too."

"Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the
subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking
rather a bizarre shape."

"Beating the subjects!"

"Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw
him at it with my own eyes."

"And yet you say he is not a medical student?"

"No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we
are, and you must form your own impressions about him." As he spoke,
we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door,
which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar
ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone
staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of
whitewashed wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low
arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical
laboratory.

This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles.
Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts,
test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering
flames. There was only one student in the room, who was bending over
a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he
glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. "I've
found it! I've found it," he shouted to my companion, running towards
us with a test-tube in his hand. "I have found a re-agent which is
precipitated by hoemoglobin, and by nothing else." Had he discovered
a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.

"How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength
for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in
Afghanistan, I perceive."

"How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.

"Never mind," said he, chuckling to himself. "The question now is
about hoemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this
discovery of mine?"

"It is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered, "but
practically--"

"Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years.
Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains.
Come over here now!" He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his
eagerness, and drew me over to the table at which he had been
working. "Let us have some fresh blood," he said, digging a long
bodkin into his finger, and drawing off the resulting drop of blood
in a chemical pipette. "Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a
litre of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the
appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than
one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to
obtain the characteristic reaction." As he spoke, he threw into the
vessel a few white crystals, and then added some drops of a
transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany
colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the
glass jar.

"Ha! ha!" he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a
child with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"

"It seems to be a very delicate test," I remarked.

"Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and
uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles.
The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this
appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test
been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who
would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes."

"Indeed!" I murmured.

"Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is
suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His
linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon
them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit
stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many
an expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have
the Sherlock Holmes' test, and there will no longer be any
difficulty."

His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his
heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his
imagination.

"You are to be congratulated," I remarked, considerably surprised at
his enthusiasm.

"There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would
certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there
was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of
Montpellier, and Samson of new Orleans. I could name a score of cases
in which it would have been decisive."

"You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford with a
laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the 'Police
News of the Past.'"

"Very interesting reading it might be made, too," remarked Sherlock
Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his
finger. "I have to be careful," he continued, turning to me with a
smile, "for I dabble with poisons a good deal." He held out his hand
as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar
pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.

"We came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on a high
three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his
foot. "My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were
complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I
thought that I had better bring you together."

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms
with me. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street," he said, "which
would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong
tobacco, I hope?"

"I always smoke 'ship's' myself," I answered.

"That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and
occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

"By no means."

"Let me see--what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at
times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I
am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right.
What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to
know the worst of one another before they begin to live together."

I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I said,
"and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at
all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another
set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at
present."

"Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?" he asked,
anxiously.

"It depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played violin is a
treat for the gods--a badly-played one--"

"Oh, that's all right," he cried, with a merry laugh. "I think we may
consider the thing as settled--that is, if the rooms are agreeable to
you."

"When shall we see them?"

"Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle
everything," he answered.

"All right--noon exactly," said I, shaking his hand.

We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together
towards my hotel.

"By the way," I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford,
"how the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?"

My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. "That's just his little
peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have wanted to know how he
finds things out."

"Oh! a mystery is it?" I cried, rubbing my hands. "This is very
piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. 'The
proper study of mankind is man,' you know."

"You must study him, then," Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.
"You'll find him a knotty problem, though. I'll wager he learns more
about you than you about him. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably
interested in my new acquaintance.





CHAPTER II
The Science Of Deduction


We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No.
221b, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They
consisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large
airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad
windows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so
moderate did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain
was concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession.
That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the
following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and
portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking
and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we
gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our
new surroundings.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet
in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be
up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out
before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the
chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and
occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the
lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed his energy when the
working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize
him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the
sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning
to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant
expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being
addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance and
cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his
aims in life, gradually deepened and increased. His very person and
appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual
observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively
lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp
and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have
alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an
air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and
squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were
invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was
possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had
occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile
philosophical instruments.

The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how
much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to
break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned
himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how
objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my
attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather
was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me
and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these
circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around
my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel
it.

He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question,
confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear
to have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a
degree in science or any other recognized portal which would give him
an entrance into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies
was remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so
extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have fairly
astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise
information unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory
readers are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No
man burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very good
reason for doing so.

His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary
literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to
nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest
way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a
climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of
the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System.
That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not
be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me
such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.

"You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression of
surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it."

"To forget it!"

"You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is
like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such
furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort
that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to
him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other
things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now
the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into
his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help
him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and
all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that
little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend
upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you
forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest
importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the
useful ones."

"But the Solar System!" I protested.

"What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently; "you say
that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make
a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."

I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but
something in his manner showed me that the question would be an
unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation, however, and
endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He said that he would
acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object. Therefore
all the knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful to
him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he
had shown me that he was exceptionally well-informed. I even took a
pencil and jotted them down. I could not help smiling at the document
when I had completed it. It ran in this way--

Sherlock Holmes--his limits.

1. Knowledge of Literature.--Nil.
2. Philosophy.--Nil.
3. Astronomy.--Nil.
4. Politics.--Feeble.
5. Botany.--Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons
generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening.
6. Geology.--Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different
soils from each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his
trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of
London he had received them.
7. Chemistry.--Profound.
8. Anatomy.--Accurate, but unsystematic.
9. Sensational Literature.--Immense. He appears to know every detail
of every horror perpetrated in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair.
"If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all
these accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them
all," I said to myself, "I may as well give up the attempt at once."

I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These
were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other
accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I
knew well, because at my request he has played me some of
Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left to himself,
however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized
air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his
eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his
knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally
they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts
which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or
whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy was more
than I could determine. I might have rebelled against these
exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by
playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a
slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.

During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to
think that my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself.
Presently, however, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those
in the most different classes of society. There was one little sallow
rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade,
and who came three or four times in a single week. One morning a
young girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour
or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor,
looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and
who was closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another
occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with my
companion; and on another a railway porter in his velveteen uniform.
When any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance,
Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I
would retire to my bed-room. He always apologized to me for putting
me to this inconvenience. "I have to use this room as a place of
business," he said, "and these people are my clients." Again I had an
opportunity of asking him a point blank question, and again my
delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to confide in me. I
imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for not alluding
to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject
of his own accord.

It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that
I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes
had not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so
accustomed to my late habits that my place had not been laid nor my
coffee prepared. With the unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang
the bell and gave a curt intimation that I was ready. Then I picked
up a magazine from the table and attempted to while away the time
with it, while my companion munched silently at his toast. One of the
articles had a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to
run my eye through it.

Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it attempted
to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and
systematic examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as
being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The
reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to
be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary
expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a
man's inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility
in the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His
conclusions were as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So
startling would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they
learned the processes by which he had arrived at them they might well
consider him as a necromancer.

"From a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could infer the
possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard
of one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of
which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all
other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can
only be acquired by long and patient study nor is life long enough to
allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it.
Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter which
present the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer begin by
mastering more elementary problems. Let him, on meeting a
fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to distinguish the history of the
man, and the trade or profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such
an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation, and
teaches one where to look and what to look for. By a man's finger
nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by the
callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his
shirt cuffs--by each of these things a man's calling is plainly
revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent
enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable."

"What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine down on the
table, "I never read such rubbish in my life."

"What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"Why, this article," I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I
sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since you have
marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me
though. It is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who
evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own
study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in
a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the
trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one
against him."

"You would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly.  "As
for the article I wrote it myself."

"You!"

"Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The
theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be
so chimerical are really extremely practical--so practical that I
depend upon them for my bread and cheese."

"And how?" I asked involuntarily.

"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the
world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that
is. Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of
private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I
manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence
before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of
the history of crime, to set them straight. There is a strong family
resemblance about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a
thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if you can't unravel the
thousand and first. Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got
himself into a fog recently over a forgery case, and that was what
brought him here."

"And these other people?"

"They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all
people who are in trouble about something, and want a little
enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments,
and then I pocket my fee."

"But do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your room you
can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although
they have seen every detail for themselves?"

"Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case
turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about
and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special
knowledge which I apply to the problem, and which facilitates matters
wonderfully. Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which
aroused your scorn, are invaluable to me in practical work.
Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to be surprised
when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had come from
Afghanistan."

"You were told, no doubt."

"Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long
habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I
arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate
steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran,
'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a
military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the
tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of
his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and
sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been
injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the
tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got
his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The whole train of thought
did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from
Afghanistan, and you were astonished."

"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind
me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals
did exist outside of stories."

Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you
are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in
my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of
breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a
quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He
had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a
phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."

"Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come up to
your idea of a detective?"

Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable
bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing to
recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively
ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could
have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It
might be made a text-book for detectives to teach them what to
avoid."

I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired
treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and
stood looking out into the busy street. "This fellow may be very
clever," I said to myself, "but he is certainly very conceited."

"There are no crimes and no criminals in these days," he said,
querulously. "What is the use of having brains in our profession? I
know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives
or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of
natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what
is the result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some
bungling villany with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland
Yard official can see through it."

I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought
it best to change the topic.

"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to a
stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the
other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a
large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a
message.

"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock Holmes.

"Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I cannot
verify his guess."

The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we
were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly
across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and
heavy steps ascending the stair.

"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and
handing my friend the letter.

Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little
thought of this when he made that random shot. "May I ask, my lad," I
said, in the blandest voice, "what your trade may be?"

"Commissionaire, sir," he said, gruffly. "Uniform away for repairs."

"And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my
companion.

"A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right,
sir."

He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was
gone.





CHAPTER III
The Lauriston Garden Mystery


I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the
practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his
powers of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some
lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a
pre-arranged episode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly
object he could have in taking me in was past my comprehension. When
I looked at him he had finished reading the note, and his eyes had
assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression which showed mental
abstraction.

"How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked.

"Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.

"Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."

"I have no time for trifles," he answered, brusquely; then with a
smile, "Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but
perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that
man was a sergeant of Marines?"

"No, indeed."

"It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were
asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some
difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the
street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the
fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage,
however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He
was a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of
command. You must have observed the way in which he held his head and
swung his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the
face of him--all facts which led me to believe that he had been a
sergeant."

"Wonderful!" I ejaculated.

"Commonplace," said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that
he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. "I said just
now that there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong--look at
this!" He threw me over the note which the commissionaire had
brought.

"Why," I cried, as I cast my eye over it, "this is terrible!"

"It does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked, calmly.
"Would you mind reading it to me aloud?"

This is the letter which I read to him--

"My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
"There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston
Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there
about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one,
suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in
the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a
gentleman, well dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing the
name of 'Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.' There had been no
robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the man met his death.
There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his
person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house;
indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the
house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left
everything in statu quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to
come I shall give you fuller details, and would esteem it a great
kindness if you would favour me with your opinion.
"Yours faithfully,
"Tobias Gregson."

"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend
remarked; "he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both
quick and energetic, but conventional--shockingly so. They have their
knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of
professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they
are both put upon the scent."

I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. "Surely there is
not a moment to be lost," I cried, "shall I go and order you a cab?"

"I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy
devil that ever stood in shoe leather--that is, when the fit is on
me, for I can be spry enough at times."

"Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for."

"My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the
whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will
pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage."

"But he begs you to help him."

"Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but
he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third
person. However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it
out on my own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing
else. Come on!"

He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed
that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.

"Get your hat," he said.

"You wish me to come?"

"Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we were both
in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the
house-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets
beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away
about Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and
an Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the
melancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

"You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said
at last, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.

"No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize
before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."

"You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger;
"this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very
much mistaken."

"So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards or so
from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our
journey upon foot.

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It
was one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two
being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers
of vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that
here and there a "To Let" card had developed like a cataract upon the
bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered
eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the
street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour,
and consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The
whole place was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through
the night. The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a
fringe of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning
a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers,
who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of
catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into
the house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared
to be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which,
under the circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he
lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground,
the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having
finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather
down the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes
riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile,
and heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many
marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil, but since the police had
been coming and going over it, I was unable to see how my companion
could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such
extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties,
that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden
from me.

At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward
and wrung my companion's hand with effusion. "It is indeed kind of
you to come," he said, "I have had everything left untouched."

"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a
herd of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess.
No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson,
before you permitted this."

"I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said
evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon
him to look after this."

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With two
such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be
much for a third party to find out," he said.

Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have
done all that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though,
and I knew your taste for such things."

"You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"No, sir."

"Nor Lestrade?"

"No, sir."

"Then let us go and look at the room." With which inconsequent remark
he strode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features
expressed his astonishment.

A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and
offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One
of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged
to the dining-room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious
affair had occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that
subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of death inspires.

It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence
of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it
was blotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips
had become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster
beneath. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a
mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was
stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty
that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to
everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which
coated the whole apartment.

All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was
centred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched
upon the boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the
discoloured ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or
forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp
curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a
heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with light-coloured
trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed
and trim, was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were
clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while his lower limbs were
interlocked as though his death struggle had been a grievous one. On
his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and as it seemed
to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon human features. This
malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead,
blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly
simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,
unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it
appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy
apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban
London.

Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway,
and greeted my companion and myself.

"This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything I
have seen, and I am no chicken."

"There is no clue?" said Gregson.

"None at all," chimed in Lestrade.

Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it
intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he asked, pointing
to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.

"Positive!" cried both detectives.

"Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second
individual--presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It
reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen,
in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?"

"No, sir."

"Read it up--you really should. There is nothing new under the sun.
It has all been done before."

As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes
wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon.
So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly have
guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, he
sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his
patent leather boots.

"He has not been moved at all?" he asked.

"No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."

"You can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is nothing
more to be learned."

Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they
entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As
they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.

"There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's wedding-ring."

He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all
gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that
circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

"This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they were
complicated enough before."

"You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There's
nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his
pockets?"

"We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects
upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163,
by Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold
ring, with masonic device. Gold pin--bull-dog's head, with rubies as
eyes. Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of
Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse,
but loose money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket
edition of Boccaccio's 'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson
upon the fly-leaf. Two letters--one addressed to E. J. Drebber and
one to Joseph Stangerson."

"At what address?"

"American Exchange, Strand--to be left till called for. They are both
from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their
boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about
to return to New York."

"Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?"

"I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements
sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the
American Exchange, but he has not returned yet."

"Have you sent to Cleveland?"

"We telegraphed this morning."

"How did you word your inquiries?"

"We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be
glad of any information which could help us."

"You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you
to be crucial?"

"I asked about Stangerson."

"Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case
appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?"

"I have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an offended voice.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make
some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we
were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the
scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

"Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the highest
importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a
careful examination of the walls."

The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a
state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his
colleague.

"Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of
which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. "Now,
stand there!"

He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.

"Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this
particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a
yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was
scrawled in blood-red letters a single word--

RACHE.

"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of a
showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in
the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there.
The murderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear
where it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of
suicide anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will
tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time,
and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the
darkest portion of the wall."

"And what does it mean now that you have found it?" asked Gregson in
a depreciatory voice.

"Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name
Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You
mark my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find
that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very
well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and
clever, but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

"I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled the
little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "You
certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out,
and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the
other participant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to
examine this room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."

As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying
glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted
noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally
kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with
his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for
he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping
up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries
suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was
irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it
dashes backwards and forwards through the covert, whining in its
eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes
or more he continued his researches, measuring with the most exact
care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me,
and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally
incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a
little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in an
envelope. Finally, he examined with his glass the word upon the wall,
going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness. This
done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his
glass in his pocket.

"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he
remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply
to detective work."

Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their amateur
companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They
evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to
realize, that Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions were all directed
towards some definite and practical end.

"What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.

"It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to
presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now
that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world
of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you will let me know how
your investigations go," he continued, "I shall be happy to give you
any help I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the
constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"

Lestrade glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said. "He is off
duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park
Gate."

Holmes took a note of the address.

"Come along, Doctor," he said; "we shall go and look him up. I'll
tell you one thing which may help you in the case," he continued,
turning to the two detectives. "There has been murder done, and the
murderer was a man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime
of life, had small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed
boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim
in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old
shoes and one new one on his off fore leg. In all probability the
murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand
were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may
assist you."

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

"If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.

"Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One other
thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door: "'Rache,' is
the German for 'revenge;' so don't lose your time looking for Miss
Rachel."

With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals
open-mouthed behind him.





CHAPTER IV
What John Rance Had To Tell


It was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock
Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a
long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take
us to the address given us by Lestrade.

"There is nothing like first hand evidence," he remarked; "as a
matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still
we may as well learn all that is to be learned."

"You amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as sure as you
pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave."

"There's no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very first thing
which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts
with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had
no rain for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep
impression must have been there during the night. There were the
marks of the horse's hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far
more clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that that was
a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not
there at any time during the morning--I have Gregson's word for
that--it follows that it must have been there during the night, and,
therefore, that it brought those two individuals to the house."

"That seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the other man's
height?"

"Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from
the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though
there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow's
stride both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a
way of checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his
instinct leads him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that
writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child's play."

"And his age?" I asked.

"Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest
effort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the
breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked
across. Patent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had
hopped over. There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply
applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts of observation and
deduction which I advocated in that article. Is there anything else
that puzzles you?"

"The finger nails and the Trichinopoly," I suggested.

"The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger dipped in
blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly
scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the
man's nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered ash from
the floor. It was dark in colour and flakey--such an ash as is only
made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar
ashes--in fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject. I
flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any
known brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just in such
details that the skilled detective differs from the Gregson and
Lestrade type."

"And the florid face?" I asked.

"Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was
right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair."

I passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a whirl," I remarked;
"the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came
these two men--if there were two men--into an empty house? What has
become of the cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another
to take poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the object of
the murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the woman's
ring there? Above all, why should the second man write up the German
word RACHE before decamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible
way of reconciling all these facts."

My companion smiled approvingly.

"You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well,"
he said. "There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite
made up my mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade's discovery it
was simply a blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by
suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a
German. The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German
fashion. Now, a real German invariably prints in the Latin character,
so that we may safely say that this was not written by one, but by a
clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert
inquiry into a wrong channel. I'm not going to tell you much more of
the case, Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has
explained his trick, and if I show you too much of my method of
working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary
individual after all."

"I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought detection as
near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world."

My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest
way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as
sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of
her beauty.

"I'll tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent-leathers and
Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway
together as friendly as possible--arm-in-arm, in all probability.
When they got inside they walked up and down the room--or rather,
Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I
could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked
he grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length
of his strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up,
no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I
know myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have
a good working basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up,
for I want to go to Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this
afternoon."

This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its
way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In
the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a
stand. "That's Audley Court in there," he said, pointing to a narrow
slit in the line of dead-coloured brick. "You'll find me here when
you come back."

Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led
us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings.
We picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines
of discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which
was decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was
engraved. On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we
were shown into a little front parlour to await his coming.

He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed
in his slumbers. "I made my report at the office," he said.

Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it
pensively. "We thought that we should like to hear it all from your
own lips," he said.

"I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the constable
answered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.

"Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred."

Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though
determined not to omit anything in his narrative.

"I'll tell it ye from the beginning," he said. "My time is from ten
at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the
'White Hart'; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one
o'clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher--him who has the
Holland Grove beat--and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta
Street a-talkin'. Presently--maybe about two or a little after--I
thought I would take a look round and see that all was right down the
Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet
all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin'
down, thinkin' between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot
would be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the
window of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in
Lauriston Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who
won't have the drains seed to, though the very last tenant what lived
in one of them died o' typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap
therefore at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as
something was wrong. When I got to the door--"

"You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate," my companion
interrupted. "What did you do that for?"

Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the
utmost amazement upon his features.

"Why, that's true, sir," he said; "though how you come to know it,
Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still
and so lonesome, that I thought I'd be none the worse for some one
with me. I ain't afeared of anything on this side o' the grave; but I
thought that maybe it was him that died o' the typhoid inspecting the
drains what killed him. The thought gave me a kind o' turn, and I
walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher's lantern, but
there wasn't no sign of him nor of anyone else."

"There was no one in the street?"

"Not a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself
together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet
inside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin'. There
was a candle flickerin' on the mantelpiece--a red wax one--and by its
light I saw--"

"Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several
times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through
and tried the kitchen door, and then--"

John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in
his eyes. "Where was you hid to see all that?" he cried. "It seems to
me that you knows a deal more than you should."

Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.
"Don't get arresting me for the murder," he said. "I am one of the
hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for
that. Go on, though. What did you do next?"

Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified
expression. "I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That
brought Murcher and two more to the spot."

"Was the street empty then?"

"Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes."

"What do you mean?"

The constable's features broadened into a grin. "I've seen many a
drunk chap in my time," he said, "but never anyone so cryin' drunk as
that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin' up ag'in the
railings, and a-singin' at the pitch o' his lungs about Columbine's
New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn't stand, far less
help."

"What sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. "He
was an uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said. "He'd ha' found hisself
in the station if we hadn't been so took up."

"His face--his dress--didn't you notice them?" Holmes broke in
impatiently.

"I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him
up--me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face,
the lower part muffled round--"

"That will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"

"We'd enough to do without lookin' after him," the policeman said, in
an aggrieved voice. "I'll wager he found his way home all right."

"How was he dressed?"

"A brown overcoat."

"Had he a whip in his hand?"

"A whip--no."

"He must have left it behind," muttered my companion. "You didn't
happen to see or hear a cab after that?"

"No."

"There's a half-sovereign for you," my companion said, standing up
and taking his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in
the force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament.
You might have gained your sergeant's stripes last night. The man
whom you held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this
mystery, and whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it
now; I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor."

We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant
incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.

"The blundering fool," Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our
lodgings. "Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of
good luck, and not taking advantage of it."

"I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of
this man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery.
But why should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is
not the way of criminals."

"The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have
no other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the
ring. I shall have him, Doctor--I'll lay you two to one that I have
him. I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you,
and so have missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in
scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon. There's the
scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of
life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every
inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack
and her bowing are splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin's she
plays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a
lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.





CHAPTER V
Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor


Our morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I
was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes' departure for the
concert, I lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of
hours' sleep. It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much
excited by all that had occurred, and the strangest fancies and
surmises crowded into it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw
before me the distorted baboon-like countenance of the murdered man.
So sinister was the impression which that face had produced upon me
that I found it difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who
had removed its owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke
vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch
J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be
done, and that the depravity of the victim was no condonement in the
eyes of the law.

The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion's
hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how
he had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected
something which had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not
poison, what had caused the man's death, since there was neither
wound nor marks of strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood
was that which lay so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of
a struggle, nor had the victim any weapon with which he might have
wounded an antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved,
I felt that sleep would be no easy matter, either for Holmes or
myself. His quiet self-confident manner convinced me that he had
already formed a theory which explained all the facts, though what it
was I could not for an instant conjecture.

He was very late in returning--so late, that I knew that the concert
could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table
before he appeared.

"It was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you remember
what Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing
and appreciating it existed among the human race long before the
power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly
influenced by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those
misty centuries when the world was in its childhood."

"That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.

"One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret
Nature," he answered. "What's the matter? You're not looking quite
yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."

"To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more
case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades
hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my nerve."

"I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the
imagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have
you seen the evening paper?"

"No."

"It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention
the fact that when the man was raised up, a woman's wedding ring fell
upon the floor. It is just as well it does not."

"Why?"

"Look at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent to every
paper this morning immediately after the affair."

He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated.
It was the first announcement in the "Found" column. "In Brixton
Road, this morning," it ran, "a plain gold wedding ring, found in the
roadway between the 'White Hart' Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr.
Watson, 221b, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening."

"Excuse my using your name," he said. "If I used my own some of these
dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair."

"That is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone applies, I
have no ring."

"Oh yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do very well.
It is almost a facsimile."

"And who do you expect will answer this advertisement."

"Why, the man in the brown coat--our florid friend with the square
toes. If he does not come himself he will send an accomplice."

"Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"

"Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every
reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything
than lose the ring. According to my notion he dropped it while
stooping over Drebber's body, and did not miss it at the time. After
leaving the house he discovered his loss and hurried back, but found
the police already in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving
the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay
the suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at the
gate. Now put yourself in that man's place. On thinking the matter
over, it must have occurred to him that it was possible that he had
lost the ring in the road after leaving the house. What would he do,
then? He would eagerly look out for the evening papers in the hope of
seeing it among the articles found. His eye, of course, would light
upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There
would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ring should be
connected with the murder. He would come. He will come. You shall see
him within an hour."

"And then?" I asked.

"Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?"

"I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges."

"You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man, and
though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for
anything."

I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with
the pistol the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his
favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.

"The plot thickens," he said, as I entered; "I have just had an
answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct
one."

"And that is?" I asked eagerly.

"My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he remarked. "Put
your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an
ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at
him too hard."

"It is eight o'clock now," I said, glancing at my watch.

"Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door
slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you!
This is a queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday--De Jure
inter Gentes--published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642.
Charles' head was still firm on his shoulders when this little
brown-backed volume was struck off."

"Who is the printer?"

"Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very
faded ink, is written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I wonder who
William Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I
suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man,
I think."

As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose
softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the
servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she
opened it.

"Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We
could not hear the servant's reply, but the door closed, and some one
began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and
shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my
companion as he listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and
there was a feeble tap at the door.

"Come in," I cried.

At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a
very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared
to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a
curtsey, she stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling
in her pocket with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion,
and his face had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was
all I could do to keep my countenance.

The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
advertisement. "It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen," she
said, dropping another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the Brixton
Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time
twelvemonth, which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and
what he'd say if he comes 'ome and found her without her ring is more
than I can think, he being short enough at the best o' times, but
more especially when he has the drink. If it please you, she went to
the circus last night along with--"

"Is that her ring?" I asked.

"The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a glad
woman this night. That's the ring."

"And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil.

"13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."

"The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch,"
said Sherlock Holmes sharply.

The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little
red-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for my address," she said.
"Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."

"And your name is--?"

"My name is Sawyer--her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married
her--and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and no
steward in the company more thought of; but when on shore, what with
the women and what with liquor shops--"

"Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience to a
sign from my companion; "it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I
am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful owner."

With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old
crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs.
Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and
rushed into his room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an
ulster and a cravat. "I'll follow her," he said, hurriedly; "she must
be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me." The hall
door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had
descended the stair. Looking through the window I could see her
walking feebly along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her
some little distance behind. "Either his whole theory is incorrect,"
I thought to myself, "or else he will be led now to the heart of the
mystery." There was no need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for
I felt that sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his
adventure.

It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he
might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the
pages of Henri Murger's Vie de Bohème. Ten o'clock passed, and I
heard the footsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven,
and the more stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for
the same destination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the
sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his
face that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to
be struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the
day, and he burst into a hearty laugh.

"I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world," he
cried, dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so much that
they would never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to
laugh, because I know that I will be even with them in the long run."

"What is it then?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature had
gone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being
foot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler
which was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the
address, but I need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out
loud enough to be heard at the other side of the street, 'Drive to
13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look
genuine, I thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched
myself behind. That's an art which every detective should be an
expert at. Well, away we rattled, and never drew rein until we
reached the street in question. I hopped off before we came to the
door, and strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way. I saw
the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I saw him open the door
and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When I reached him he
was groping about frantically in the empty cab, and giving vent to
the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever I listened to.
There was no sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear it will be
some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13 we found
that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger, named Keswick,
and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been
heard of there."

"You don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that tottering,
feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in
motion, without either you or the driver seeing her?"

"Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. "We were the
old women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an
active one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was
inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this
means of giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is
not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to
risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my
advice and turn in."

I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I
left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into
the watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his
violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem
which he had set himself to unravel.





CHAPTER VI
Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do


The papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery," as they
termed it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had
leaders upon it in addition. There was some information in them which
was new to me. I still retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and
extracts bearing upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of
them:--

The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime there had
seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German
name of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister
inscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by political
refugees and revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in
America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten
laws, and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the
Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers,
the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff
Highway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the Government
and advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England.

The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the
sort usually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from
the unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent
weakening of all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman
who had been residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed
at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace,
Camberwell. He was accompanied in his travels by his private
secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their
landlady upon Tuesday, the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station
with the avowed intention of catching the Liverpool express. They
were afterwards seen together upon the platform. Nothing more is
known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was, as recorded, discovered
in an empty house in the Brixton Road, many miles from Euston. How he
came there, or how he met his fate, are questions which are still
involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the whereabouts of
Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson,
of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it is
confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
throw light upon the matter.

The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being
a political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which
animated the Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to
our shores a number of men who might have made excellent citizens
were they not soured by the recollection of all that they had
undergone. Among these men there was a stringent code of honour, any
infringement of which was punished by death. Every effort should be
made to find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some
particulars of the habits of the deceased. A great step had been
gained by the discovery of the address of the house at which he had
boarded--a result which was entirely due to the acuteness and energy
of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast,
and they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.

"I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be
sure to score."

"That depends on how it turns out."

"Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is caught,
it will be on account of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be
in spite of their exertions. It's heads I win and tails you lose.
Whatever they do, they will have followers. 'Un sot trouve toujours
un plus sot qui l'admire.'"

"What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there came the
pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by
audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.

"It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force," said
my companion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room
half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I
clapped eyes on.

"'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little
scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. "In
future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you
must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?"

"No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.

"I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are
your wages." He handed each of them a shilling. "Now, off you go, and
come back with a better report next time."

He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many
rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.

"There's more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than
out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked. "The mere sight of an
official-looking person seals men's lips. These youngsters, however,
go everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too;
all they want is organisation."

"Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?" I asked.

"Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a
matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a
vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude
written upon every feature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he
is stopping. There he is!"

There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the
fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and
burst into our sitting-room.

"My dear fellow," he cried, wringing Holmes' unresponsive hand,
"congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day."

A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's expressive
face.

"Do you mean that you are on the right track?" he asked.

"The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key."

"And his name is?"

"Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy," cried
Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.

Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.

"Take a seat, and try one of these cigars," he said. "We are anxious
to know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?"

"I don't mind if I do," the detective answered. "The tremendous
exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have
worn me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the
strain upon the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
for we are both brain-workers."

"You do me too much honour," said Holmes, gravely. "Let us hear how
you arrived at this most gratifying result."

The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed
complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a
paroxysm of amusement.

"The fun of it is," he cried, "that that fool Lestrade, who thinks
himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is
after the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime
than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this
time."

The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.

"And how did you get your clue?"

"Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is
strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to
contend with was the finding of this American's antecedents. Some
people would have waited until their advertisements were answered, or
until parties came forward and volunteered information. That is not
Tobias Gregson's way of going to work. You remember the hat beside
the dead man?"

"Yes," said Holmes; "by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell
Road."

Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.

"I had no idea that you noticed that," he said. "Have you been
there?"

"No."

"Ha!" cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; "you should never neglect a
chance, however small it may seem."

"To a great mind, nothing is little," remarked Holmes, sententiously.

"Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of
that size and description. He looked over his books, and came on it
at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at
Charpentier's Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at
his address."

"Smart--very smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.

"I next called upon Madame Charpentier," continued the detective. "I
found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room,
too--an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about
the eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape
my notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, when you come upon the right scent--a kind of thrill in your
nerves. 'Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder
Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?' I asked.

"The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word. The
daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people
knew something of the matter.

"'At what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?' I
asked.

"'At eight o'clock,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her
agitation. 'His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two
trains--one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first.'

"'And was that the last which you saw of him?'

"A terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked the
question. Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds
before she could get out the single word 'Yes'--and when it did come
it was in a husky unnatural tone.

"There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a
calm clear voice.

"'No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,' she said. 'Let us be
frank with this gentleman. We did see Mr. Drebber again.'

"'God forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands
and sinking back in her chair. 'You have murdered your brother.'

"'Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,' the girl answered
firmly.

"'You had best tell me all about it now,' I said. 'Half-confidences
are worse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of
it.'

"'On your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother; and then, turning to
me, 'I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on
behalf of my son arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand
in this terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is,
however, that in your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to
be compromised. That however is surely impossible. His high
character, his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.'

"'Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,' I answered.
'Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.'

"'Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said, and
her daughter withdrew. 'Now, sir,' she continued, 'I had no intention
of telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it
I have no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you
all without omitting any particular.'

"'It is your wisest course,' said I.

"'Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his
secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I
noticed a "Copenhagen" label upon each of their trunks, showing that
that had been their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet
reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise.
He was coarse in his habits and brutish in his ways. The very night
of his arrival he became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed,
after twelve o'clock in the day he could hardly ever be said to be
sober. His manners towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free
and familiar. Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same attitude
towards my daughter, Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way
which, fortunately, she is too innocent to understand. On one
occasion he actually seized her in his arms and embraced her--an
outrage which caused his own secretary to reproach him for his
unmanly conduct.'

"'But why did you stand all this,' I asked. 'I suppose that you can
get rid of your boarders when you wish.'

"Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. 'Would to God
that I had given him notice on the very day that he came,' she said.
'But it was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day
each--fourteen pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a
widow, and my boy in the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the
money. I acted for the best. This last was too much, however, and I
gave him notice to leave on account of it. That was the reason of his
going.'

"'Well?'

"'My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave
just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper
is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed
the door behind them a load seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas,
in less than an hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that
Mr. Drebber had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the
worse for drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was sitting
with my daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed
his train. He then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed
to her that she should fly with him. "You are of age," he said, "and
there is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never
mind the old girl here, but come along with me now straight away. You
shall live like a princess." Poor Alice was so frightened that she
shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured
to draw her towards the door. I screamed, and at that moment my son
Arthur came into the room. What happened then I do not know. I heard
oaths and the confused sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to
raise my head. When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the
doorway laughing, with a stick in his hand. "I don't think that fine
fellow will trouble us again," he said. "I will just go after him and
see what he does with himself." With those words he took his hat and
started off down the street. The next morning we heard of Mr.
Drebber's mysterious death.'

"This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many gasps and
pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the
words. I made shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that
there should be no possibility of a mistake."

"It's quite exciting," said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. "What
happened next?"

"When Mrs. Charpentier paused," the detective continued, "I saw that
the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way
which I always found effective with women, I asked her at what hour
her son returned.

"'I do not know,' she answered.

"'Not know?'

"'No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.'

"'After you went to bed?'

"'Yes.'

"'When did you go to bed?'

"'About eleven.'

"'So your son was gone at least two hours?'

"'Yes.'

"'Possibly four or five?'

"'Yes.'

"'What was he doing during that time?'

"'I do not know,' she answered, turning white to her very lips.

"Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I found out
where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and
arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to
come quietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass, 'I suppose you
are arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel
Drebber,' he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his
alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect."

"Very," said Holmes.

"He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as
having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel."

"What is your theory, then?"

"Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton
Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between them, in the
course of which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of
the stomach, perhaps, which killed him without leaving any mark. The
night was so wet that no one was about, so Charpentier dragged the
body of his victim into the empty house. As to the candle, and the
blood, and the writing on the wall, and the ring, they may all be so
many tricks to throw the police on to the wrong scent."

"Well done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really, Gregson,
you are getting along. We shall make something of you yet."

"I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly," the
detective answered proudly. "The young man volunteered a statement,
in which he said that after following Drebber some time, the latter
perceived him, and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his
way home he met an old shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On
being asked where this old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any
satisfactory reply. I think the whole case fits together uncommonly
well. What amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off
upon the wrong scent. I am afraid he won't make much of--Why, by
Jove, here's the very man himself!"

It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were
talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness
which generally marked his demeanour and dress were, however,
wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were
disarranged and untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of
consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he
appeared to be embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the
room, fumbling nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. "This
is a most extraordinary case," he said at last--"a most
incomprehensible affair."

"Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson, triumphantly. "I
thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find
the Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"

"The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade gravely, "was
murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning."






CHAPTER VII
Light In The Darkness


The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and
so unexpected, that we were all three fairly dumbfounded. Gregson
sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and
water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were
compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.

"Stangerson too!" he muttered. "The plot thickens."

"It was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade, taking a
chair. "I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war."

"Are you--are you sure of this piece of intelligence?" stammered
Gregson.

"I have just come from his room," said Lestrade. "I was the first to
discover what had occurred."

"We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes observed.
"Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?"

"I have no objection," Lestrade answered, seating himself. "I freely
confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in
the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was
completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out
what had become of the Secretary. They had been seen together at
Euston Station about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At
two in the morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The
question which confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been
employed between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become
of him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description
of the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats.
I then set to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in
the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and his
companion had become separated, the natural course for the latter
would be to put up somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then
to hang about the station again next morning."

"They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,"
remarked Holmes.

"So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making
enquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early,
and at eight o'clock I reached Halliday's Private Hotel, in Little
George Street. On my enquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was
living there, they at once answered me in the affirmative.

"'No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,' they said.
'He has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.'

"'Where is he now?' I asked.

"'He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.'

"'I will go up and see him at once,' I said.

"It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and
lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me
the room: it was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor
leading up to it. The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about
to go downstairs again when I saw something that made me feel
sickish, in spite of my twenty years' experience. From under the door
there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across
the passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at the other
side. I gave a cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted
when he saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our
shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The window of the room was open,
and beside the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his
nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some time, for his
limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over, the Boots
recognized him at once as being the same gentleman who had engaged
the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was
a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated the heart.
And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose
was above the murdered man?"

I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror,
even before Sherlock Holmes answered.

"The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.

"That was it," said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all
silent for a while.

There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the
deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness
to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of
battle tingled as I thought of it.

"The man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy, passing on his
way to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the
mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which
usually lay there, was raised against one of the windows of the
second floor, which was wide open. After passing, he looked back and
saw a man descend the ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that
the boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the
hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his
own mind that it was early for him to be at work. He has an
impression that the man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed
in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in the room some little
time after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the basin,
where he had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where he had
deliberately wiped his knife."

I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which
tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of
exultation or satisfaction upon his face.

"Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the
murderer?" he asked.

"Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket, but it seems
that this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd
pounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of
these extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them.
There were no papers or memoranda in the murdered man's pocket,
except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and
containing the words, 'J. H. is in Europe.' There was no name
appended to this message."

"And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.

"Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, with which he had read
himself to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair
beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the
window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills."

Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.

"The last link," he cried, exultantly. "My case is complete."

The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

"I have now in my hands," my companion said, confidently, "all the
threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course,
details to be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts,
from the time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up
to the discovery of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them
with my own eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you
lay your hand upon those pills?"

"I have them," said Lestrade, producing a small white box; "I took
them and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a
place of safety at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my
taking these pills, for I am bound to say that I do not attach any
importance to them."

"Give them here," said Holmes. "Now, Doctor," turning to me, "are
those ordinary pills?"

They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small,
round, and almost transparent against the light. "From their
lightness and transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in
water," I remarked.

"Precisely so," answered Holmes. "Now would you mind going down and
fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so
long, and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain
yesterday."

I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It's
laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from
its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already
exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a
cushion on the rug.

"I will now cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes, and drawing
his penknife he suited the action to the word. "One half we return
into the box for future purposes. The other half I will place in this
wine glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our
friend, the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves."

"This may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the injured tone of
one who suspects that he is being laughed at, "I cannot see, however,
what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson."

"Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has
everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the
mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find that he
laps it up readily enough."

As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer
and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry.
Sherlock Holmes' earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we
all sat in silence, watching the animal intently, and expecting some
startling effect. None such appeared, however. The dog continued to
lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but
apparently neither the better nor the worse for its draught.

Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without
result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment
appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers
upon the table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience.
So great was his emotion, that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while
the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this
check which he had met.

"It can't be a coincidence," he cried, at last springing from his
chair and pacing wildly up and down the room; "it is impossible that
it should be a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in
the case of Drebber are actually found after the death of Stangerson.
And yet they are inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of
reasoning cannot have been false. It is impossible! And yet this
wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!" With a
perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in
two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The
unfortunate creature's tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in
it before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid
and lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning.

Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from
his forehead. "I should have more faith," he said; "I ought to know
by this time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train
of deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some
other interpretation. Of the two pills in that box one was of the
most deadly poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to
have known that before ever I saw the box at all."

This last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could
hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead
dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been correct. It
seemed to me that the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing
away, and I began to have a dim, vague perception of the truth.

"All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because you
failed at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the
single real clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune
to seize upon that, and everything which has occurred since then has
served to confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the
logical sequence of it. Hence things which have perplexed you and
made the case more obscure, have served to enlighten me and to
strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound strangeness
with mystery. The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious
because it presents no new or special features from which deductions
may be drawn. This murder would have been infinitely more difficult
to unravel had the body of the victim been simply found lying in the
roadway without any of those outré and sensational accompaniments
which have rendered it remarkable. These strange details, far from
making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of making
it less so."

Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable
impatience, could contain himself no longer. "Look here, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes," he said, "we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a
smart man, and that you have your own methods of working. We want
something more than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a
case of taking the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was
wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second
affair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that
he was wrong too. You have thrown out hints here, and hints there,
and seem to know more than we do, but the time has come when we feel
that we have a right to ask you straight how much you do know of the
business. Can you name the man who did it?"

"I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked
Lestrade. "We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have
remarked more than once since I have been in the room that you had
all the evidence which you require. Surely you will not withhold it
any longer."

"Any delay in arresting the assassin," I observed, "might give him
time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity."

Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He
continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his
chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in
thought.

"There will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping abruptly
and facing us. "You can put that consideration out of the question.
You have asked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere
knowing of his name is a small thing, however, compared with the
power of laying our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do.
I have good hopes of managing it through my own arrangements; but it
is a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and
desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion
to prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man
has no idea that anyone can have a clue there is some chance of
securing him; but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would change
his name, and vanish in an instant among the four million inhabitants
of this great city. Without meaning to hurt either of your feelings,
I am bound to say that I consider these men to be more than a match
for the official force, and that is why I have not asked your
assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all the blame due to
this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready to
promise that the instant that I can communicate with you without
endangering my own combinations, I shall do so."

Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this
assurance, or by the depreciating allusion to the detective police.
The former had flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the
other's beady eyes glistened with curiosity and resentment. Neither
of them had time to speak, however, before there was a tap at the
door, and the spokesman of the street Arabs, young Wiggins,
introduced his insignificant and unsavoury person.

"Please, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the cab
downstairs."

"Good boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you introduce this
pattern at Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair of steel
handcuffs from a drawer. "See how beautifully the spring works. They
fasten in an instant."

"The old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade, "if we can only
find the man to put them on."

"Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may as well
help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."

I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about
to set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about
it. There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out
and began to strap. He was busily engaged at it when the cabman
entered the room.

"Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said, kneeling
over his task, and never turning his head.

The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put
down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click,
the jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.

"Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce you to
Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph
Stangerson."

The whole thing occurred in a moment--so quickly that I had no time
to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of
Holmes' triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the
cabman's dazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering
handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a
second or two we might have been a group of statues. Then, with an
inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched himself free from
Holmes's grasp, and hurled himself through the window. Woodwork and
glass gave way before him; but before he got quite through, Gregson,
Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon him like so many staghounds. He was
dragged back into the room, and then commenced a terrific conflict.
So powerful and so fierce was he, that the four of us were shaken off
again and again. He appeared to have the convulsive strength of a man
in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled by his
passage through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect in
diminishing his resistance. It was not until Lestrade succeeded in
getting his hand inside his neckcloth and half-strangling him that we
made him realize that his struggles were of no avail; and even then
we felt no security until we had pinioned his feet as well as his
hands. That done, we rose to our feet breathless and panting.

"We have his cab," said Sherlock Holmes. "It will serve to take him
to Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen," he continued, with a pleasant
smile, "we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very
welcome to put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no
danger that I will refuse to answer them."









PART II

The Country of the Saints.





CHAPTER I
On The Great Alkali Plain


In the central portion of the great North American Continent there
lies an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served
as a barrier against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra
Nevada to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to
the Colorado upon the south, is a region of desolation and silence.
Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout this grim district. It
comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy
valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged
cañons; and there are enormous plains, which in winter are white with
snow, and in summer are grey with the saline alkali dust. They all
preserve, however, the common characteristics of barrenness,
inhospitality, and misery.

There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees
or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other
hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose
sight of those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon
their prairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps
heavily through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through
the dark ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the
rocks. These are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.

In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from
the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach
stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of
alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes.
On the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain
peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great
stretch of country there is no sign of life, nor of anything
appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no
movement upon the dull, grey earth--above all, there is absolute
silence. Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a sound in all that
mighty wilderness; nothing but silence--complete and heart-subduing
silence.

It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad
plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one
sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is
lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden
down by the feet of many adventurers. Here and there there are
scattered white objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out
against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They
are bones: some large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate.
The former have belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen
hundred miles one may trace this ghastly caravan route by these
scattered remains of those who had fallen by the wayside.

Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,
eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His
appearance was such that he might have been the very genius or demon
of the region. An observer would have found it difficult to say
whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His face was lean and
haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the
projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and
dashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with
an unnatural lustre; while the hand which grasped his rifle was
hardly more fleshy than that of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned
upon his weapon for support, and yet his tall figure and the massive
framework of his bones suggested a wiry and vigorous constitution.
His gaunt face, however, and his clothes, which hung so baggily over
his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it was that gave him that
senile and decrepit appearance. The man was dying--dying from hunger
and from thirst.

He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little
elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the
great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of
savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which
might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape
there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with
wild questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had
come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to
die. "Why not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence,"
he muttered, as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.

Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless
rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had
carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too
heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the
ground with some little violence. Instantly there broke from the grey
parcel a little moaning cry, and from it there protruded a small,
scared face, with very bright brown eyes, and two little speckled,
dimpled fists.

"You've hurt me!" said a childish voice reproachfully.

"Have I though," the man answered penitently, "I didn't go for to do
it." As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty
little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart
pink frock with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother's care.
The child was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that
she had suffered less than her companion.

"How is it now?" he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the
towsy golden curls which covered the back of her head.

"Kiss it and make it well," she said, with perfect gravity, shoving
the injured part up to him. "That's what mother used to do. Where's
mother?"

"Mother's gone. I guess you'll see her before long."

"Gone, eh!" said the little girl. "Funny, she didn't say good-bye;
she 'most always did if she was just goin' over to Auntie's for tea,
and now she's been away three days. Say, it's awful dry, ain't it?
Ain't there no water, nor nothing to eat?"

"No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient
awhile, and then you'll be all right. Put your head up agin me like
that, and then you'll feel bullier. It ain't easy to talk when your
lips is like leather, but I guess I'd best let you know how the cards
lie. What's that you've got?"

"Pretty things! fine things!" cried the little girl enthusiastically,
holding up two glittering fragments of mica. "When we goes back to
home I'll give them to brother Bob."

"You'll see prettier things than them soon," said the man
confidently. "You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you
though--you remember when we left the river?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye see. But
there was somethin' wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin', and it
didn't turn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop for the
likes of you and--and--"

"And you couldn't wash yourself," interrupted his companion gravely,
staring up at his grimy visage.

"No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then
Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then,
dearie, your mother."

"Then mother's a deader too," cried the little girl dropping her face
in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

"Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some
chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder
and we tramped it together. It don't seem as though we've improved
matters. There's an almighty small chance for us now!"

"Do you mean that we are going to die too?" asked the child, checking
her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.

"I guess that's about the size of it."

"Why didn't you say so before?" she said, laughing gleefully. "You
gave me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we'll be
with mother again."

"Yes, you will, dearie."

"And you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've been. I'll bet she
meets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot
of buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me
was fond of. How long will it be first?"

"I don't know--not very long." The man's eyes were fixed upon the
northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared
three little specks which increased in size every moment, so rapidly
did they approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large
brown birds, which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and
then settled upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were
buzzards, the vultures of the west, whose coming is the forerunner of
death.

"Cocks and hens," cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their
ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. "Say, did
God make this country?"

"Of course He did," said her companion, rather startled by this
unexpected question.

"He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri," the
little girl continued. "I guess somebody else made the country in
these parts. It's not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and
the trees."

"What would ye think of offering up prayer?" the man asked
diffidently.

"It ain't night yet," she answered.

"It don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He won't mind that, you
bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the
waggon when we was on the Plains."

"Why don't you say some yourself?" the child asked, with wondering
eyes.

"I disremember them," he answered. "I hain't said none since I was
half the height o' that gun. I guess it's never too late. You say
them out, and I'll stand by and come in on the choruses."

"Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too," she said, laying the
shawl out for that purpose. "You've got to put your hands up like
this. It makes you feel kind o' good."

It was a strange sight had there been anything but the buzzards to
see it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the
little prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her
chubby face, and his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to
the cloudless heaven in heartfelt entreaty to that dread being with
whom they were face to face, while the two voices--the one thin and
clear, the other deep and harsh--united in the entreaty for mercy and
forgiveness. The prayer finished, they resumed their seat in the
shadow of the boulder until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the
broad breast of her protector. He watched over her slumber for some
time, but Nature proved to be too strong for him. For three days and
three nights he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly
the eyelids drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and
lower upon the breast, until the man's grizzled beard was mixed with
the gold tresses of his companion, and both slept the same deep and
dreamless slumber.

Had the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight
would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali
plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and
hardly to be distinguished from the mists of the distance, but
gradually growing higher and broader until it formed a solid,
well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to increase in size until it
became evident that it could only be raised by a great multitude of
moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would have come
to the conclusion that one of those great herds of bisons which graze
upon the prairie land was approaching him. This was obviously
impossible in these arid wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to
the solitary bluff upon which the two castaways were reposing, the
canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the figures of armed horsemen
began to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself
as being a great caravan upon its journey for the West. But what a
caravan! When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains,
the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the
enormous plain stretched the straggling array, waggons and carts, men
on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered along
under burdens, and children who toddled beside the waggons or peeped
out from under the white coverings. This was evidently no ordinary
party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been
compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new
country. There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and
rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of
wheels and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not
sufficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.

At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave
ironfaced men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with
rifles. On reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and held a
short council among themselves.

"The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped,
clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.

"To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio
Grande," said another.

"Fear not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the
rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people."

"Amen! Amen!" responded the whole party.

They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and
keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag
above them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink,
showing up hard and bright against the grey rocks behind. At the
sight there was a general reining up of horses and unslinging of
guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the
vanguard. The word "Redskins" was on every lip.

"There can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly man who
appeared to be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are
no other tribes until we cross the great mountains."

"Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson," asked one of the
band.

"And I," "and I," cried a dozen voices.

"Leave your horses below and we will await you here," the Elder
answered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened
their horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope which led up
to the object which had excited their curiosity. They advanced
rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence and dexterity of
practised scouts. The watchers from the plain below could see them
flit from rock to rock until their figures stood out against the
skyline. The young man who had first given the alarm was leading
them. Suddenly his followers saw him throw up his hands, as though
overcome with astonishment, and on joining him they were affected in
the same way by the sight which met their eyes.

On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a
single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man,
long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His
placid face and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep.
Beside him lay a little child, with her round white arms encircling
his brown sinewy neck, and her golden haired head resting upon the
breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the
regular line of snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile played
over her infantile features. Her plump little white legs terminating
in white socks and neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange
contrast to the long shrivelled members of her companion. On the
ledge of rock above this strange couple there stood three solemn
buzzards, who, at the sight of the new comers uttered raucous screams
of disappointment and flapped sullenly away.

The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers who stared about
them in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down
upon the plain which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken
him, and which was now traversed by this enormous body of men and of
beasts. His face assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed,
and he passed his boney hand over his eyes. "This is what they call
delirium, I guess," he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding
on to the skirt of his coat, and said nothing but looked all round
her with the wondering questioning gaze of childhood.

The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways
that their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little
girl, and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported
her gaunt companion, and assisted him towards the waggons.

"My name is John Ferrier," the wanderer explained; "me and that
little un are all that's left o' twenty-one people. The rest is all
dead o' thirst and hunger away down in the south."

"Is she your child?" asked someone.

"I guess she is now," the other cried, defiantly; "she's mine 'cause
I saved her. No man will take her from me. She's Lucy Ferrier from
this day on. Who are you, though?" he continued, glancing with
curiosity at his stalwart, sunburned rescuers; "there seems to be a
powerful lot of ye."

"Nigh upon ten thousand," said one of the young men; "we are the
persecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Merona."

"I never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears to have
chosen a fair crowd of ye."

"Do not jest at that which is sacred," said the other sternly. "We
are of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian
letters on plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy
Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of
Illinois, where we had founded our temple. We have come to seek a
refuge from the violent man and from the godless, even though it be
the heart of the desert."

The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier.
"I see," he said, "you are the Mormons."

"We are the Mormons," answered his companions with one voice.

"And where are you going?"

"We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of
our Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be
done with you."

They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were
surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims--pale-faced meek-looking women,
strong laughing children, and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the
cries of astonishment and of commiseration which arose from them when
they perceived the youth of one of the strangers and the destitution
of the other. Their escort did not halt, however, but pushed on,
followed by a great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a waggon,
which was conspicuous for its great size and for the gaudiness and
smartness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the
others were furnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece. Beside the
driver there sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years
of age, but whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as
a leader. He was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd
approached he laid it aside, and listened attentively to an account
of the episode. Then he turned to the two castaways.

"If we take you with us," he said, in solemn words, "it can only be
as believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold.
Better far that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that
you should prove to be that little speck of decay which in time
corrupts the whole fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?"

"Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Ferrier, with such
emphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader
alone retained his stern, impressive expression.

"Take him, Brother Stangerson," he said, "give him food and drink,
and the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our
holy creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"

"On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled
down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died
away in a dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips
and a creaking of wheels the great waggons got into motion, and soon
the whole caravan was winding along once more. The Elder to whose
care the two waifs had been committed, led them to his waggon, where
a meal was already awaiting them.

"You shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will have
recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and
forever you are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he
has spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of
God."





CHAPTER II
The Flower Of Utah


This is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations
endured by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final
haven. From the shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of
the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on with a constancy almost
unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savage beast,
hunger, thirst, fatigue, and disease--every impediment which Nature
could place in the way--had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon
tenacity. Yet the long journey and the accumulated terrors had shaken
the hearts of the stoutest among them. There was not one who did not
sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad
valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath them, and learned from
the lips of their leader that this was the promised land, and that
these virgin acres were to be theirs for evermore.

Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well
as a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which
the future city was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned
and allotted in proportion to the standing of each individual. The
tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the
town streets and squares sprang up, as if by magic. In the country
there was draining and hedging, planting and clearing, until the next
summer saw the whole country golden with the wheat crop. Everything
prospered in the strange settlement. Above all, the great temple
which they had erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller and
larger. From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the
twilight, the clatter of the hammer and the rasp of the saw was never
absent from the monument which the immigrants erected to Him who had
led them safe through many dangers.

The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared
his fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the
Mormons to the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was
borne along pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson's waggon, a retreat
which she shared with the Mormon's three wives and with his son, a
headstrong forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity
of childhood, from the shock caused by her mother's death, she soon
became a pet with the women, and reconciled herself to this new life
in her moving canvas-covered home. In the meantime Ferrier having
recovered from his privations, distinguished himself as a useful
guide and an indefatigable hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem
of his new companions, that when they reached the end of their
wanderings, it was unanimously agreed that he should be provided with
as large and as fertile a tract of land as any of the settlers, with
the exception of Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston,
and Drebber, who were the four principal Elders.

On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantial
log-house, which received so many additions in succeeding years that
it grew into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind,
keen in his dealings and skilful with his hands. His iron
constitution enabled him to work morning and evening at improving and
tilling his lands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that
belonged to him prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better
off than his neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was
rich, and in twelve there were not half a dozen men in the whole of
Salt Lake City who could compare with him. From the great inland sea
to the distant Wahsatch Mountains there was no name better known than
that of John Ferrier.

There was one way and only one in which he offended the
susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion
could ever induce him to set up a female establishment after the
manner of his companions. He never gave reasons for this persistent
refusal, but contented himself by resolutely and inflexibly adhering
to his determination. There were some who accused him of lukewarmness
in his adopted religion, and others who put it down to greed of
wealth and reluctance to incur expense. Others, again, spoke of some
early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who had pined away on
the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained
strictly celibate. In every other respect he conformed to the
religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of being an
orthodox and straight-walking man.

Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adopted
father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the
balsamic odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother
to the young girl. As year succeeded to year she grew taller and
stronger, her cheek more rudy, and her step more elastic. Many a
wayfarer upon the high road which ran by Ferrier's farm felt
long-forgotten thoughts revive in their mind as they watched her
lithe girlish figure tripping through the wheatfields, or met her
mounted upon her father's mustang, and managing it with all the ease
and grace of a true child of the West. So the bud blossomed into a
flower, and the year which saw her father the richest of the farmers
left her as fair a specimen of American girlhood as could be found in
the whole Pacific slope.

It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child
had developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That
mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by
dates. Least of all does the maiden herself know it until the tone of
a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her,
and she learns, with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a
larger nature has awoken within her. There are few who cannot recall
that day and remember the one little incident which heralded the dawn
of a new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious
enough in itself, apart from its future influence on her destiny and
that of many besides.

It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as
the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields
and in the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the
dusty high roads defiled long streams of heavily-laden mules, all
heading to the west, for the gold fever had broken out in California,
and the Overland Route lay through the City of the Elect. There, too,
were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture
lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary
of their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage,
threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there
galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair face flushed with the exercise and
her long chestnut hair floating out behind her. She had a commission
from her father in the City, and was dashing in as she had done many
a time before, with all the fearlessness of youth, thinking only of
her task and how it was to be performed. The travel-stained
adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even the unemotional
Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their accustomed
stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced maiden.

She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road
blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen
wild-looking herdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she
endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse into what
appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly into it, however,
before the beasts closed in behind her, and she found herself
completely imbedded in the moving stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned
bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle, she was not
alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of every opportunity to
urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her way through the
cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures, either by
accident or design, came in violent contact with the flank of the
mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up upon
its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way
that would have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation
was full of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it
against the horns again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all
that the girl could do to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip
would mean a terrible death under the hoofs of the unwieldy and
terrified animals. Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head began
to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising
cloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she
might have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice
at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At the same moment a
sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by the curb, and
forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the outskirts.

"You're not hurt, I hope, miss," said her preserver, respectfully.

She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. "I'm
awful frightened," she said, naively; "whoever would have thought
that Poncho would have been so scared by a lot of cows?"

"Thank God you kept your seat," the other said earnestly. He was a
tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse,
and clad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over
his shoulders. "I guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier," he
remarked, "I saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask
him if he remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the
same Ferrier, my father and he were pretty thick."

"Hadn't you better come and ask yourself?" she asked, demurely.

The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes
sparkled with pleasure. "I'll do so," he said, "we've been in the
mountains for two months, and are not over and above in visiting
condition. He must take us as he finds us."

"He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I," she answered,
"he's awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he'd have
never got over it."

"Neither would I," said her companion.

"You! Well, I don't see that it would make much matter to you,
anyhow. You ain't even a friend of ours."

The young hunter's dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that
Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.

"There, I didn't mean that," she said; "of course, you are a friend
now. You must come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won't
trust me with his business any more. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye," he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over
her little hand. She wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with
her riding-whip, and darted away down the broad road in a rolling
cloud of dust.

Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and
taciturn. He and they had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting
for silver, and were returning to Salt Lake City in the hope of
raising capital enough to work some lodes which they had discovered.
He had been as keen as any of them upon the business until this
sudden incident had drawn his thoughts into another channel. The
sight of the fair young girl, as frank and wholesome as the Sierra
breezes, had stirred his volcanic, untamed heart to its very depths.
When she had vanished from his sight, he realized that a crisis had
come in his life, and that neither silver speculations nor any other
questions could ever be of such importance to him as this new and
all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung up in his heart was not
the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the wild, fierce
passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He had been
accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in his heart
that he would not fail in this if human effort and human perseverance
could render him successful.

He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until his
face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the
valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning
the news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All this
Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interested
Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, and
could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost
in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper,
a silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were
to be had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon
became a favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his
virtues. On such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek
and her bright, happy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young
heart was no longer her own. Her honest father may not have observed
these symptoms, but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man
who had won her affections.

It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and
pulled up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet
him. He threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.

"I am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing
tenderly down into her face; "I won't ask you to come with me now,
but will you be ready to come when I am here again?"

"And when will that be?" she asked, blushing and laughing.

"A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then,
my darling. There's no one who can stand between us."

"And how about father?" she asked.

"He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all
right. I have no fear on that head."

"Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's
no more to be said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broad
breast.

"Thank God!" he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. "It is
settled, then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They
are waiting for me at the cañon. Good-bye, my own darling--good-bye.
In two months you shall see me."

He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his
horse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though
afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one glance at
what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him until he
vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the
happiest girl in all Utah.





CHAPTER III
John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet


Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had
departed from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was sore within
him when he thought of the young man's return, and of the impending
loss of his adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled
him to the arrangement more than any argument could have done. He had
always determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing
would ever induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such a
marriage he regarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a
disgrace. Whatever he might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that
one point he was inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject,
however, for to express an unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter
in those days in the Land of the Saints.

Yes, a dangerous matter--so dangerous that even the most saintly
dared only whisper their religious opinions with bated breath, lest
something which fell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring
down a swift retribution upon them. The victims of persecution had
now turned persecutors on their own account, and persecutors of the
most terrible description. Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the
German Vehmgericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able
to put a more formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a
cloud over the State of Utah.

Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made this
organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and
omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out
against the Church vanished away, and none knew whither he had gone
or what had befallen him. His wife and his children awaited him at
home, but no father ever returned to tell them how he had fared at
the hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was
followed by annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be
of this terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that
men went about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of
the wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed
them.

At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the
recalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished
afterwards to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a
wider range. The supply of adult women was running short, and
polygamy without a female population on which to draw was a barren
doctrine indeed. Strange rumours began to be bandied about--rumours
of murdered immigrants and rifled camps in regions where Indians had
never been seen. Fresh women appeared in the harems of the
Elders--women who pined and wept, and bore upon their faces the
traces of an unextinguishable horror. Belated wanderers upon the
mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked, stealthy, and
noiseless, who flitted by them in the darkness. These tales and
rumours took substance and shape, and were corroborated and
re-corroborated, until they resolved themselves into a definite name.
To this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name of the
Danite Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened
one.

Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible
results served to increase rather than to lessen the horror which it
inspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless
society. The names of the participators in the deeds of blood and
violence done under the name of religion were kept profoundly secret.
The very friend to whom you communicated your misgivings as to the
Prophet and his mission, might be one of those who would come forth
at night with fire and sword to exact a terrible reparation. Hence
every man feared his neighbour, and none spoke of the things which
were nearest his heart.

One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set out to his
wheatfields, when he heard the click of the latch, and, looking
through the window, saw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming
up the pathway. His heart leapt to his mouth, for this was none other
than the great Brigham Young himself. Full of trepidation--for he
knew that such a visit boded him little good--Ferrier ran to the door
to greet the Mormon chief. The latter, however, received his
salutations coldly, and followed him with a stern face into the
sitting-room.

"Brother Ferrier," he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer
keenly from under his light-coloured eyelashes, "the true believers
have been good friends to you. We picked you up when you were
starving in the desert, we shared our food with you, led you safe to
the Chosen Valley, gave you a goodly share of land, and allowed you
to wax rich under our protection. Is not this so?"

"It is so," answered John Ferrier.

"In return for all this we asked but one condition: that was, that
you should embrace the true faith, and conform in every way to its
usages. This you promised to do, and this, if common report says
truly, you have neglected."

"And how have I neglected it?" asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands
in expostulation. "Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not
attended at the Temple? Have I not--?"

"Where are your wives?" asked Young, looking round him. "Call them
in, that I may greet them."

"It is true that I have not married," Ferrier answered. "But women
were few, and there were many who had better claims than I. I was not
a lonely man: I had my daughter to attend to my wants."

"It is of that daughter that I would speak to you," said the leader
of the Mormons. "She has grown to be the flower of Utah, and has
found favour in the eyes of many who are high in the land."

John Ferrier groaned internally.

"There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve--stories that
she is sealed to some Gentile. This must be the gossip of idle
tongues. What is the thirteenth rule in the code of the sainted
Joseph Smith? 'Let every maiden of the true faith marry one of the
elect; for if she wed a Gentile, she commits a grievous sin.' This
being so, it is impossible that you, who profess the holy creed,
should suffer your daughter to violate it."

John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his
riding-whip.

"Upon this one point your whole faith shall be tested--so it has been
decided in the Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young, and we
would not have her wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive her of
all choice. We Elders have many heifers*1, but our children must also
be provided. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son, and either
of them would gladly welcome your daughter to their house. Let her
choose between them. They are young and rich, and of the true faith.
What say you to that?"

Ferrier remained silent for some little time with his brows knitted.

"You will give us time," he said at last. "My daughter is very
young--she is scarce of an age to marry."

"She shall have a month to choose," said Young, rising from his seat.
"At the end of that time she shall give her answer."

He was passing through the door, when he turned, with flushed face
and flashing eyes. "It were better for you, John Ferrier," he
thundered, "that you and she were now lying blanched skeletons upon
the Sierra Blanco, than that you should put your weak wills against
the orders of the Holy Four!"

With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and
Ferrier heard his heavy step scrunching along the shingly path.

He was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees, considering how
he should broach the matter to his daughter when a soft hand was laid
upon his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance
at her pale, frightened face showed him that she had heard what had
passed.

"I could not help it," she said, in answer to his look. "His voice
rang through the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?"

"Don't you scare yourself," he answered, drawing her to him, and
passing his broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair.
"We'll fix it up somehow or another. You don't find your fancy kind
o' lessening for this chap, do you?"

A sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only answer.

"No; of course not. I shouldn't care to hear you say you did. He's a
likely lad, and he's a Christian, which is more than these folk here,
in spite o' all their praying and preaching. There's a party starting
for Nevada to-morrow, and I'll manage to send him a message letting
him know the hole we are in. If I know anything o' that young man,
he'll be back here with a speed that would whip electro-telegraphs."

Lucy laughed through her tears at her father's description.

"When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is for you
that I am frightened, dear. One hears--one hears such dreadful
stories about those who oppose the Prophet: something terrible always
happens to them."

"But we haven't opposed him yet," her father answered. "It will be
time to look out for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before
us; at the end of that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah."

"Leave Utah!"

"That's about the size of it."

"But the farm?"

"We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest go. To
tell the truth, Lucy, it isn't the first time I have thought of doing
it. I don't care about knuckling under to any man, as these folk do
to their darned prophet. I'm a free-born American, and it's all new
to me. Guess I'm too old to learn. If he comes browsing about this
farm, he might chance to run up against a charge of buckshot
travelling in the opposite direction."

"But they won't let us leave," his daughter objected.

"Wait till Jefferson comes, and we'll soon manage that. In the
meantime, don't you fret yourself, my dearie, and don't get your eyes
swelled up, else he'll be walking into me when he sees you. There's
nothing to be afeared about, and there's no danger at all."

John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident
tone, but she could not help observing that he paid unusual care to
the fastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully cleaned
and loaded the rusty old shotgun which hung upon the wall of his
bedroom.

-----
*1: Heber C Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his hundred
wives under this endearing epithet.





CHAPTER IV
A Flight For Life


On the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet,
John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his
acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted
him with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man
of the imminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it
was that he should return. Having done thus he felt easier in his
mind, and returned home with a lighter heart.

As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to
each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on
entering to find two young men in possession of his sitting-room.
One, with a long pale face, was leaning back in the rocking-chair,
with his feet cocked up upon the stove. The other, a bull-necked
youth with coarse bloated features, was standing in front of the
window with his hands in his pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both
of them nodded to Ferrier as he entered, and the one in the
rocking-chair commenced the conversation.

"Maybe you don't know us," he said. "This here is the son of Elder
Drebber, and I'm Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the
desert when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the
true fold."

"As He will all the nations in His own good time," said the other in
a nasal voice; "He grindeth slowly but exceeding small."

John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.

"We have come," continued Stangerson, "at the advice of our fathers
to solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem
good to you and to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber
here has seven, it appears to me that my claim is the stronger one."

"Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson," cried the other; "the question is not
how many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now
given over his mills to me, and I am the richer man."

"But my prospects are better," said the other, warmly. "When the Lord
removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather
factory. Then I am your elder, and am higher in the Church."

"It will be for the maiden to decide," rejoined young Drebber,
smirking at his own reflection in the glass. "We will leave it all to
her decision."

During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway,
hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two
visitors.

"Look here," he said at last, striding up to them, "when my daughter
summons you, you can come, but until then I don't want to see your
faces again."

The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this
competition between them for the maiden's hand was the highest of
honours both to her and her father.

"There are two ways out of the room," cried Ferrier; "there is the
door, and there is the window. Which do you care to use?"

His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening,
that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat.
The old farmer followed them to the door.

"Let me know when you have settled which it is to be," he said,
sardonically.

"You shall smart for this!" Stangerson cried, white with rage. "You
have defied the Prophet and the Council of Four. You shall rue it to
the end of your days."

"The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you," cried young Drebber;
"He will arise and smite you!"

"Then I'll start the smiting," exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would
have rushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm
and restrained him. Before he could escape from her, the clatter of
horses' hoofs told him that they were beyond his reach.

"The young canting rascals!" he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration
from his forehead; "I would sooner see you in your grave, my girl,
than the wife of either of them."

"And so should I, father," she answered, with spirit; "but Jefferson
will soon be here."

"Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for
we do not know what their next move may be."

It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice and
help should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted
daughter. In the whole history of the settlement there had never been
such a case of rank disobedience to the authority of the Elders. If
minor errors were punished so sternly, what would be the fate of this
arch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and position would be of no
avail to him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had been
spirited away before now, and their goods given over to the Church.
He was a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors
which hung over him. Any known danger he could face with a firm lip,
but this suspense was unnerving. He concealed his fears from his
daughter, however, and affected to make light of the whole matter,
though she, with the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at
ease.

He expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance from
Young as to his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it came in
an unlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning he found, to his
surprise, a small square of paper pinned on to the coverlet of his
bed just over his chest. On it was printed, in bold straggling
letters:--

"Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment, and then--"

The dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have been. How
this warning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his
servants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and windows had all been
secured. He crumpled the paper up and said nothing to his daughter,
but the incident struck a chill into his heart. The twenty-nine days
were evidently the balance of the month which Young had promised.
What strength or courage could avail against an enemy armed with such
mysterious powers? The hand which fastened that pin might have struck
him to the heart, and he could never have known who had slain him.

Still more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down to their
breakfast when Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the
centre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick apparently,
the number 28. To his daughter it was unintelligible, and he did not
enlighten her. That night he sat up with his gun and kept watch and
ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in the morning a great 27
had been painted upon the outside of his door.

Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found that his
unseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked up in some
conspicuous position how many days were still left to him out of the
month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared upon the walls,
sometimes upon the floors, occasionally they were on small placards
stuck upon the garden gate or the railings. With all his vigilance
John Ferrier could not discover whence these daily warnings
proceeded. A horror which was almost superstitious came upon him at
the sight of them. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had
the troubled look of some hunted creature. He had but one hope in
life now, and that was for the arrival of the young hunter from
Nevada.

Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no
news of the absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down, and still
there came no sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the
road, or a driver shouted at his team, the old farmer hurried to the
gate thinking that help had arrived at last. At last, when he saw
five give way to four and that again to three, he lost heart, and
abandoned all hope of escape. Single-handed, and with his limited
knowledge of the mountains which surrounded the settlement, he knew
that he was powerless. The more-frequented roads were strictly
watched and guarded, and none could pass along them without an order
from the Council. Turn which way he would, there appeared to be no
avoiding the blow which hung over him. Yet the old man never wavered
in his resolution to part with life itself before he consented to
what he regarded as his daughter's dishonour.

He was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his troubles,
and searching vainly for some way out of them. That morning had shown
the figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the next day would be
the last of the allotted time. What was to happen then? All manner of
vague and terrible fancies filled his imagination. And his
daughter--what was to become of her after he was gone? Was there no
escape from the invisible network which was drawn all round them. He
sank his head upon the table and sobbed at the thought of his own
impotence.

What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching
sound--low, but very distinct in the quiet of the night. It came from
the door of the house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened
intently. There was a pause for a few moments, and then the low
insidious sound was repeated. Someone was evidently tapping very
gently upon one of the panels of the door. Was it some midnight
assassin who had come to carry out the murderous orders of the secret
tribunal? Or was it some agent who was marking up that the last day
of grace had arrived. John Ferrier felt that instant death would be
better than the suspense which shook his nerves and chilled his
heart. Springing forward he drew the bolt and threw the door open.

Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars
were twinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before
the farmer's eyes bounded by the fence and gate, but neither there
nor on the road was any human being to be seen. With a sigh of
relief, Ferrier looked to right and to left, until happening to
glance straight down at his own feet he saw to his astonishment a man
lying flat upon his face upon the ground, with arms and legs all
asprawl.

So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the wall
with his hand to his throat to stifle his inclination to call out.
His first thought was that the prostrate figure was that of some
wounded or dying man, but as he watched it he saw it writhe along the
ground and into the hall with the rapidity and noiselessness of a
serpent. Once within the house the man sprang to his feet, closed the
door, and revealed to the astonished farmer the fierce face and
resolute expression of Jefferson Hope.

"Good God!" gasped John Ferrier. "How you scared me! Whatever made
you come in like that."

"Give me food," the other said, hoarsely. "I have had no time for
bite or sup for eight-and-forty hours." He flung himself upon the
cold meat and bread which were still lying upon the table from his
host's supper, and devoured it voraciously. "Does Lucy bear up well?"
he asked, when he had satisfied his hunger.

"Yes. She does not know the danger," her father answered.

"That is well. The house is watched on every side. That is why I
crawled my way up to it. They may be darned sharp, but they're not
quite sharp enough to catch a Washoe hunter."

John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had a
devoted ally. He seized the young man's leathery hand and wrung it
cordially. "You're a man to be proud of," he said. "There are not
many who would come to share our danger and our troubles."

"You've hit it there, pard," the young hunter answered. "I have a
respect for you, but if you were alone in this business I'd think
twice before I put my head into such a hornet's nest. It's Lucy that
brings me here, and before harm comes on her I guess there will be
one less o' the Hope family in Utah."

"What are we to do?"

"To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act to-night you are
lost. I have a mule and two horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How
much money have you?"

"Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes."

"That will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must push for
Carson City through the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is as
well that the servants do not sleep in the house."

While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the approaching
journey, Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that he could find
into a small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar with water, for he
knew by experience that the mountain wells were few and far between.
He had hardly completed his arrangements before the farmer returned
with his daughter all dressed and ready for a start. The greeting
between the lovers was warm, but brief, for minutes were precious,
and there was much to be done.

"We must make our start at once," said Jefferson Hope, speaking in a
low but resolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the
peril, but has steeled his heart to meet it. "The front and back
entrances are watched, but with caution we may get away through the
side window and across the fields. Once on the road we are only two
miles from the Ravine where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we
should be half-way through the mountains."

"What if we are stopped," asked Ferrier.

Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his
tunic. "If they are too many for us we shall take two or three of
them with us," he said with a sinister smile.

The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the
darkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his
own, and which he was now about to abandon for ever. He had long
nerved himself to the sacrifice, however, and the thought of the
honour and happiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at his
ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, the rustling trees
and the broad silent stretch of grain-land, that it was difficult to
realize that the spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the
white face and set expression of the young hunter showed that in his
approach to the house he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that
head.

Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the
scanty provisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing
a few of her more valued possessions. Opening the window very slowly
and carefully, they waited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured
the night, and then one by one passed through into the little garden.
With bated breath and crouching figures they stumbled across it, and
gained the shelter of the hedge, which they skirted until they came
to the gap which opened into the cornfields. They had just reached
this point when the young man seized his two companions and dragged
them down into the shadow, where they lay silent and trembling.

It was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope the
ears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before
the melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard within a few yards
of them, which was immediately answered by another hoot at a small
distance. At the same moment a vague shadowy figure emerged from the
gap for which they had been making, and uttered the plaintive signal
cry again, on which a second man appeared out of the obscurity.

"To-morrow at midnight," said the first who appeared to be in
authority. "When the Whip-poor-Will calls three times."

"It is well," returned the other. "Shall I tell Brother Drebber?"

"Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to seven!"

"Seven to five!" repeated the other, and the two figures flitted away
in different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been
some form of sign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps
had died away in the distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and
helping his companions through the gap, led the way across the fields
at the top of his speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when
her strength appeared to fail her.

"Hurry on! hurry on!" he gasped from time to time. "We are through
the line of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!"

Once on the high road they made rapid progress. Only once did they
meet anyone, and then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid
recognition. Before reaching the town the hunter branched away into a
rugged and narrow footpath which led to the mountains. Two dark
jagged peaks loomed above them through the darkness, and the defile
which led between them was the Eagle Cañon in which the horses were
awaiting them. With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way
among the great boulders and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse,
until he came to the retired corner, screened with rocks, where the
faithful animals had been picketed. The girl was placed upon the
mule, and old Ferrier upon one of the horses, with his money-bag,
while Jefferson Hope led the other along the precipitous and
dangerous path.

It was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to face
Nature in her wildest moods. On the one side a great crag towered up
a thousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing, with long
basaltic columns upon its rugged surface like the ribs of some
petrified monster. On the other hand a wild chaos of boulders and
debris made all advance impossible. Between the two ran the irregular
track, so narrow in places that they had to travel in Indian file,
and so rough that only practised riders could have traversed it at
all. Yet in spite of all dangers and difficulties, the hearts of the
fugitives were light within them, for every step increased the
distance between them and the terrible despotism from which they were
flying.

They soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the
jurisdiction of the Saints. They had reached the very wildest and
most desolate portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled cry,
and pointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the track, showing
out dark and plain against the sky, there stood a solitary sentinel.
He saw them as soon as they perceived him, and his military challenge
of "Who goes there?" rang through the silent ravine.

"Travellers for Nevada," said Jefferson Hope, with his hand upon the
rifle which hung by his saddle.

They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering down
at them as if dissatisfied at their reply.

"By whose permission?" he asked.

"The Holy Four," answered Ferrier. His Mormon experiences had taught
him that that was the highest authority to which he could refer.

"Nine from seven," cried the sentinel.

"Seven from five," returned Jefferson Hope promptly, remembering the
countersign which he had heard in the garden.

"Pass, and the Lord go with you," said the voice from above. Beyond
his post the path broadened out, and the horses were able to break
into a trot. Looking back, they could see the solitary watcher
leaning upon his gun, and knew that they had passed the outlying post
of the chosen people, and that freedom lay before them.





CHAPTER V
The Avenging Angels


All night their course lay through intricate defiles and over
irregular and rock-strewn paths. More than once they lost their way,
but Hope's intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain
the track once more. When morning broke, a scene of marvellous though
savage beauty lay before them. In every direction the great
snow-capped peaks hemmed them in, peeping over each other's shoulders
to the far horizon. So steep were the rocky banks on either side of
them, that the larch and the pine seemed to be suspended over their
heads, and to need only a gust of wind to come hurtling down upon
them. Nor was the fear entirely an illusion, for the barren valley
was thickly strewn with trees and boulders which had fallen in a
similar manner. Even as they passed, a great rock came thundering
down with a hoarse rattle which woke the echoes in the silent gorges,
and startled the weary horses into a gallop.

As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the
great mountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival,
until they were all ruddy and glowing. The magnificent spectacle
cheered the hearts of the three fugitives and gave them fresh energy.
At a wild torrent which swept out of a ravine they called a halt and
watered their horses, while they partook of a hasty breakfast. Lucy
and her father would fain have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope was
inexorable. "They will be upon our track by this time," he said.
"Everything depends upon our speed. Once safe in Carson we may rest
for the remainder of our lives."

During the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles,
and by evening they calculated that they were more than thirty miles
from their enemies. At night-time they chose the base of a beetling
crag, where the rocks offered some protection from the chill wind,
and there huddled together for warmth, they enjoyed a few hours'
sleep. Before daybreak, however, they were up and on their way once
more. They had seen no signs of any pursuers, and Jefferson Hope
began to think that they were fairly out of the reach of the terrible
organization whose enmity they had incurred. He little knew how far
that iron grasp could reach, or how soon it was to close upon them
and crush them.

About the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty store
of provisions began to run out. This gave the hunter little
uneasiness, however, for there was game to be had among the
mountains, and he had frequently before had to depend upon his rifle
for the needs of life. Choosing a sheltered nook, he piled together a
few dried branches and made a blazing fire, at which his companions
might warm themselves, for they were now nearly five thousand feet
above the sea level, and the air was bitter and keen. Having tethered
the horses, and bade Lucy adieu, he threw his gun over his shoulder,
and set out in search of whatever chance might throw in his way.
Looking back he saw the old man and the young girl crouching over the
blazing fire, while the three animals stood motionless in the
back-ground. Then the intervening rocks hid them from his view.

He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another
without success, though from the marks upon the bark of the trees,
and other indications, he judged that there were numerous bears in
the vicinity. At last, after two or three hours' fruitless search, he
was thinking of turning back in despair, when casting his eyes
upwards he saw a sight which sent a thrill of pleasure through his
heart. On the edge of a jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet
above him, there stood a creature somewhat resembling a sheep in
appearance, but armed with a pair of gigantic horns. The
big-horn--for so it is called--was acting, probably, as a guardian
over a flock which were invisible to the hunter; but fortunately it
was heading in the opposite direction, and had not perceived him.
Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon a rock, and took a long
and steady aim before drawing the trigger. The animal sprang into the
air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of the precipice, and then
came crashing down into the valley beneath.

The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented
himself with cutting away one haunch and part of the flank. With this
trophy over his shoulder, he hastened to retrace his steps, for the
evening was already drawing in. He had hardly started, however,
before he realized the difficulty which faced him. In his eagerness
he had wandered far past the ravines which were known to him, and it
was no easy matter to pick out the path which he had taken. The
valley in which he found himself divided and sub-divided into many
gorges, which were so like each other that it was impossible to
distinguish one from the other. He followed one for a mile or more
until he came to a mountain torrent which he was sure that he had
never seen before. Convinced that he had taken the wrong turn, he
tried another, but with the same result. Night was coming on rapidly,
and it was almost dark before he at last found himself in a defile
which was familiar to him. Even then it was no easy matter to keep to
the right track, for the moon had not yet risen, and the high cliffs
on either side made the obscurity more profound. Weighed down with
his burden, and weary from his exertions, he stumbled along, keeping
up his heart by the reflection that every step brought him nearer to
Lucy, and that he carried with him enough to ensure them food for the
remainder of their journey.

He had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had left
them. Even in the darkness he could recognize the outline of the
cliffs which bounded it. They must, he reflected, be awaiting him
anxiously, for he had been absent nearly five hours. In the gladness
of his heart he put his hands to his mouth and made the glen re-echo
to a loud halloo as a signal that he was coming. He paused and
listened for an answer. None came save his own cry, which clattered
up the dreary silent ravines, and was borne back to his ears in
countless repetitions. Again he shouted, even louder than before, and
again no whisper came back from the friends whom he had left such a
short time ago. A vague, nameless dread came over him, and he hurried
onwards frantically, dropping the precious food in his agitation.

When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where
the fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes
there, but it had evidently not been tended since his departure. The
same dead silence still reigned all round. With his fears all changed
to convictions, he hurried on. There was no living creature near the
remains of the fire: animals, man, maiden, all were gone. It was only
too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during
his absence--a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left
no traces behind it.

Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head
spin round, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from
falling. He was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily
recovered from his temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece
of wood from the smouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and
proceeded with its help to examine the little camp. The ground was
all stamped down by the feet of horses, showing that a large party of
mounted men had overtaken the fugitives, and the direction of their
tracks proved that they had afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City.
Had they carried back both of his companions with them? Jefferson
Hope had almost persuaded himself that they must have done so, when
his eye fell upon an object which made every nerve of his body tingle
within him. A little way on one side of the camp was a low-lying heap
of reddish soil, which had assuredly not been there before. There was
no mistaking it for anything but a newly-dug grave. As the young
hunter approached it, he perceived that a stick had been planted on
it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft fork of it. The
inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:

JOHN FERRIER,
Formerly of Salt Lake City,
Died August 4th, 1860.


The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was
gone, then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked
wildly round to see if there was a second grave, but there was no
sign of one. Lucy had been carried back by their terrible pursuers to
fulfil her original destiny, by becoming one of the harem of the
Elder's son. As the young fellow realized the certainty of her fate,
and his own powerlessness to prevent it, he wished that he, too, was
lying with the old farmer in his last silent resting-place.

Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which
springs from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could
at least devote his life to revenge. With indomitable patience and
perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of sustained
vindictiveness, which he may have learned from the Indians amongst
whom he had lived. As he stood by the desolate fire, he felt that the
only one thing which could assuage his grief would be thorough and
complete retribution, brought by his own hand upon his enemies. His
strong will and untiring energy should, he determined, be devoted to
that one end. With a grim, white face, he retraced his steps to where
he had dropped the food, and having stirred up the smouldering fire,
he cooked enough to last him for a few days. This he made up into a
bundle, and, tired as he was, he set himself to walk back through the
mountains upon the track of the avenging angels.

For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles which
he had already traversed on horseback. At night he flung himself down
among the rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep; but before
daybreak he was always well on his way. On the sixth day, he reached
the Eagle Cañon, from which they had commenced their ill-fated
flight. Thence he could look down upon the home of the saints. Worn
and exhausted, he leaned upon his rifle and shook his gaunt hand
fiercely at the silent widespread city beneath him. As he looked at
it, he observed that there were flags in some of the principal
streets, and other signs of festivity. He was still speculating as to
what this might mean when he heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and
saw a mounted man riding towards him. As he approached, he recognized
him as a Mormon named Cowper, to whom he had rendered services at
different times. He therefore accosted him when he got up to him,
with the object of finding out what Lucy Ferrier's fate had been.

"I am Jefferson Hope," he said. "You remember me."

The Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment--indeed, it
was difficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with
ghastly white face and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of
former days. Having, however, at last, satisfied himself as to his
identity, the man's surprise changed to consternation.

"You are mad to come here," he cried. "It is as much as my own life
is worth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you
from the Holy Four for assisting the Ferriers away."

"I don't fear them, or their warrant," Hope said, earnestly. "You
must know something of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you by
everything you hold dear to answer a few questions. We have always
been friends. For God's sake, don't refuse to answer me."

"What is it?" the Mormon asked uneasily. "Be quick. The very rocks
have ears and the trees eyes."

"What has become of Lucy Ferrier?"

"She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up,
you have no life left in you."

"Don't mind me," said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips,
and had sunk down on the stone against which he had been leaning.
"Married, you say?"

"Married yesterday--that's what those flags are for on the Endowment
House. There was some words between young Drebber and young
Stangerson as to which was to have her. They'd both been in the party
that followed them, and Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed
to give him the best claim; but when they argued it out in council,
Drebber's party was the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to
him. No one won't have her very long though, for I saw death in her
face yesterday. She is more like a ghost than a woman. Are you off,
then?"

"Yes, I am off," said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat.
His face might have been chiselled out of marble, so hard and set was
its expression, while its eyes glowed with a baleful light.

"Where are you going?"

"Never mind," he answered; and, slinging his weapon over his
shoulder, strode off down the gorge and so away into the heart of the
mountains to the haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst them all there
was none so fierce and so dangerous as himself.

The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether it
was the terrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful
marriage into which she had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her
head again, but pined away and died within a month. Her sottish
husband, who had married her principally for the sake of John
Ferrier's property, did not affect any great grief at his
bereavement; but his other wives mourned over her, and sat up with
her the night before the burial, as is the Mormon custom. They were
grouped round the bier in the early hours of the morning, when, to
their inexpressible fear and astonishment, the door was flung open,
and a savage-looking, weather-beaten man in tattered garments strode
into the room. Without a glance or a word to the cowering women, he
walked up to the white silent figure which had once contained the
pure soul of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over her, he pressed his lips
reverently to her cold forehead, and then, snatching up her hand, he
took the wedding-ring from her finger. "She shall not be buried in
that," he cried with a fierce snarl, and before an alarm could be
raised sprang down the stairs and was gone. So strange and so brief
was the episode, that the watchers might have found it hard to
believe it themselves or persuade other people of it, had it not been
for the undeniable fact that the circlet of gold which marked her as
having been a bride had disappeared.

For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains, leading
a strange wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for
vengeance which possessed him. Tales were told in the City of the
weird figure which was seen prowling about the suburbs, and which
haunted the lonely mountain gorges. Once a bullet whistled through
Stangerson's window and flattened itself upon the wall within a foot
of him. On another occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliff a great
boulder crashed down on him, and he only escaped a terrible death by
throwing himself upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long
in discovering the reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led
repeated expeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or
killing their enemy, but always without success. Then they adopted
the precaution of never going out alone or after nightfall, and of
having their houses guarded. After a time they were able to relax
these measures, for nothing was either heard or seen of their
opponent, and they hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.

Far from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it. The hunter's
mind was of a hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of
revenge had taken such complete possession of it that there was no
room for any other emotion. He was, however, above all things
practical. He soon realized that even his iron constitution could not
stand the incessant strain which he was putting upon it. Exposure and
want of wholesome food were wearing him out. If he died like a dog
among the mountains, what was to become of his revenge then? And yet
such a death was sure to overtake him if he persisted. He felt that
that was to play his enemy's game, so he reluctantly returned to the
old Nevada mines, there to recruit his health and to amass money
enough to allow him to pursue his object without privation.

His intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a
combination of unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the
mines for nearly five. At the end of that time, however, his memory
of his wrongs and his craving for revenge were quite as keen as on
that memorable night when he had stood by John Ferrier's grave.
Disguised, and under an assumed name, he returned to Salt Lake City,
careless what became of his own life, as long as he obtained what he
knew to be justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him. There
had been a schism among the Chosen People a few months before, some
of the younger members of the Church having rebelled against the
authority of the Elders, and the result had been the secession of a
certain number of the malcontents, who had left Utah and become
Gentiles. Among these had been Drebber and Stangerson; and no one
knew whither they had gone. Rumour reported that Drebber had managed
to convert a large part of his property into money, and that he had
departed a wealthy man, while his companion, Stangerson, was
comparatively poor. There was no clue at all, however, as to their
whereabouts.

Many a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought of
revenge in the face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope never
faltered for a moment. With the small competence he possessed, eked
out by such employment as he could pick up, he travelled from town to
town through the United States in quest of his enemies. Year passed
into year, his black hair turned grizzled, but still he wandered on,
a human bloodhound, with his mind wholly set upon the one object upon
which he had devoted his life. At last his perseverance was rewarded.
It was but a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance told
him that Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit
of. He returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance
all arranged. It chanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his
window, had recognized the vagrant in the street, and had read murder
in his eyes. He hurried before a justice of the peace, accompanied by
Stangerson, who had become his private secretary, and represented to
him that they were in danger of their lives from the jealousy and
hatred of an old rival. That evening Jefferson Hope was taken into
custody, and not being able to find sureties, was detained for some
weeks. When at last he was liberated, it was only to find that
Drebber's house was deserted, and that he and his secretary had
departed for Europe.

Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated hatred
urged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and
for some time he had to return to work, saving every dollar for his
approaching journey. At last, having collected enough to keep life in
him, he departed for Europe, and tracked his enemies from city to
city, working his way in any menial capacity, but never overtaking
the fugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they had departed for
Paris; and when he followed them there he learned that they had just
set off for Copenhagen. At the Danish capital he was again a few days
late, for they had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded
in running them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do
better than quote the old hunter's own account, as duly recorded in
Dr. Watson's Journal, to which we are already under such obligations.





CHAPTER VI
A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D.


Our prisoner's furious resistance did not apparently indicate any
ferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself
powerless, he smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his hopes
that he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. "I guess you're going
to take me to the police-station," he remarked to Sherlock Holmes.
"My cab's at the door. If you'll loose my legs I'll walk down to it.
I'm not so light to lift as I used to be."

Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances as if they thought this
proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner
at his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound round his
ankles. He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure himself
that they were free once more. I remember that I thought to myself,
as I eyed him, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man;
and his dark sunburned face bore an expression of determination and
energy which was as formidable as his personal strength.

"If there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you
are the man for it," he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at
my fellow-lodger. "The way you kept on my trail was a caution."

"You had better come with me," said Holmes to the two detectives.

"I can drive you," said Lestrade.

"Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor, you have
taken an interest in the case and may as well stick to us."

I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made
no attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been
his, and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the
horse, and brought us in a very short time to our destination. We
were ushered into a small chamber where a police Inspector noted down
our prisoner's name and the names of the men with whose murder he had
been charged. The official was a white-faced unemotional man, who
went through his duties in a dull mechanical way. "The prisoner will
be put before the magistrates in the course of the week," he said;
"in the mean time, Mr. Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you
wish to say? I must warn you that your words will be taken down, and
may be used against you."

"I've got a good deal to say," our prisoner said slowly. "I want to
tell you gentlemen all about it."

"Hadn't you better reserve that for your trial?" asked the Inspector.

"I may never be tried," he answered. "You needn't look startled. It
isn't suicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?" He turned his
fierce dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.

"Yes; I am," I answered.

"Then put your hand here," he said, with a smile, motioning with his
manacled wrists towards his chest.

I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing
and commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest
seemed to thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when
some powerful engine was at work. In the silence of the room I could
hear a dull humming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same
source.

"Why," I cried, "you have an aortic aneurism!"

"That's what they call it," he said, placidly. "I went to a Doctor
last week about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before
many days passed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from
over-exposure and under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I've
done my work now, and I don't care how soon I go, but I should like
to leave some account of the business behind me. I don't want to be
remembered as a common cut-throat."

The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to
the advisability of allowing him to tell his story.

"Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?" the former
asked.

"Most certainly there is," I answered.

"In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to
take his statement," said the Inspector. "You are at liberty, sir, to
give your account, which I again warn you will be taken down."

"I'll sit down, with your leave," the prisoner said, suiting the
action to the word. "This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and
the tussle we had half an hour ago has not mended matters. I'm on the
brink of the grave, and I am not likely to lie to you. Every word I
say is the absolute truth, and how you use it is a matter of no
consequence to me."

With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began
the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical
manner, as though the events which he narrated were commonplace
enough. I can vouch for the accuracy of the subjoined account, for I
have had access to Lestrade's note-book, in which the prisoner's
words were taken down exactly as they were uttered.

"It don't much matter to you why I hated these men," he said; "it's
enough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings--a
father and a daughter--and that they had, therefore, forfeited their
own lives. After the lapse of time that has passed since their crime,
it was impossible for me to secure a conviction against them in any
court. I knew of their guilt though, and I determined that I should
be judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one. You'd have done
the same, if you have any manhood in you, if you had been in my
place.

"That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago.
She was forced into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart
over it. I took the marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed
that his dying eyes should rest upon that very ring, and that his
last thoughts should be of the crime for which he was punished. I
have carried it about with me, and have followed him and his
accomplice over two continents until I caught them. They thought to
tire me out, but they could not do it. If I die to-morrow, as is
likely enough, I die knowing that my work in this world is done, and
well done. They have perished, and by my hand. There is nothing left
for me to hope for, or to desire.

"They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me
to follow them. When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I
found that I must turn my hand to something for my living. Driving
and riding are as natural to me as walking, so I applied at a
cabowner's office, and soon got employment. I was to bring a certain
sum a week to the owner, and whatever was over that I might keep for
myself. There was seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along
somehow. The hardest job was to learn my way about, for I reckon that
of all the mazes that ever were contrived, this city is the most
confusing. I had a map beside me though, and when once I had spotted
the principal hotels and stations, I got on pretty well.

"It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were
living; but I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across
them. They were at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other
side of the river. When once I found them out I knew that I had them
at my mercy. I had grown my beard, and there was no chance of their
recognizing me. I would dog them and follow them until I saw my
opportunity. I was determined that they should not escape me again.

"They were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about
London, I was always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my
cab, and sometimes on foot, but the former was the best, for then
they could not get away from me. It was only early in the morning or
late at night that I could earn anything, so that I began to get
behind hand with my employer. I did not mind that, however, as long
as I could lay my hand upon the men I wanted.

"They were very cunning, though. They must have thought that there
was some chance of their being followed, for they would never go out
alone, and never after nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind
them every day, and never once saw them separate. Drebber himself was
drunk half the time, but Stangerson was not to be caught napping. I
watched them late and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but
I was not discouraged, for something told me that the hour had almost
come. My only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a
little too soon and leave my work undone.

"At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as
the street was called in which they boarded, when I saw a cab drive
up to their door. Presently some luggage was brought out, and after a
time Drebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove off. I whipped up
my horse and kept within sight of them, feeling very ill at ease, for
I feared that they were going to shift their quarters. At Euston
Station they got out, and I left a boy to hold my horse, and followed
them on to the platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train,
and the guard answer that one had just gone and there would not be
another for some hours. Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but
Drebber was rather pleased than otherwise. I got so close to them in
the bustle that I could hear every word that passed between them.
Drebber said that he had a little business of his own to do, and that
if the other would wait for him he would soon rejoin him. His
companion remonstrated with him, and reminded him that they had
resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the matter was a
delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch what
Stangerson said to that, but the other burst out swearing, and
reminded him that he was nothing more than his paid servant, and that
he must not presume to dictate to him. On that the Secretary gave it
up as a bad job, and simply bargained with him that if he missed the
last train he should rejoin him at Halliday's Private Hotel; to which
Drebber answered that he would be back on the platform before eleven,
and made his way out of the station.

"The moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my
enemies within my power. Together they could protect each other, but
singly they were at my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue
precipitation. My plans were already formed. There is no satisfaction
in vengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that
strikes him, and why retribution has come upon him. I had my plans
arranged by which I should have the opportunity of making the man who
had wronged me understand that his old sin had found him out. It
chanced that some days before a gentleman who had been engaged in
looking over some houses in the Brixton Road had dropped the key of
one of them in my carriage. It was claimed that same evening, and
returned; but in the interval I had taken a moulding of it, and had a
duplicate constructed. By means of this I had access to at least one
spot in this great city where I could rely upon being free from
interruption. How to get Drebber to that house was the difficult
problem which I had now to solve.

"He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops,
staying for nearly half-an-hour in the last of them. When he came out
he staggered in his walk, and was evidently pretty well on. There was
a hansom just in front of me, and he hailed it. I followed it so
close that the nose of my horse was within a yard of his driver the
whole way. We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of
streets, until, to my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the
Terrace in which he had boarded. I could not imagine what his
intention was in returning there; but I went on and pulled up my cab
a hundred yards or so from the house. He entered it, and his hansom
drove away. Give me a glass of water, if you please. My mouth gets
dry with the talking."

I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.

"That's better," he said. "Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour,
or more, when suddenly there came a noise like people struggling
inside the house. Next moment the door was flung open and two men
appeared, one of whom was Drebber, and the other was a young chap
whom I had never seen before. This fellow had Drebber by the collar,
and when they came to the head of the steps he gave him a shove and a
kick which sent him half across the road. 'You hound,' he cried,
shaking his stick at him; 'I'll teach you to insult an honest girl!'
He was so hot that I think he would have thrashed Drebber with his
cudgel, only that the cur staggered away down the road as fast as his
legs would carry him. He ran as far as the corner, and then, seeing
my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. 'Drive me to Halliday's Private
Hotel,' said he.

"When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy
that I feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I
drove along slowly, weighing in my own mind what it was best to do. I
might take him right out into the country, and there in some deserted
lane have my last interview with him. I had almost decided upon this,
when he solved the problem for me. The craze for drink had seized him
again, and he ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in,
leaving word that I should wait for him. There he remained until
closing time, and when he came out he was so far gone that I knew the
game was in my own hands.

"Don't imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would
only have been rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring
myself to do it. I had long determined that he should have a show for
his life if he chose to take advantage of it. Among the many billets
which I have filled in America during my wandering life, I was once
janitor and sweeper out of the laboratory at York College. One day
the professor was lecturing on poisons, and he showed his students
some alkaloid, as he called it, which he had extracted from some
South American arrow poison, and which was so powerful that the least
grain meant instant death. I spotted the bottle in which this
preparation was kept, and when they were all gone, I helped myself to
a little of it. I was a fairly good dispenser, so I worked this
alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and each pill I put in a box with
a similar pill made without the poison. I determined at the time that
when I had my chance, my gentlemen should each have a draw out of one
of these boxes, while I ate the pill that remained. It would be quite
as deadly, and a good deal less noisy than firing across a
handkerchief. From that day I had always my pill boxes about with me,
and the time had now come when I was to use them.

"It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard
and raining in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad
within--so glad that I could have shouted out from pure exultation.
If any of you gentlemen have ever pined for a thing, and longed for
it during twenty long years, and then suddenly found it within your
reach, you would understand my feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at
it to steady my nerves, but my hands were trembling, and my temples
throbbing with excitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier
and sweet Lucy looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me,
just as plain as I see you all in this room. All the way they were
ahead of me, one on each side of the horse until I pulled up at the
house in the Brixton Road.

"There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the
dripping of the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber
all huddled together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm,
'It's time to get out,' I said.

"'All right, cabby,' said he.

"I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned,
for he got out without another word, and followed me down the garden.
I had to walk beside him to keep him steady, for he was still a
little top-heavy. When we came to the door, I opened it, and led him
into the front room. I give you my word that all the way, the father
and the daughter were walking in front of us.

"'It's infernally dark,' said he, stamping about.

"'We'll soon have a light,' I said, striking a match and putting it
to a wax candle which I had brought with me. 'Now, Enoch Drebber,' I
continued, turning to him, and holding the light to my own face, 'who
am I?'

"He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment, and then I
saw a horror spring up in them, and convulse his whole features,
which showed me that he knew me. He staggered back with a livid face,
and I saw the perspiration break out upon his brow, while his teeth
chattered in his head. At the sight, I leaned my back against the
door and laughed loud and long. I had always known that vengeance
would be sweet, but I had never hoped for the contentment of soul
which now possessed me.

"'You dog!' I said; 'I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to St.
Petersburg, and you have always escaped me. Now, at last your
wanderings have come to an end, for either you or I shall never see
to-morrow's sun rise.' He shrunk still further away as I spoke, and I
could see on his face that he thought I was mad. So I was for the
time. The pulses in my temples beat like sledge-hammers, and I
believe I would have had a fit of some sort if the blood had not
gushed from my nose and relieved me.

"'What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?' I cried, locking the door,
and shaking the key in his face. 'Punishment has been slow in coming,
but it has overtaken you at last.' I saw his coward lips tremble as I
spoke. He would have begged for his life, but he knew well that it
was useless.

"'Would you murder me?' he stammered.

"'There is no murder,' I answered. 'Who talks of murdering a mad dog?
What mercy had you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from
her slaughtered father, and bore her away to your accursed and
shameless harem.'

"'It was not I who killed her father,' he cried.

"'But it was you who broke her innocent heart,' I shrieked, thrusting
the box before him. 'Let the high God judge between us. Choose and
eat. There is death in one and life in the other. I shall take what
you leave. Let us see if there is justice upon the earth, or if we
are ruled by chance.'

"He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but I drew my
knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I
swallowed the other, and we stood facing one another in silence for a
minute or more, waiting to see which was to live and which was to
die. Shall I ever forget the look which came over his face when the
first warning pangs told him that the poison was in his system? I
laughed as I saw it, and held Lucy's marriage ring in front of his
eyes. It was but for a moment, for the action of the alkaloid is
rapid. A spasm of pain contorted his features; he threw his hands out
in front of him, staggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily
upon the floor. I turned him over with my foot, and placed my hand
upon his heart. There was no movement. He was dead!

"The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice
of it. I don't know what it was that put it into my head to write
upon the wall with it. Perhaps it was some mischievous idea of
setting the police upon a wrong track, for I felt light-hearted and
cheerful. I remembered a German being found in New York with RACHE
written up above him, and it was argued at the time in the newspapers
that the secret societies must have done it. I guessed that what
puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle the Londoners, so I dipped my
finger in my own blood and printed it on a convenient place on the
wall. Then I walked down to my cab and found that there was nobody
about, and that the night was still very wild. I had driven some
distance when I put my hand into the pocket in which I usually kept
Lucy's ring, and found that it was not there. I was thunderstruck at
this, for it was the only memento that I had of her. Thinking that I
might have dropped it when I stooped over Drebber's body, I drove
back, and leaving my cab in a side street, I went boldly up to the
house--for I was ready to dare anything rather than lose the ring.
When I arrived there, I walked right into the arms of a
police-officer who was coming out, and only managed to disarm his
suspicions by pretending to be hopelessly drunk.

"That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to do then was
to do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier's debt. I
knew that he was staying at Halliday's Private Hotel, and I hung
about all day, but he never came out. I fancy that he suspected
something when Drebber failed to put in an appearance. He was
cunning, was Stangerson, and always on his guard. If he thought he
could keep me off by staying indoors he was very much mistaken. I
soon found out which was the window of his bedroom, and early next
morning I took advantage of some ladders which were lying in the lane
behind the hotel, and so made my way into his room in the grey of the
dawn. I woke him up and told him that the hour had come when he was
to answer for the life he had taken so long before. I described
Drebber's death to him, and I gave him the same choice of the
poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of safety which
that offered him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my throat. In
self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would have been the same
in any case, for Providence would never have allowed his guilty hand
to pick out anything but the poison.

"I have little more to say, and it's as well, for I am about done up.
I went on cabbing it for a day or so, intending to keep at it until I
could save enough to take me back to America. I was standing in the
yard when a ragged youngster asked if there was a cabby there called
Jefferson Hope, and said that his cab was wanted by a gentleman at
221b, Baker Street. I went round, suspecting no harm, and the next
thing I knew, this young man here had the bracelets on my wrists, and
as neatly snackled as ever I saw in my life. That's the whole of my
story, gentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold
that I am just as much an officer of justice as you are."

So thrilling had the man's narrative been, and his manner was so
impressive that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional
detectives, blase as they were in every detail of crime, appeared to
be keenly interested in the man's story. When he finished we sat for
some minutes in a stillness which was only broken by the scratching
of Lestrade's pencil as he gave the finishing touches to his
shorthand account.

"There is only one point on which I should like a little more
information," Sherlock Holmes said at last. "Who was your accomplice
who came for the ring which I advertised?"

The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. "I can tell my own
secrets," he said, "but I don't get other people into trouble. I saw
your advertisement, and I thought it might be a plant, or it might be
the ring which I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see. I think
you'll own he did it smartly."

"Not a doubt of that," said Holmes heartily.

"Now, gentlemen," the Inspector remarked gravely, "the forms of the
law must be complied with. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought
before the magistrates, and your attendance will be required. Until
then I will be responsible for him." He rang the bell as he spoke,
and Jefferson Hope was led off by a couple of warders, while my
friend and I made our way out of the Station and took a cab back to
Baker Street.





CHAPTER VII
The Conclusion


We had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon the
Thursday; but when the Thursday came there was no occasion for our
testimony. A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand, and Jefferson
Hope had been summoned before a tribunal where strict justice would
be meted out to him. On the very night after his capture the aneurism
burst, and he was found in the morning stretched upon the floor of
the cell, with a placid smile upon his face, as though he had been
able in his dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on
work well done.

"Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death," Holmes remarked,
as we chatted it over next evening. "Where will their grand
advertisement be now?"

"I don't see that they had very much to do with his capture," I
answered.

"What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence," returned
my companion, bitterly. "The question is, what can you make people
believe that you have done. Never mind," he continued, more brightly,
after a pause. "I would not have missed the investigation for
anything. There has been no better case within my recollection.
Simple as it was, there were several most instructive points about
it."

"Simple!" I ejaculated.

"Well, really, it can hardly be described as otherwise," said
Sherlock Holmes, smiling at my surprise. "The proof of its intrinsic
simplicity is, that without any help save a few very ordinary
deductions I was able to lay my hand upon the criminal within three
days."

"That is true," said I.

"I have already explained to you that what is out of the common is
usually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this
sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a
very useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not
practise it much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful
to reason forwards, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are
fifty who can reason synthetically for one who can reason
analytically."

"I confess," said I, "that I do not quite follow you."

"I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make it
clearer. Most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will
tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together
in their minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass.
There are few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would
be able to evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps
were which led up to that result. This power is what I mean when I
talk of reasoning backwards, or analytically."

"I understand," said I.

"Now this was a case in which you were given the result and had to
find everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you
the different steps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I
approached the house, as you know, on foot, and with my mind entirely
free from all impressions. I naturally began by examining the
roadway, and there, as I have already explained to you, I saw clearly
the marks of a cab, which, I ascertained by inquiry, must have been
there during the night. I satisfied myself that it was a cab and not
a private carriage by the narrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary
London growler is considerably less wide than a gentleman's brougham.

"This was the first point gained. I then walked slowly down the
garden path, which happened to be composed of a clay soil, peculiarly
suitable for taking impressions. No doubt it appeared to you to be a
mere trampled line of slush, but to my trained eyes every mark upon
its surface had a meaning. There is no branch of detective science
which is so important and so much neglected as the art of tracing
footsteps. Happily, I have always laid great stress upon it, and much
practice has made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks
of the constables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had
first passed through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had
been before the others, because in places their marks had been
entirely obliterated by the others coming upon the top of them. In
this way my second link was formed, which told me that the nocturnal
visitors were two in number, one remarkable for his height (as I
calculated from the length of his stride), and the other fashionably
dressed, to judge from the small and elegant impression left by his
boots.

"On entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My
well-booted man lay before me. The tall one, then, had done the
murder, if murder there was. There was no wound upon the dead man's
person, but the agitated expression upon his face assured me that he
had foreseen his fate before it came upon him. Men who die from heart
disease, or any sudden natural cause, never by any chance exhibit
agitation upon their features. Having sniffed the dead man's lips I
detected a slightly sour smell, and I came to the conclusion that he
had had poison forced upon him. Again, I argued that it had been
forced upon him from the hatred and fear expressed upon his face. By
the method of exclusion, I had arrived at this result, for no other
hypothesis would meet the facts. Do not imagine that it was a very
unheard of idea. The forcible administration of poison is by no means
a new thing in criminal annals. The cases of Dolsky in Odessa, and of
Leturier in Montpellier, will occur at once to any toxicologist.

"And now came the great question as to the reason why. Robbery had
not been the object of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it
politics, then, or was it a woman? That was the question which
confronted me. I was inclined from the first to the latter
supposition. Political assassins are only too glad to do their work
and to fly. This murder had, on the contrary, been done most
deliberately, and the perpetrator had left his tracks all over the
room, showing that he had been there all the time. It must have been
a private wrong, and not a political one, which called for such a
methodical revenge. When the inscription was discovered upon the wall
I was more inclined than ever to my opinion. The thing was too
evidently a blind. When the ring was found, however, it settled the
question. Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his victim of
some dead or absent woman. It was at this point that I asked Gregson
whether he had enquired in his telegram to Cleveland as to any
particular point in Mr. Drebber's former career. He answered, you
remember, in the negative.

"I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, which
confirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer's height, and furnished
me with the additional details as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the
length of his nails. I had already come to the conclusion, since
there were no signs of a struggle, that the blood which covered the
floor had burst from the murderer's nose in his excitement. I could
perceive that the track of blood coincided with the track of his
feet. It is seldom that any man, unless he is very full-blooded,
breaks out in this way through emotion, so I hazarded the opinion
that the criminal was probably a robust and ruddy-faced man. Events
proved that I had judged correctly.

"Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had neglected.
I telegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland, limiting my
enquiry to the circumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch
Drebber. The answer was conclusive. It told me that Drebber had
already applied for the protection of the law against an old rival in
love, named Jefferson Hope, and that this same Hope was at present in
Europe. I knew now that I held the clue to the mystery in my hand,
and all that remained was to secure the murderer.

"I had already determined in my own mind that the man who had walked
into the house with Drebber, was none other than the man who had
driven the cab. The marks in the road showed me that the horse had
wandered on in a way which would have been impossible had there been
anyone in charge of it. Where, then, could the driver be, unless he
were inside the house? Again, it is absurd to suppose that any sane
man would carry out a deliberate crime under the very eyes, as it
were, of a third person, who was sure to betray him. Lastly,
supposing one man wished to dog another through London, what better
means could he adopt than to turn cabdriver. All these considerations
led me to the irresistible conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be
found among the jarveys of the Metropolis.

"If he had been one there was no reason to believe that he had ceased
to be. On the contrary, from his point of view, any sudden chance
would be likely to draw attention to himself. He would, probably, for
a time at least, continue to perform his duties. There was no reason
to suppose that he was going under an assumed name. Why should he
change his name in a country where no one knew his original one? I
therefore organized my Street Arab detective corps, and sent them
systematically to every cab proprietor in London until they ferreted
out the man that I wanted. How well they succeeded, and how quickly I
took advantage of it, are still fresh in your recollection. The
murder of Stangerson was an incident which was entirely unexpected,
but which could hardly in any case have been prevented. Through it,
as you know, I came into possession of the pills, the existence of
which I had already surmised. You see the whole thing is a chain of
logical sequences without a break or flaw."

"It is wonderful!" I cried. "Your merits should be publicly
recognized. You should publish an account of the case. If you won't,
I will for you."

"You may do what you like, Doctor," he answered. "See here!" he
continued, handing a paper over to me, "look at this!"

It was the Echo for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed
was devoted to the case in question.

"The public," it said, "have lost a sensational treat through the
sudden death of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr.
Enoch Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case
will probably be never known now, though we are informed upon good
authority that the crime was the result of an old standing and
romantic feud, in which love and Mormonism bore a part. It seems that
both the victims belonged, in their younger days, to the Latter Day
Saints, and Hope, the deceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake
City. If the case has had no other effect, it, at least, brings out
in the most striking manner the efficiency of our detective police
force, and will serve as a lesson to all foreigners that they will do
wisely to settle their feuds at home, and not to carry them on to
British soil. It is an open secret that the credit of this smart
capture belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials,
Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was apprehended, it appears, in
the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who has himself, as an
amateur, shown some talent in the detective line, and who, with such
instructors, may hope in time to attain to some degree of their
skill. It is expected that a testimonial of some sort will be
presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition of their
services."

"Didn't I tell you so when we started?" cried Sherlock Holmes with a
laugh. "That's the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a
testimonial!"

"Never mind," I answered, "I have all the facts in my journal, and
the public shall know them. In the meantime you must make yourself
contented by the consciousness of success, like the Roman miser--

"'Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo
Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca.'"






THE SIGN OF THE FOUR





Table of contents
The Science of Deduction
The Statement of the Case
In Quest of a Solution
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man
The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge
Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration
The Episode of the Barrel
The Baker Street Irregulars
A Break in the Chain
The End of the Islander
The Great Agra Treasure
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small















CHAPTER I
The Science of Deduction


Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece
and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long,
white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled
back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested
thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred
with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point
home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the
velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance,
but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from
day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my
conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked
the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I
should deliver my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the
cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with
whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His
great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had
of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and
backward in crossing him.

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken
with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme
deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no
longer.

"Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"

He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which
he had opened. "It is cocaine," he said,--"a seven-per-cent solution.
Would you care to try it?"

"No, indeed," I answered, brusquely. "My constitution has not got
over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra
strain upon it."

He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said.
"I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it,
however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind
that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

"But consider!" I said, earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may,
as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and
morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at
last leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction
comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why
should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great
powers with which you have been endowed?  Remember that I speak not
only as one comrade to another, but as a medical man to one for whose
constitution he is to some extent answerable."

He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his fingertips
together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who
has a relish for conversation.

"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me
work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate
analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then
with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of
existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen
my own particular profession,--or rather created it, for I am the
only one in the world."

"The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

"The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered.  "I am the
last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson or
Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths--which, by the
way, is their normal state--the matter is laid before me. I examine
the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion. I claim
no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work
itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my
highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my
methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case."

"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything
in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat
fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"

He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.  "Honestly, I
cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an
exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional
manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which
produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an
elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with
the facts."

"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of
proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the
case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from
effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it."

I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially
designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the
egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should
be devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years
that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small
vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner. I made no
remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail
bullet through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me
from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather.

"My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes,
after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted
last week by Francois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come
rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has
all the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the
wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher
developments of his art. The case was concerned with a will, and
possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer him to two
parallel cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis
in 1871, which have suggested to him the true solution. Here is the
letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance." He
tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I
glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration,
with stray magnifiques, coup-de-maîtres and tours-de-force, all
testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman.

"He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.

"Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes,
lightly. "He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of
the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the
power of observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in
knowledge; and that may come in time. He is now translating my small
works into French."

"Your works?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have been guilty
of several monographs. They are all upon technical subjects. Here,
for example, is one 'Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the
Various Tobaccoes.' In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of
cigar-, cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with colored plates
illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a point which is
continually turning up in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of
supreme importance as a clue. If you can say definitely, for example,
that some murder has been done by a man who was smoking an Indian
lunkah, it obviously narrows your field of search. To the trained eye
there is as much difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly
and the white fluff of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a
potato."

"You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae," I remarked.

"I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon the tracing
of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as
a preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon
the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes
of the hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, weavers,
and diamond-polishers. That is a matter of great practical interest
to the scientific detective,--especially in cases of unclaimed
bodies, or in discovering the antecedents of criminals. But I weary
you with my hobby."

"Not at all," I answered, earnestly. "It is of the greatest interest
to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your
practical application of it. But you spoke just now of observation
and deduction. Surely the one to some extent implies the other."

"Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his armchair,
and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For example,
observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street
Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there
you dispatched a telegram."

"Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don't
see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and
I have mentioned it to no one."

"It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my
surprise,--"so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous;
and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of
deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould
adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they
have taken up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in
such a way that it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering.
The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as
I know, nowhere else in the neighborhood. So much is observation. The
rest is deduction."

"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"

"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat
opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open desk there that
you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of postcards.  What
could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire?
Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the
truth."

"In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought.
"The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest.  Would you
think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe
test?"

"On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a
second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any
problem which you might submit to me."

"I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any
object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality
upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I
have here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would
you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or
habits of the late owner?"

I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in
my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I
intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he
occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard
at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his
naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep
from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case
to and handed it back.

"There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been
recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts."

"You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to
me." In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most
lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he
expect from an uncleaned watch?

"Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he
observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes.
"Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged
to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father."

"That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"

"Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is
nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so
it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descents to the
eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the
father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years.
It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother."

"Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?"

"He was a man of untidy habits,--very untidy and careless. He was
left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for
some time in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity,
and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather."

I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with
considerable bitterness in my heart.

"This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have believed
that you would have descended to this. You have made inquires into
the history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this
knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me to believe that
you have read all this from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to
speak plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it."

"My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies.
Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how
personal and painful a thing it might be to you. I assure you,
however, that I never even knew that you had a brother until you
handed me the watch."

"Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these
facts? They are absolutely correct in every particular."

"Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was the balance of
probability. I did not at all expect to be so accurate."

"But it was not mere guess-work?"

"No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking habit,--destructive to the
logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because you do
not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which
large inferences may depend. For example, I began by stating that
your brother was careless. When you observe the lower part of that
watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted in two places, but
it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard
objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely it is no
great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so
cavalierly must be a careless man. Neither is it a very far-fetched
inference that a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty
well provided for in other respects."

I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.

"It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a
watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the
inside of the case. It is more handy than a label, as there is no
risk of the number being lost or transposed. There are no less than
four such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case.
Inference,--that your brother was often at low water. Secondary
inference,--that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could
not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner
plate, which contains the key-hole. Look at the thousands of
scratches all round the hole,--marks where the key has slipped. What
sober man's key could have scored those grooves? But you will never
see a drunkard's watch without them. He winds it at night, and he
leaves these traces of his unsteady hand. Where is the mystery in all
this?"

"It is as clear as daylight," I answered. "I regret the injustice
which I did you. I should have had more faith in your marvellous
faculty. May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on foot
at present?"

"None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without brain-work. What else
is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a
dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls
down the street and drifts across the duncolored houses. What could
be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having
powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime
is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those
which are commonplace have any function upon earth."

I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade, when with a crisp
knock our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver.

"A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my companion.

"Miss Mary Morstan," he read. "Hum! I have no recollection of the
name. Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson. Don't go, doctor. I
should prefer that you remain."





CHAPTER II
The Statement of the Case


Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward
composure of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well
gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a
plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore with it a
suggestion of limited means. The dress was a sombre grayish beige,
untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull
hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather in the side. Her
face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but
her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were
singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of women which
extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never
looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and
sensitive nature. I could not but observe that as she took the seat
which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her hand
quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward agitation.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled
my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic
complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."

"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully. "I believe that I
was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember
it, was a very simple one."

"She did not think so. But at least you cannot say the same of mine.
I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly
inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself."

Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He leaned forward in
his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his
clear-cut, hawklike features. "State your case," said he, in brisk,
business tones.

I felt that my position was an embarrassing one. "You will, I am
sure, excuse me," I said, rising from my chair.

To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain me.
"If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop, he might
be of inestimable service to me."

I relapsed into my chair.

"Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these. My father was an
officer in an Indian regiment who sent me home when I was quite a
child. My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England. I was
placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at
Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was seventeen years of age.
In the year 1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment,
obtained twelve months' leave and came home. He telegraphed to me
from London that he had arrived all safe, and directed me to come
down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as his address. His message,
as I remember, was full of kindness and love. On reaching London I
drove to the Langham, and was informed that Captain Morstan was
staying there, but that he had gone out the night before and had not
yet returned. I waited all day without news of him. That night, on
the advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the
police, and next morning we advertised in all the papers. Our
inquiries let to no result; and from that day to this no word has
ever been heard of my unfortunate father. He came home with his heart
full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and instead--" She
put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short the sentence.

"The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note-book.

"He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 1878,--nearly ten years
ago."

"His luggage?"

"Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to suggest a
clue,--some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of
curiosities from the Andaman Islands. He had been one of the officers
in charge of the convict-guard there."

"Had he any friends in town?"

"Only one that we know of,--Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the
34th Bombay Infantry. The major had retired some little time before,
and lived at Upper Norwood. We communicated with him, of course, but
he did not even know that his brother officer was in England."

"A singular case," remarked Holmes.

"I have not yet described to you the most singular part. About six
years ago--to be exact, upon the 4th of May, 1882--an advertisement
appeared in the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan and
stating that it would be to her advantage to come forward. There was
no name or address appended. I had at that time just entered the
family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her
advice I published my address in the advertisement column. The same
day there arrived through the post a small card-board box addressed
to me, which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No
word of writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the same
date there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar
pearl, without any clue as to the sender. They have been pronounced
by an expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You
can see for yourselves that they are very handsome." She opened a
flat box as she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls that I
had ever seen.

"Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Has
anything else occurred to you?"

"Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I have come to you.  This
morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for
yourself."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "The envelope too, please. Postmark,
London, S.W. Date, July 7. Hum! Man's thumb-mark on corner,--probably
postman. Best quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence a packet.
Particular man in his stationery. No address. 'Be at the third pillar
from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o'clock.
If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman,
and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be
in vain. Your unknown friend.' Well, really, this is a very pretty
little mystery.  What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?"

"That is exactly what I want to ask you."

"Then we shall most certainly go. You and I and--yes, why, Dr.
Watson is the very man. Your correspondent says two friends. He and I
have worked together before."

"But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her voice
and expression.

"I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of any
service."

"You are both very kind," she answered. "I have led a retired life,
and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six it
will do, I suppose?"

"You must not be later," said Holmes. "There is one other point,
however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box
addresses?"

"I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of
paper.

"You are certainly a model client. You have the correct intuition.
Let us see, now." He spread out the papers upon the table, and gave
little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised
hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no
question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek e will
break out, and see the twirl of the final s. They are undoubtedly by
the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss
Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of
your father?"

"Nothing could be more unlike."

"I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you, then, at
six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into the matter
before then. It is only half-past three. Au revoir, then."

"Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from
one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and
hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly
down the street, until the gray turban and white feather were but a
speck in the sombre crowd.

"What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion.

He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping
eyelids. "Is she?" he said, languidly. "I did not observe."

"You really are an automaton,--a calculating-machine!" I cried.
"There is something positively inhuman in you at times."

He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to
allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is
to me a mere unit,--a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities
are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most
winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little
children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my
acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a
million upon the London poor."

"In this case, however--"

"I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you
ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make
of this fellow's scribble?"

"It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man of business habits
and some force of character."

Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They
hardly rise above the common herd. That d might be an a, and that l
an e. Men of character always differentiate their long letters,
however illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his k's and
self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few
references to make. Let me recommend this book,--one of the most
remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man. I
shall be back in an hour."

I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were
far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our
late visitor,--her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the
strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the
time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty
now,--a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and
become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused, until such
dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk
and plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What
was I, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account,
that I should dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a
factor,--nothing more. If my future were black, it was better surely
to face it like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere
will-o'-the-wisps of the imagination.





CHAPTER III
In Quest of a Solution


It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager,
and in excellent spirits,--a mood which in his case alternated with
fits of the blackest depression.

"There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup
of tea which I had poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of
only one explanation."

"What! you have solved it already?"

"Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive
fact, that is all. It is, however, very suggestive. The details are
still to be added. I have just found, on consulting the back files of
the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the 34th
Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."

"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."

"No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain Morstan
disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is
Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London.
Four years later Sholto dies. Within a week of his death Captain
Morstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated
from year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her
as a wronged woman. What wrong can it refer to except this
deprivation of her father? And why should the presents begin
immediately after Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir
knows something of the mystery and desires to make compensation? Have
you any alternative theory which will meet the facts?"

"But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made! Why, too,
should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the
letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she have? It is
too much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no other
injustice in her case that you know of."

"There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said
Sherlock Holmes, pensively. "But our expedition of to-night will
solve them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is
inside. Are you all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a
little past the hour."

I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes
took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It
was clear that he thought that our night's work might be a serious
one.

Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was
composed, but pale. She must have been more than woman if she did not
feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were
embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered
the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

"Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said. "His
letters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa were in
command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a
great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was found in papa's
desk which no one could understand. I don't suppose that it is of the
slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it, so I
brought it with me. It is here."

Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his
knee. He then very methodically examined it all over with his double
lens.

"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked. "It has at
some time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it appears to be a
plan of part of a large building with numerous halls, corridors, and
passages. At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and above it
is '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-writing.  In the left-hand
corner is a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line with
their arms touching. Beside it is written, in very rough and coarse
characters, 'The sign of the four,--Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh,
Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.' No, I confess that I do not see how this
bears upon the matter. Yet it is evidently a document of importance.
It has been kept carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as
clean as the other."

"It was in his pocket-book that we found it."

"Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of
use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be
much deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must
reconsider my ideas." He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by
his drawn brow and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently. Miss
Morstan and I chatted in an undertone about our present expedition
and its possible outcome, but our companion maintained his
impenetrable reserve until the end of our journey.

It was a September evening, and not yet seven o'clock, but the day
had been a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great
city. Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets. Down
the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light which
threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The yellow
glare from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous
air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded
thoroughfare. There was, to my mind, something eerie and ghost-like
in the endless procession of faces which flitted across these narrow
bars of light,--sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all human
kind, they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into
the gloom once more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull,
heavy evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged,
combined to make me nervous and depressed. I could see from Miss
Morstan's manner that she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes
alone could rise superior to petty influences. He held his open
note-book upon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down figures
and memoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.

At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the
side-entrances. In front a continuous stream of hansoms and
four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of
shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly
reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small,
dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.

"Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked.

"I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said
she.

He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon
us. "You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain dogged manner,
"but I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your
companions is a police-officer."

"I give you my word on that," she answered.

He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a
four-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had addressed us
mounted to the box, while we took our places inside. We had hardly
done so before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away
at a furious pace through the foggy streets.

The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown place,
on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a complete
hoax,--which was an inconceivable hypothesis,--or else we had good
reason to think that important issues might hang upon our journey.
Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I
endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures
in Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at
our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories
were slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one
moving anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of
night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it. At first I
had some idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon,
what with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London,
I lost my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going
a very long way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he
muttered the names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out
by tortuous by-streets.

"Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on the
Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side, apparently.
Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpses
of the river."

We did indeed bet a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with the
lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on,
and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.

"Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane.
Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not
appear to take us to very fashionable regions."

We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.
Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse
glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came
rows of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden,
and then again interminable lines of new staring brick
buildings,--the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing
out into the country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a
new terrace. None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at
which we stopped was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single
glimmer in the kitchen window. On our knocking, however, the door was
instantly thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban,
white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something
strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the
commonplace door-way of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.

"The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a
high piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me,
khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me."





CHAPTER IV
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man


We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill lit and
worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he
threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the
centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a
bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining
scalp which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from
fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his
features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but
never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip,
and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove
feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part
of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the
impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his
thirtieth year.

"Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high
voice. "Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A
small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking.  An oasis of art
in the howling desert of South London."

We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which
he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a
diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and
glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back
here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental
vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that
the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great
tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern
luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner. A
lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost
invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it
filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odor.

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and
smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these
gentlemen--"

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."

"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope?
Might I ask you--would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as
to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may
rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."

I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find
anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he
shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You
have no cause for uneasiness."

"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily.  "I
am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve.
I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father,
Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he
might have been alive now."

I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan
sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart
that he was dead," said she.

"I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I
can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may
say. I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to
you, but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The
three of us can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us
have no outsiders,--no police or officials. We can settle everything
satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing
would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity." He sat down
upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery
blue eyes.

"For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go
no further."

I nodded to show my agreement.

"That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I offer you a glass of
Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I
open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to
tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco. I am
a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative." He
applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our
heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange,
jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in
the centre.

"When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he,
"I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might
disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the
liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my
man Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete
confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were
dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse
these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring, and I might
even say refined, tastes, and there is nothing more unaesthetic than
a policeman. I have a natural shrinking from all forms of rough
materialism. I seldom come in contact with the rough crowd. I live,
as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may
call myself a patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The landscape is
a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a
doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question
about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school."

"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here
at your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is
very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as
possible."

"At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall
certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall
all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is
very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to
me. I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine
what a terrible fellow he is when he is angry."

"If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at
once," I ventured to remark.

He laughed until his ears were quite red. "That would hardly do," he
cried. "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that
sudden way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to
each other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are
several points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only
lay the facts before you as far as I know them myself.

"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of
the Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live
at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and
brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection
of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these
advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My
twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

"I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers,
and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed
the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations
as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect
that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,--that of all
men he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

"We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive
danger--overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out alone,
and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at
Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them.
He was once light-weight champion of England. Our father would never
tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to
men with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver
at a wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman
canvassing for orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter
up. My brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's,
but events have since led us to change our opinion.

"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a
great shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he
opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in
the letter we could never discover, but I could see as he held it
that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered
for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse,
and towards the end of April we were informed that he was beyond all
hope, and that he wished to make a last communication to us.

"When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and
breathing heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon
either side of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a
remarkable statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much by
emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you in his own very
words.

"'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this
supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan. The
cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has
withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which should have
been hers. And yet I have made no use of it myself,--so blind and
foolish a thing is avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been
so dear to me that I could not bear to share it with another. See
that chaplet dipped with pearls beside the quinine-bottle. Even that
I could not bear to part with, although I had got it out with the
design of sending it to her. You, my sons, will give her a fair share
of the Agra treasure. But send her nothing--not even the
chaplet--until I am gone. After all, men have been as bad as this and
have recovered.

"'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued. 'He had suffered
for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one. I
alone knew it. When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of
circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure. I
brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he
came straight over here to claim his share. He walked over from the
station, and was admitted by my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is now
dead. Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of
the treasure, and we came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of
his chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand
to his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backwards,
cutting his head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I
stooped over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

"'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I should do.
My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could
not but recognize that there was every chance that I would be accused
of his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in
his head, would be black against me. Again, an official inquiry could
not be made without bringing out some facts about the treasure, which
I was particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no
soul upon earth knew where he had gone. There seemed to be no
necessity why any soul ever should know.

"'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my
servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and bolted the door
behind him. "Do not fear, Sahib," he said. "No one need know that you
have killed him. Let us hide him away, and who is the wiser?" "I did
not kill him," said I. Lal Chowdar shook his head and smiled. "I
heard it all, Sahib," said he. "I heard you quarrel, and I heard the
blow. But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in the house. Let us put
him away together." That was enough to decide met. If my own servant
could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good
before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box? Lal Chowdar and I
disposed of the body that night, and within a few days the London
papers were full of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan.
You will see from what I say that I can hardly be blamed in the
matter. My fault lies in the fact that we concealed not only the
body, but also the treasure, and that I have clung to Morstan's share
as well as to my own. I wish you, therefore, to make restitution. Put
your ears down to my mouth. The treasure is hidden in--At this
instant a horrible change came over his expression; his eyes stared
wildly, his jaw dropped, and he yelled, in a voice which I can never
forget, 'Keep him out! For Christ's sake keep him out'! We both
stared round at the window behind us upon which his gaze was fixed. A
face was looking in at us out of the darkness. We could see the
whitening of the nose where it was pressed against the glass. It was
a bearded, hairy face, with wild cruel eyes and an expression of
concentrated malevolence. My brother and I rushed towards the window,
but the man was gone. When we returned to my father his head had
dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.

"We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the
intruder, save that just under the window a single footmark was
visible in the flower-bed. But for that one trace, we might have
thought that our imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face.
We soon, however, had another and a more striking proof that there
were secret agencies at work all round us. The window of my father's
room was found open in the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been
rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a torn piece of paper, with the
words 'The sign of the four' scrawled across it. What the phrase
meant, or who our secret visitor may have been, we never knew. As far
as we can judge, none of my father's property had been actually
stolen, though everything had been turned out. My brother and I
naturally associated this peculiar incident with the fear which
haunted my father during his life; but it is still a complete mystery
to us."

The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed thoughtfully
for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed, listening to his
extraordinary narrative. At the short account of her father's death
Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and for a moment I feared that
she was about to faint. She rallied however, on drinking a glass of
water which I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe upon
the side-table. Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an
abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over his glittering
eyes. As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day
he had complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here at
least was a problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost. Mr.
Thaddeus Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious
pride at the effect which his story had produced, and then continued
between the puffs of his overgrown pipe.

"My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may imagine, much excited
as to the treasure which my father had spoken of. For weeks and for
months we dug and delved in every part of the garden, without
discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to think that the
hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment that he died. We
could judge the splendor of the missing riches by the chaplet which
he had taken out. Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had
some little discussion. The pearls were evidently of great value, and
he was averse to part with them, for, between friends, my brother was
himself a little inclined to my father's fault. He thought, too, that
if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip and
finally bring us into trouble. It was all that I could do to persuade
him to let me find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a detached
pearl at fixed intervals, so that at least she might never feel
destitute."

"It was a kindly thought," said our companion, earnestly. "It was
extremely good of you."

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. "We were your trustees,"
he said. "That was the view which I took of it, though Brother
Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty
of money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it would have been
such bad taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy a fashion.
'Le mauvais goût mène au crime.' The French have a very neat way of
putting these things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went
so far that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself: so I left
Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with me.
Yesterday, however, I learn that an event of extreme importance has
occurred. The treasure has been discovered. I instantly communicated
with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive out to Norwood
and demand our share. I explained my views last night to Brother
Bartholomew: so we shall be expected, if not welcome, visitors."

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious
settee. We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new
development which the mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the
first to spring to his feet.

"You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he. "It is
possible that we may be able to make you some small return by
throwing some light upon that which is still dark to you. But, as
Miss Morstan remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the
matter through without delay."

Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his
hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged
topcoat with Astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up,
in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his
attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which
covered the ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile
and peaky face. "My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked, as he
led the way down the passage. "I am compelled to be a
valetudinarian."

Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was evidently
prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace.
Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above
the rattle of the wheels.

"Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he. "How do you think he found
out where the treasure was? He had come to the conclusion that it was
somewhere indoors: so he worked out all the cubic space of the house,
and made measurements everywhere, so that not one inch should be
unaccounted for. Among other things, he found that the height of the
building was seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights of
all the separate rooms, and making every allowance for the space
between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the
total to more than seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted
for. These could only be at the top of the building. He knocked a
hole, therefore, in the lath-and-plaster ceiling of the highest room,
and there, sure enough, he came upon another little garret above it,
which had been sealed up and was known to no one. In the centre stood
the treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters. He lowered it through
the hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of the jewels at
not less than half a million sterling."

At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another
open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would change
from a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely it
was the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news; yet I am
ashamed to say that selfishness took me by the soul, and that my
heart turned as heavy as lead within me. I stammered out some few
halting words of congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my head
drooped, deaf to the babble of our new acquaintance. He was clearly a
confirmed hypochondriac, and I was dreamily conscious that he was
pouring forth interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring
information as to the composition and action of innumerable quack
nostrums, some of which he bore about in a leather case in his
pocket. I trust that he may not remember any of the answers which I
gave him that night. Holmes declares that he overheard me caution him
against the great danger of taking more than two drops of castor oil,
while I recommended strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However
that may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab pulled up with a
jerk and the coachman sprang down to open the door.

"This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,
as he handed her out.





CHAPTER V
The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge


It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our
night's adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great city behind
us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the
westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a
moon peeping occasionally through the rifts. It was clear enough to
see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the
side-lamps from the carriage to give us a better light upon our way.

Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round with a
very high stone wall topped with broken glass. A single narrow
iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On this our
guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

"It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time."

There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys. The
door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the
opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his
protruded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.

"That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no orders
about them from the master."

"No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother last night that I
should bring some friends.

"He ain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no
orders. You know very well that I must stick to regulations. I can
let you in, but your friends must just stop where they are."

This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in
a perplexed and helpless manner. "This is too bad of you, McMurdo!"
he said. "If I guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is the
young lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road at this hour."

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably. "Folk may be
friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's. He pays me well
to do my duty, and my duty I'll do. I don't know none o' your
friends."

"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially. "I don't
think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember the amateur who
fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the night of your
benefit four years back?"

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth!
how could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin' there so quiet
you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under
the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that
has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you
had joined the fancy."

"You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the
scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our
friend won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."

"In you come, sir, in you come,--you and your friends," he answered.
"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be
certain of your friends before I let them in."

Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump
of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a
moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast
size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck
a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and
the lantern quivered and rattled in his hand.

"I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake. I
distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is
no light in his window. I do not know what to make of it."

"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

"Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He was the favorite son,
you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more
than he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's window up there where the
moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there is no light from
within, I think."

"None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that little
window beside the door."

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs. Bernstone
sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind
waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together and
she has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. But hush! what is
that?"

He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light
flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and
we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great
black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest and
most pitiful of sounds,--the shrill, broken whimpering of a
frightened woman.

"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the only woman in the
house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment." He hurried for the
door, and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman
admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.

"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you
have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!" We heard her reiterated rejoicings
until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled
monotone.

Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round, and
peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which
cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand
was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two
who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word
or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of
trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have
marvelled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural
thing that I should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me,
there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and
protection. So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there
was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.

"What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in
it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near
Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work."

"And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the
treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking
for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit."

At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto
came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his
eyes.

"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am
frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half
blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from
the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a
terrified child.

"Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.

"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to
giving directions."

We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the
left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down
with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of
Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her.

"God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob.
"It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this
day!"

Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few
words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the color back into the
others bloodless cheeks.

"Master has locked himself in and will now answer me," she explained.
"All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be
alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went
up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go up, Mr.
Thaddeus,--you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr.
Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I
never saw him with such a face on him as that."

Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto's
teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he that I had to
pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees
were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his
lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to
me to be mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting
which served as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step,
holding the lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss
Morstan had remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some
length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it
and three doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same
slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our
long black shadows streaming backwards down the corridor. The third
door was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving
any answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It
was locked on the inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt,
as we could see when we set our lamp up against it. The key being
turned, however, the hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes
bent down to it, and instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of
the breath.

"There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved
than I had ever before seen him. "What do you make of it?"

I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was
streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty
radiance. Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the
air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a face,--the very face
of our companion Thaddeus. There was the same high, shining head, the
same circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance.
The features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and
unnatural grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more jarring
to the nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to
that of our little friend that I looked round at him to make sure
that he was indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had
mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins.

"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"

"The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he
put all his weight upon the lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not
yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time
it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within
Bartholomew Sholto's chamber.

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double
line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite
the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners,
test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid in
wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken,
for a stream of dark-colored liquid had trickled out from it, and the
air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor. A set of
steps stood at one side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath
and plaster, and above them there was an opening in the ceiling large
enough for a man to pass through. At the foot of the steps a long
coil of rope was thrown carelessly together.

By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was
seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and
that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold,
and had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that not only
his features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most
fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar
instrument,--a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a
hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it was a torn
sheet of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced
at it, and then handed it to me.

"You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The
sign of the four."

"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

"It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man. "Ah, I
expected it. Look here!" He pointed to what looked like a long, dark
thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

"It looks like a thorn," said I.

"It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is
poisoned."

I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin
so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of
blood showed where the puncture had been.

"This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. "It grows darker
instead of clearer."

"On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant. I only
require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case."

We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the
chamber. He was still standing in the door-way, the very picture of
terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly, however,
he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

"The treasure is gone!" he said. "They have robbed him of the
treasure! There is the hole through which we lowered it. I helped him
to do it! I was the last person who saw him! I left him here last
night, and I heard him lock the door as I came down-stairs."

"What time was that?"

"It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and the police will be
called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh,
yes, I am sure I shall. But you don't think so, gentlemen? Surely you
don't think that it was I? Is it likely that I would have brought you
here if it were I? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that I shall go mad!"
He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive
frenzy.

"You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly,
putting his hand upon his shoulder. "Take my advice, and drive down
to the station to report this matter to the police. Offer to assist
them in every way. We shall wait here until your return."

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him
stumbling down the stairs in the dark.





CHAPTER VI
Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration


"Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour
to ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told
you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of
over-confidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something
deeper underlying it."

"Simple!" I ejaculated.

"Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor
expounding to his class. "Just sit in the corner there, that your
footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first
place, how did these folk come, and how did they go? The door has not
been opened since last night. How of the window?" He carried the lamp
across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but
addressing them to himself rather than to me. "Window is snibbed on
the inner side. Framework is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us
open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has
mounted by the window. It rained a little last night. Here is the
print of a foot in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy
mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. See
here, Watson! This is really a very pretty demonstration."

I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs. "This is not a
footmark," said I.

"It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a
wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot
with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the
timber-toe."

"It is the wooden-legged man."

"Quite so. But there has been some one else,--a very able and
efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?"

I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on
that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground,
and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a
crevice in the brick-work.

"It is absolutely impossible," I answered.

"Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who
lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing
one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you
were an active man, you might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would
depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up
the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the
inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor
point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our
wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional
sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than
one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I
gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin
off his hand."

"This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more
unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he
into the room?"

"Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of
interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the
commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals
of crime in this country,--though parallel cases suggest themselves
from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia."

"How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is
inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?"

"The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered
that possibility."

"How then?" I persisted.

"You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How
often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible
whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? We know that
he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also
know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is
no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?"

"He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.

"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the
kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches
to the room above,--the secret room in which the treasure was found."

He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he
swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached
down for the lamp and held it while I followed him.

The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way
and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin
lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from
beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner
shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any
sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.

"Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand
against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to
the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping
at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One
entered. Let us see if we can find one other traces of his
individuality."

He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the
second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face.
For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes.
The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked
foot,--clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the
size of those of an ordinary man.

"Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing."

He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered
for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory
failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is
nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down."

"What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly,
when we had regained the lower room once more.

"My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a
touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be
instructive to compare results."

"I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered.

"It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way.
"I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will
look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about
the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long
thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes
gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and
furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound
picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible
criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity
against the law, instead of exerting them in its defense. As he
hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out
into a loud crow of delight.

"We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little
trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the
creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here
at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked,
You see, and the stuff has leaked out."

"What then?" I asked.

"Why, we have got him, that's all," said he. "I know a dog that would
follow that scent to the world's end. If a pack can track a trailed
herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow
so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of
three. The answer should give us the--But halloo! here are the
accredited representatives of the law."

Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below,
and the hall door shut with a loud crash.

"Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this
poor fellow's arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?"

"The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.

"Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding
the usual rigor mortis. Coupled with this distortion of the face,
this Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old writers
called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?"

"Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered,--"some
strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."

"That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn
muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for
the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I
discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force
into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would
be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in
his chair. Now examine the thorn."

I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was
long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though
some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been
trimmed and rounded off with a knife.

"Is that an English thorn?" he asked.

"No, it certainly is not."

"With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference.
But here are the regulars: so the auxiliary forces may beat a
retreat."

As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on
the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode
heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a
pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from
between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an
inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.

"Here's a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here's a
pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as
full as a rabbit-warren!"

"I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes,
quietly.

"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the
theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on
causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It's
true you set us on the right track; but you'll own now that it was
more by good luck than good guidance."

"It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

"Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all
this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here,--no room for
theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another
case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d'you think
the man died of?"

"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes,
dryly.

"No, no. Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a
million missing. How was the window?"

"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

"Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do
with the matter. That's common sense. Man might have died in a fit;
but then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes
come upon me at times.--Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr.
Sholto. Your friend can remain.--What do you think of this, Holmes?
Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The
brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure.
How's that?"

"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door
on the inside."

"Hum! There's a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter.
This Thaddeus Sholto was with his brother; there was a quarrel; so
much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much
also we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him.
His bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most
disturbed state of mind. His appearance is--well, not attractive. You
see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close
upon him."

"You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes.
"This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be
poisoned, was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this
card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay
this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit
into your theory?"

"Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously.
"House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and
if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made
murderous use of it as any other man. The card is some
hocus-pocus,--a blind, as like as not. The only question is, how did
he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof." With great
activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed
through into the garret, and immediately afterwards we heard his
exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trap-door.

"He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders.
"He has occasional glimmerings of reason. Il n'y a pas des sots si
incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!"

"You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again.
"Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case
is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and
it is partly open."

"It was I who opened it."

"Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little crestfallen
at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our
gentleman got away. Inspector!"

"Yes, sir," from the passage.

"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.--Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to
inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you.
I arrest you in the Queen's name as being concerned in the death of
your brother."

"There, now! Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing
out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.

"Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes. "I think
that I can engage to clear you of the charge."

"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist,--don't promise too much!"
snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you
think."

"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free
present of the name and description of one of the two people who were
in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is
Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his
right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the
inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an
iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned,
and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some
assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of
skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other man--"

"Ah! the other man--?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but
impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of
the other's manner.

"Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his
heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the
pair of them. A word with you, Watson."

He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence,"
he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose
of our journey."

"I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that
Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."

"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester,
in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here
if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"

"By no means. I don't think I could rest until I know more of this
fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life,
but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange
surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like,
however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so
far."

"Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We
shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to
exult over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct. When you
have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane,
down near the water's edge at Lambeth. The third house on the
right-hand side is a bird-stuffer's: Sherman is the name. You will
see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman
up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You
will bring Toby back in the cab with you."

"A dog, I suppose."

"Yes,--a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would
rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of
London."

"I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back
before three, if I can get a fresh horse."

"And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs.
Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me,
sleeps in the next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones's
methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms. 'Wir sind
gewohnt, daß die Menschen verhöhnen was sie nicht verstehen.' Goethe
is always pithy."





CHAPTER VII
The Episode of the Barrel


The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss
Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had
borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker
than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the
side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first
turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping,--so sorely
had she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me
since that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She
little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of
self-restraint which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out
to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the
conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave
nature as had this one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two
thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my lips. She was
weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a
disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still,
she was rich. If Holmes's researches were successful, she would be an
heiress. Was it fair, was it honorable, that a half-pay surgeon
should take such advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought
about? Might she not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I
could not bear to risk that such a thought should cross her mind.
This Agra treasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us.

It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The
servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so
interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received
that she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door
herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how
tenderly her arm stole round the other's waist and how motherly was
the voice in which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid
dependant, but an honored friend. I was introduced, and Mrs.
Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and tell her our adventures.
I explained, however, the importance of my errand, and promised
faithfully to call and report any progress which we might make with
the case. As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to
see that little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging
figures, the half-opened door, the hall light shining through stained
glass, the barometer, and the bright stair-rods. It was soothing to
catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the
midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.

And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it
grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I
rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets. There was the original
problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain
Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the
letter,--we had had light upon all those events. They had only led
us, however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian
treasure, the curious plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange
scene at Major Sholto's death, the rediscovery of the treasure
immediately followed by the murder of the discoverer, the very
singular accompaniments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable
weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding with those upon
Captain Morstan's chart,--here was indeed a labyrinth in which a man
less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair of
ever finding the clue.

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the
lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3
before I could make my impression. At last, however, there was the
glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the
upper window.

"Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face. "If you kick up any
more row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon
you."

"If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.

"Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in
the bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook it."

"But I want a dog," I cried.

"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear, for
when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes--" I began, but the words had a most magical
effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute
the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old
man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted
glasses.

"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he.  "Step in,
sir. Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty,
would you take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust
its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don't
mind that, sir: it's only a slow-worm. It hain't got no fangs, so I
gives it the run o' the room, for it keeps the bettles down. You must
not mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I'm guyed
at by the children, and there's many a one just comes down this lane
to knock me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?"

"He wanted a dog of yours."

"Ah! that would be Toby."

"Yes, Toby was the name."

"Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here." He moved slowly forward with
his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round
him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there
were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny
and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn
fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as
our voices disturbed their slumbers.

Toby proved to an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel
and half lurcher, brown-and-white in color, with a very clumsy
waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar
which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an
alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about
accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I
found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The
ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory,
and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two
constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with
the dog on my mentioning the detective's name.

Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets,
smoking his pipe.

"Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Athelney Jones
has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He
has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the
housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves,
but for a sergeant up-stairs. Leave the dog here, and come up."

We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs. The room
was as we had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the
central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the
corner.

"Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this
bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank
you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings.--Just you carry them
down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my
handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the
garret with me for a moment."

We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more
upon the footsteps in the dust.

"I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you
observe anything noteworthy about them?"

"They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."

"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"

"They appear to be much as other footmarks."

"Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the
dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief
difference?"

"Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe
distinctly divided."

"Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you
kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the
wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my
hand."

I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry
smell.

"That is where he put his foot in getting out. If you can trace him,
I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run
down-stairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."

By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on
the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling
very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of
chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more
upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him
seated at one of the corner eaves.

"That You, Watson?" he cried.

"Yes."

"This is the place. What is that black thing down there?"

"A water-barrel."

"Top on it?"

"Yes."

"No sign of a ladder?"

"No."

"Confound the fellow! It's a most break-neck place. I ought to be
able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels
pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow."

There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily
down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the
barrel, and from there to the earth.

"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and
boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he
had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express
it."

The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven
out of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it.
In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were
half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the
other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

"They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't prick
yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they
are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in
our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself.
Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"

"Certainly," I answered.

"Your leg will stand it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He
pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the
creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most
comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of
a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance,
fastened a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and let him to the
foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a
succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the
ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a
pace which strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed.

The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
distance in the cold gray light. The square, massive house, with its
black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and
forlorn, behind us. Our course let right across the grounds, in and
out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and
intersected. The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and
ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized
with the black tragedy which hung over it.

On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,
underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a
young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been
loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the
lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder.
Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over
upon the other side.

"There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I mounted
up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white
plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain
since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their
eight-and-twenty hours' start."

I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great
traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My
fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved,
but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent
smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents.

"Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this
case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot
in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and,
since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I
neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the
pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to
be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for
this too palpable clue."

"There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that
I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case,
even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to
me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you
describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"

"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don't wish to be
theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in
command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried
treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan
Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain
Morstan's possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his
associates,--the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called
it. Aided by this chart, the officers--or one of them--gets the
treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some
condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did
not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious.
The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close
association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure
because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not
get away."

"But that is mere speculation," said I.

"It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the
facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto
remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his
treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a
great fright. What was that?"

"A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free."

"Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known
what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a
surprise to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a
wooden-legged man,--a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white
tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one
white man's name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or
Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with
confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan
Small. Does the reasoning strike yo as being faulty?"

"No: it is clear and concise."

"Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let
us look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the
double idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and
of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out
where Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications
with some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom
we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character.
Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no
one ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died.
Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy
lest the secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of
the guards, makes his way to the dying man's window, and is only
deterred from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with
hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the room that night,
searches his private papers in the hope of discovering some
memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a memento of
his visit in the short inscription upon the card. He had doubtless
planned beforehand that should he slay the major he would leave some
such record upon the body as a sign that it was not a common murder,
but, from the point of view of the four associates, something in the
nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this
kind are common enough in the annals of crime, and usually afford
valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you follow all this?"

"Very clearly."

"Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue to keep a
secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he
leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the
discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We again
trace the presence of some confederate in the household. Jonathan,
with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of
Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious
associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked foot
into creasote, whence come Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay
officer with a damaged tendo Achillis."

"But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the
crime."

"Quite so. And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way the
stamped about when he got into the room. He bore no grudge against
Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been
simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in a halter.
There was no help for it, however: the savage instincts of his
companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work: so
Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the
ground, and followed it himself. That was the train of events as far
as I can decipher them. Of course as to his personal appearance he
must be middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in
such an oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from
the length of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His
hairiness was the one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus
Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don't know that there is
anything else."

"The associate?"

"Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But you will know all
about it soon enough. How sweet the morning air is! See how that one
little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo.
Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London cloud-bank.
It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a
stranger errand than you and I. How small we feel with our petty
ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces
of nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"

"Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle."

"That was like following the brook to the parent lake. He makes one
curious but profound remark. It is that the chief proof of man's real
greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you
see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which is in itself a
proof of nobility. There is much food for thought in Richter. You
have not a pistol, have you?"

"I have my stick."

"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get
to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns
nasty I shall shoot him dead." He took out his revolver as he spoke,
and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the
right-hand pocket of his jacket.

We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the
half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now,
however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where
laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were
taking down shutters and brushing door-steps. At the square-topped
corner public houses business was just beginning, and rough-looking
men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after
their morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up and stared wonderingly
at us as we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the
right nor to the left, but trotted onwards with his nose to the
ground and an occasional eager whine which spoke of a hot scent.

We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found
ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the
side-streets to the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed
to have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of
escaping observation. They had never kept to the main road if a
parallel side-street would serve their turn. At the foot of
Kennington Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond Street
and Miles Street. Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place,
Toby ceased to advance, but began to run backwards and forwards with
one ear cocked and the other drooping, the very picture of canine
indecision. Then he waddled round in circles, looking up to us from
time to time, as if to ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.

"What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They
surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."

"Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested.

"Ah! it's all right. He's off again," said my companion, in a tone of
relief.

He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again he suddenly made up
his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as he
had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than before,
for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged at his
leash and tried to break into a run. I cold see by the gleam in
Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.

Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and
Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. Here
the dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side-gate
into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work. On the
dog raced through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a
passage, between two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp,
sprang upon a large barrel which still stood upon the hand-trolley on
which it had been brought. With lolling tongue and blinking eyes,
Toby stood upon the cask, looking from one to the other of us for
some sign of appreciation. The staves of the barrel and the wheels of
the trolley were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was
heavy with the smell of creasote.

Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst
simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.





CHAPTER VIII
The Baker Street Irregulars


"What now?" I asked. "Toby has lost his character for infallibility."

"He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down
from the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard. "If you
consider how much creasote is carted about London in one day, it is
no great wonder that our trail should have been crossed. It is much
used now, especially for the seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to
blame."

"We must get on the main scent again, I suppose."

"Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to go. Evidently what
puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that there were
two different trails running in opposite directions. We took the
wrong one. It only remains to follow the other."

There was no difficulty about this. On leading Toby to the place
where he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle and
finally dashed off in a fresh direction.

"We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where
the creasote-barrel came from," I observed.

"I had thought of that. But you notice that he keeps on the pavement,
whereas the barrel passed down the roadway. No, we are on the true
scent now."

It tended down towards the river-side, running through Belmont Place
and Prince's Street. At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to
the water's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led us
to the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the
dark current beyond.

"We are out of luck," said Holmes. "They have taken to a boat here."
Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water and on
the edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but,
though he sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a
wooden placard slung out through the second window. "Mordecai Smith"
was printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to
hire by the hour or day." A second inscription above the door
informed us that a steam launch was kept,--a statement which was
confirmed by a great pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes
looked slowly round, and his face assumed an ominous expression.

"This looks bad," said he. "These fellows are sharper than I
expected. They seem to have covered their tracks. There has, I fear,
been preconcerted management here."

He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a
little, curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a
stoutish, red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand.

"You come back and be washed, Jack," she shouted. "Come back, you
young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that,
he'll let us hear of it."

"Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically. "What a rosy-cheeked
young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?"

The youth pondered for a moment. "I'd like a shillin'," said he.

"Nothing you would like better?"

"I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy answered, after some
thought.

"Here you are, then! Catch!--A fine child, Mrs. Smith!"

"Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a'most too
much for me to manage, 'specially when my man is away days at a
time."

"Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. "I am sorry for
that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith."

"He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, and, truth to tell, I
am beginnin' to feel frightened about him. But if it was about a
boat, sir, maybe I could serve as well."

"I wanted to hire his steam launch."

"Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone.
That's what puzzles me; for I know there ain't more coals in her than
would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he'd been away in the
barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many a time a job has taken him as
far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin' there he might ha'
stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?"

"He might have bought some at a wharf down the river."

"He might, sir, but it weren't his way. Many a time I've heard him
call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I
don't like that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face and outlandish
talk. What did he want always knockin' about here for?"

"A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise.

"Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that's called more'n once for
my old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what's
more, my man knew he was comin', for he had steam up in the launch. I
tell you straight, sir, I don't feel easy in my mind about it."

"But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You
are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell
that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don't
quite understand how you can be so sure."

"His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o' thick and foggy.
He tapped at the winder,--about three it would be. 'Show a leg,
matey,' says he: 'time to turn out guard.' My old man woke up
Jim,--that's my eldest,--and away they went, without so much as a
word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin' on the stones."

"And was this wooden-legged man alone?"

"Couldn't say, I am sure, sir. I didn't hear no one else."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have
heard good reports of the--Let me see, what is her name?"

"The Aurora, sir."

"Ah! She's not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad
in the beam?"

"No, indeed. She's as trim a little thing as any on the river. She's
been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."

"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going
down the river; and if I should see anything of the Aurora I shall
let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"

"No, sir. Black with a white band."

"Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs.
Smith.--There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take
it and cross the river.

"The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in
the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their
information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do,
they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them
under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want."

"Our course now seems pretty clear," said I.

"What would you do, then?"

"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the
Aurora."

"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at
any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich.
Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for
miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set
about it alone."

"Employ the police, then."

"No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He
is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would
injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out
myself, now that we have gone so far."

"Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?"

"Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their
heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are
likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly
safe they will be in no hurry. Jones's energy will be of use to us
there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily
press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong
scent."

"What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank
Penitentiary.

"Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour's
sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again.
Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be
of use to us yet."

We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes
despatched his wire. "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we
resumed our journey.

"I am sure I don't know."

"You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force
whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?"

"Well," said I, laughing.

"This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail,
I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to
my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his
gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast."

It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and I was conscious of a
strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was
limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the
professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I
look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as
the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him,
and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure,
however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged
rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it
I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it
it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a
petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as
that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold
stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.

A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up
wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid
and Holmes pouring out the coffee.

"Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper.
"The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up
between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your
ham and eggs first."

I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed
"Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood."

"About twelve o'clock last night," said the Standard, "Mr.
Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found
dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far
as we can learn, no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr.
Sholto's person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems which the
deceased gentleman had inherited from his father has been carried
off. The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr.
Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother
of the deceased. By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney
Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened
to be at the Norwood Police Station, and was on the ground within
half an hour of the first alarm. His trained and experienced
faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the
criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus
Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the housekeeper,
Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or
gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that the thief or
thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones's
well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation
have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not
have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their
way across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into
a room which communicated with that in which the body was found. This
fact, which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that
it was no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic action of
the officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on
such occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot but
think that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our
detectives more decentralized, and so brought into closer and more
effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to
investigate."

"Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup. "What
do you think of it?"

"I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested
for the crime."

"So do I. I wouldn't answer for our safety now, if he should happen
to have another of his attacks of energy."

At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear
Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of
expostulation and dismay.

"By heaven, Holmes," I said, half rising, "I believe that they are
really after us."

"No, it's not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial force,--the
Baker Street irregulars."

As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the
stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and
ragged little street-Arabs. There was some show of discipline among
them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in
line and stood facing us with expectant faces. One of their number,
taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of
lounging superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable
little carecrow.

"Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 'em on sharp. Three
bob and a tanner for tickets."

"Here you are," said Holmes, producing some silver. "In future they
can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me. I cannot have the house
invaded in this way. However, it is just as well that you should all
hear the instructions. I want to find the whereabouts of a steam
launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai Smith, black with two red
streaks, funnel black with a white band. She is down the river
somewhere. I want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith's landing-stage
opposite Millbank to say if the boat comes back. You must divide it
out among yourselves, and do both banks thoroughly. Let me know the
moment you have news. Is that all clear?"

"Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins.

"The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat.
Here's a day in advance. Now off you go!" He handed them a shilling
each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment
later streaming down the street.

"If the launch is above water they will find her," said Holmes, as he
rose from the table and lit his pipe. "They can go everywhere, see
everything, overhear every one. I expect to hear before evening that
they have spotted her. In the mean while, we can do nothing but await
results. We cannot pick up the broken trail until we find either the
Aurora or Mr. Mordecai Smith."

"Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you going to bed,
Holmes?"

"No: I am not tired. I have a curious constitution. I never remember
feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. I am
going to smoke and to think over this queer business to which my fair
client has introduced us. If ever man had an easy task, this of ours
ought to be. Wooden-legged men are not so common, but the other man
must, I should think, be absolutely unique."

"That other man again!"

"I have no wish to make a mystery of him,--to you, anyway. But you
must have formed your own opinion. Now, do consider the data.
Diminutive footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,
stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned darts. What
do you make of all this?"

"A savage!" I exclaimed. "Perhaps one of those Indians who were the
associates of Jonathan Small."

"Hardly that," said he. "When first I saw signs of strange weapons I
was inclined to think so; but the remarkable character of the
footmarks caused me to reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants
of the Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such
marks as that. The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet. The
sandal-wearing Mohammedan has the great toe well separated from the
others, because the thong is commonly passed between. These little
darts, too, could only be shot in one way. They are from a blow-pipe.
Now, then, where are we to find our savage?"

"South American," I hazarded.

He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky volume from the
shelf. "This is the first volume of a gazetteer which is now being
published. It may be looked upon as the very latest authority. What
have we here? 'Andaman Islands, situated 340 miles to the north of
Sumatra, in the Bay of Bengal.' Hum! hum!  What's all this? Moist
climate, coral reefs, sharks, Port Blair, convict-barracks, Rutland
Island, cottonwoods--Ah, here we are. 'The aborigines of the Andaman
Islands may perhaps claim the distinction of being the smallest race
upon this earth, though some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of
Africa, the Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fuegians.
The average height is rather below four feet, although many
full-grown adults may be found who are very much smaller than this.
They are a fierce, morose, and intractable people, though capable of
forming most devoted friendships when their confidence has once been
gained.' Mark that, Watson. Now, then, listen to this. 'They are
naturally hideous, having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes,
and distorted features. Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably
small. So intractable and fierce are they that all the efforts of the
British official have failed to win them over in any degree. They
have always been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the
survivors with their stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with their
poisoned arrows. These massacres are invariably concluded by a
cannibal feast.' Nice, amiable people, Watson! If this fellow had
been left to his own unaided devices this affair might have taken an
even more ghastly turn. I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small
would give a good deal not to have employed him."

"But how came he to have so singular a companion?"

"Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however, we had already
determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very
wonderful that this islander should be with him. No doubt we shall
know all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look regularly
done. Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep."

He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out
he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air,--his own, no doubt,
for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague
remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and
fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a
soft sea of sound, until I found myself in dream-land, with the sweet
face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.





CHAPTER IX
A Break in the Chain


It was late in the afternoon before I woke, strengthened and
refreshed. Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him, save
that he had laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked
across at me, as I stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and
troubled.

"You have slept soundly," he said. "I feared that our talk would wake
you."

"I heard nothing," I answered. "Have you had fresh news, then?"

"Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised and disappointed. I
expected something definite by this time.  Wiggins has just been up
to report. He says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a
provoking check, for every hour is of importance."

"Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for
another night's outing."

"No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we go ourselves, the
message might come in our absence, and delay be caused. You can do
what you will, but I must remain on guard."

"Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil
Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday."

"On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile
in his eyes.

"Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were anxious to hear what
happened."

"I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. "Women are never to be
entirely trusted,--not the best of them."

I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. "I shall be
back in an hour or two," I remarked.

"All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are crossing the river you
may as well return Toby, for I don't think it is at all likely that
we shall have any use for him now."

I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a
half-sovereign, at the old naturalist's in Pinchin Lane. At
Camberwell I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night's
adventures, but very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was
full of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing,
however, the more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I
spoke of Mr. Sholto's death, I said nothing of the exact manner and
method of it. With all my omissions, however, there was enough to
startle and amaze them.

"It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a
million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian.
They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl."

"And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a
bright glance at me.

"Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I
don't think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it
must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"

It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed
no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss
of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took
small interest.

"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing
else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most
kindly and honorably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this
dreadful and unfounded charge."

It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I
reached home. My companion's book and pipe lay by his chair, but he
had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but
there was none.

"I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs.
Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds.

"No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking
her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?"

"Why so, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, he's that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked and he
walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound
of his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering,
and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with 'What
is that, Mrs. Hudson?' And now he has slammed off to his room, but I
can hear him walking away the same as ever. I hope he's not going to
be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about cooling
medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don't
know how ever I got out of the room."

"I don't think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I
answered. "I have seen him like this before. He has some small matter
upon his mind which makes him restless." I tried to speak lightly to
our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through
the long night I still from time to time heard the dull sound of his
tread, and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this
involuntary inaction.

At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of
feverish color upon either cheek.

"You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked. "I heard you
marching about in the night."

"No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This infernal problem is
consuming me. It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle,
when all else had been overcome. I know the men, the launch,
everything; and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies at
work, and used every means at my disposal. The whole river has been
searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith
heard of her husband. I shall come to the conclusion soon that they
have scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that."

"Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent."

"No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries made, and there
is a launch of that description."

"Could it have gone up the river?"

"I have considered that possibility too, and there is a search-party
who will work up as far as Richmond. If no news comes to-day, I shall
start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather than the boat.
But surely, surely, we shall hear something."

We did not, however. Not a word came to us either from Wiggins or
from the other agencies. There were articles in most of the papers
upon the Norwood tragedy. They all appeared to be rather hostile to
the unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details were to be found,
however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the
following day. I walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report
our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes
dejected and somewhat morose. He would hardly reply to my questions,
and busied himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which
involved much heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at
last in a smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. Up to the
small hours of the morning I could hear the clinking of his
test-tubes which told me that he was still engaged in his malodorous
experiment.

In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find him
standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress with a
pea-jacket, and a coarse red scarf round his neck.

"I am off down the river, Watson," said he. "I have been turning it
over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it. It is worth
trying, at all events."

"Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.

"No; you can be much more useful if you will remain here as my
representative. I am loath to go, for it is quite on the cards that
some message may come during the day, though Wiggins was despondent
about it last night. I want you to open all notes and telegrams, and
to act on your own judgment if any news should come. Can I rely upon
you?"

"Most certainly."

"I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can
hardly tell yet where I may find myself. If I am in luck, however, I
may not be gone so very long. I shall have news of some sort or other
before I get back."

I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time. On opening the
Standard, however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the
business.

"With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy," it remarked, "we have
reason to believe that the matter promises to be even more complex
and mysterious than was originally supposed. Fresh evidence has shown
that it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto could have been
in any way concerned in the matter. He and the housekeeper, Mrs.
Bernstone, were both released yesterday evening. It is believed,
however, that the police have a clue as to the real culprits, and
that it is being prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard,
with all his well-known energy and sagacity. Further arrests may be
expected at any moment."

"That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I. "Friend Sholto
is safe, at any rate. I wonder what the fresh clue may be; though it
seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made a
blunder."

I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye
caught an advertisement in the agony column. It ran in this way:

"Lost.--Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son, Jim, left
Smith's Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning in the
steam launch Aurora, black with two red stripes, funnel black with a
white band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who can
give information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 221b Baker
Street, as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the
launch Aurora."

This was clearly Holmes's doing. The Baker Street address was enough
to prove that. It struck me as rather ingenious, because it might be
read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the
natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.

It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to the door, or a
sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes
returning or an answer to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my
thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the
ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. Could there
be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my companion's reasoning. Might
he be suffering from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible
that his nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild theory
upon faulty premises? I had never known him to be wrong; and yet the
keenest reasoner may occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I
thought, to fall into error through the over-refinement of his
logic,--his preference for a subtle and bizarre explanation when a
plainer and more commonplace one lay ready to his hand. Yet, on the
other hand, I had myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the
reasons for his deductions. When I looked back on the long chain of
curious circumstances, many of them trivial in themselves, but all
tending in the same direction, I could not disguise from myself that
even if Holmes's explanation were incorrect the true theory must be
equally outré and startling.

At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell,
an authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a
person than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different was
he, however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common sense
who had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His
expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.

"Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I
understand."

"Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you
would care to wait. Take that chair and try one of these cigars."

"Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a
red bandanna handkerchief.

"And a whiskey-and-soda?"

"Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year; and I have
had a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this
Norwood case?"

"I remember that you expressed one."

"Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawn
tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the
middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be
shaken. From the time that he left his brother's room he was never
out of sight of some one or other. So it could not be he who climbed
over roofs and through trap-doors. It's a very dark case, and my
professional credit is at stake. I should be very glad of a little
assistance."

"We all need help sometimes," said I.

"Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he,
in a husky and confidential voice. "He's a man who is not to be beat.
I have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never
saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is
irregular in his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at
theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have made a most
promising officer, and I don't care who knows it. I have had a wire
from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some
clue to this Sholto business. Here is the message."

He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was
dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it
said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track
of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be
in at the finish."

"This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said
I.

"Ah, then he has been at fault too," exclaimed Jones, with evident
satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of
course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an
officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one
at the door. Perhaps this is he."

A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and
rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or
twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at
last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance
corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man,
clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his
throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing
was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his
shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had
a colored scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face
save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and
long gray side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a
respectable master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty.

"What is it, my man?" I asked.

He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age.

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he.

"No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have
for him."

"It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he.

"But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai
Smith's boat?"

"Yes. I knows well where it is. An' I knows where the men he is after
are. An' I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it."

"Then tell me, and I shall let him know."

"It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant
obstinacy of a very old man.

"Well, you must wait for him."

"No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to please no one. If Mr.
Holmes ain't here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself.
I don't care about the look of either of you, and I won't tell a
word."

He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him.

"Wait a bit, my friend," said he. "You have important information,
and you must not walk off. We shall keep you, whether you like or
not, until our friend returns."

The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as Athelney
Jones put his broad back up against it, he recognized the uselessness
of resistance.

"Pretty sort o' treatment this!" he cried, stamping his stick. "I
come here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my
life, seize me and treat me in this fashion!"

"You will be none the worse," I said. "We shall recompense you for
the loss of your time. Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not
have long to wait."

He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face
resting on his hands. Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk.
Suddenly, however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us.

"I think that you might offer me a cigar too," he said.

We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes sitting close to us
with an air of quiet amusement.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "You here! But where is the old man?"

"Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair.
"Here he is,--wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise
was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that
test."

"Ah, you rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted. "You would have made
an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and
those weak legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I thought I knew
the glint of your eye, though. You didn't get away from us so easily,
you see."

"I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting his
cigar. "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know
me,--especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my
cases: so I can only go on the war-path under some simple disguise
like this. You got my wire?"

"Yes; that was what brought me here."

"How has your case prospered?"

"It has all come to nothing. I have had to release two of my
prisoners, and there is no evidence against the other two."

"Never mind. We shall give you two others in the place of them. But
you must put yourself under my orders. You are welcome to all the
official credit, but you must act on the line that I point out. Is
that agreed?"

"Entirely, if you will help me to the men."

"Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat--a
steam launch--to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o'clock."

"That is easily managed. There is always one about there; but I can
step across the road and telephone to make sure."

"Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance."

"There will be two or three in the boat. What else?"

"When we secure the men we shall get the treasure. I think that it
would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to the
young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the
first to open it.--Eh, Watson?"

"It would be a great pleasure to me."

"Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head.
"However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must wink at
it. The treasure must afterwards be handed over to the authorities
until after the official investigation."

"Certainly. That is easily managed. One other point. I should much
like to have a few details about this matter from the lips of
Jonathan Small himself. You know I like to work the detail of my
cases out. There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview
with him, either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is
efficiently guarded?"

"Well, you are master of the situation. I have had no proof yet of
the existence of this Jonathan Small. However, if you can catch him I
don't see how I can refuse you an interview with him."

"That is understood, then?"

"Perfectly. Is there anything else?"

"Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It will be ready in
half an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a
little choice in white wines.--Watson, you have never yet recognized
my merits as a housekeeper."





CHAPTER X
The End of the Islander


Our meal was a merry one. Holmes coud talk exceedingly well when he
chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of
nervous exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on
a quick succession of subjects,--on miracle-plays, on medieval
pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on
the war-ships of the future,--handling each as though he had made a
special study of it. His bright humor marked the reaction from his
black depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones proved to be a
sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and face his dinner with
the air of a bon vivant. For myself, I felt elated at the thought
that we were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of
Holmes's gaiety. None of us alluded during dinner to the cause which
had brought us together.

When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at this watch, and filled
up three glasses with port. "One bumper," said he, "to the success of
our little expedition. And now it is high time we were off. Have you
a pistol, Watson?"

"I have my old service-revolver in my desk."

"You had best take it, then. It is well to be prepared. I see that
the cab is at the door. I ordered it for half-past six."

It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf,
and found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically.

"Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?"

"Yes,--that green lamp at the side."

"Then take it off."

The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were
cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at
the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors
forward.

"Where to?" asked Jones.

"To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson's Yard."

Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines
of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with
satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us.

"We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said.

"Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us."

"We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has a name for being a
clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how
annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?"

"Yes."

"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical
analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of
work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving
the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of
the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been
up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at
any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly
have been scuttled to hide their traces,--though that always remained
as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small
had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable
of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a
product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had
certainly been in London some time--as we had evidence that he
maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge--he could hardly
leave at a moment's notice, but would need some little time, if it
were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of
probability, at any rate."

"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable
that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his
expedition."

"No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a
retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that
he could do without it. But a second consideration struck me.
Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his
companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise
to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He
was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their
head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back
before it was broad light. Now, it was past three o'clock, according
to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and
people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did
not go very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved
his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with
the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had time to see
what view the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they
would make their way under cover of darkness to some ship at
Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged
for passages to America or the Colonies."

"But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings."

"Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in
spite of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small,
and looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably
consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would
make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How,
then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when
wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I
could only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over
to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling
change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or hard, and so
be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at
a few hours' notice."

"That seems simple enough."

"It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be
overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at
once in this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all the yards down
the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the
sixteenth--Jacobson's--I learned that the Aurora had been handed over
to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial
directions as to her rudder. 'There ain't naught amiss with her
rudder,' said the foreman. 'There she lies, with the red streaks.' At
that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing
owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course,
have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his
launch. 'I want her to-night at eight o'clock,' said he,--'eight
o'clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won't be kept
waiting.' They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of
money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some
distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the
yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I
stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water's
edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be
lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not
take men, treasure, and all."

"You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men
or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should
have had a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested them when
they came down."

"Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd
fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him
suspicious lie snug for another week."

"But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their
hiding-place," said I.

"In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a
hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he
has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him
messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and
this is the best."

While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the
long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City
the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of
St. Paul's. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.

"That is Jacobson's Yard," said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of
masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here
under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of
night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I
see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a
handkerchief."

"Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them,"
said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the
policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going
forward.

"We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It
is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be
certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and
they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light.
We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the
gaslight."

"They are coming from work in the yard."

"Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little
immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look
at them. There is no a priori probability about it. A strange enigma
is man!"

"Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested.

"Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks
that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the
aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example,
never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with
precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but
percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a
handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder."

"Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly."

"And there is the Aurora," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the
devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the
yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves
to have the heels of us!"

She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed behind
two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up
before we saw her. Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the
shore, going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked gravely at her and
shook his head.

"She is very fast," he said. "I doubt if we shall catch her."

"We must catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth. "Heap it on,
stokers! Make her do all she can! If we burn the boat we must have
them!"

We were fairly after her now. The furnaces roared, and the powerful
engines whizzed and clanked, like a great metallic heart. Her sharp,
steep prow cut through the river-water and sent two rolling waves to
right and to left of us. With every throb of the engines we sprang
and quivered like a living thing. One great yellow lantern in our
bows threw a long, flickering funnel of light in front of us. Right
ahead a dark blur upon the water showed where the Aurora lay, and the
swirl of white foam behind her spoke of the pace at which she was
going. We flashed past barges, steamers, merchant-vessels, in and
out, behind this one and round the other. Voices hailed us out of the
darkness, but still the Aurora thundered on, and still we followed
close upon her track.

"Pile it on, men, pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into the
engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his eager,
aquiline face. "Get every pound of steam you can."

"I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the Aurora.

"I am sure of it," said I. "We shall be up with her in a very few
minutes."

At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug with
three barges in tow blundered in between us. It was only by putting
our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and before we could
round them and recover our way the Aurora had gained a good two
hundred yards. She was still, however, well in view, and the murky
uncertain twilight was setting into a clear starlit night. Our
boilers were strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated
and creaked with the fierce energy which was driving us along. We had
shot through the Pool, past the West India Docks, down the long
Deptford Reach, and up again after rounding the Isle of Dogs. The
dull blur in front of us resolved itself now clearly enough into the
dainty Aurora. Jones turned our search-light upon her, so that we
could plainly see the figures upon her deck. One man sat by the
stern, with something black between his knees over which he stooped.
Beside him lay a dark mass which looked like a Newfoundland dog. The
boy held the tiller, while against the red glare of the furnace I
could see old Smith, stripped to the waist, and shovelling coals for
dear life. They may have had some doubt at first as to whether we
were really pursuing them, but now as we followed every winding and
turning which they took there could no longer be any question about
it. At Greenwich we were about three hundred paces behind them. At
Blackwall we could not have been more than two hundred and fifty. I
have coursed many creatures in many countries during my checkered
career, but never did sport give me such a wild thrill as this mad,
flying man-hunt down the Thames. Steadily we drew in upon them, yard
by yard. In the silence of the night we could hear the panting and
clanking of their machinery. The man in the stern still crouched upon
the deck, and his arms were moving as though he were busy, while
every now and then he would look up and measure with a glance the
distance which still separated us. Nearer we came and nearer. Jones
yelled to them to stop. We were not more than four boat's lengths
behind them, both boats flying at a tremendous pace. It was a clear
reach of the river, with Barking Level upon one side and the
melancholy Plumstead Marshes upon the other. At our hail the man in
the stern sprang up from the deck and shook his two clinched fists at
us, cursing the while in a high, cracked voice. He was a good-sized,
powerful man, and as he stood poising himself with legs astride I
could see that from the thigh downwards there was but a wooden stump
upon the right side. At the sound of his strident, angry cries there
was movement in the huddled bundle upon the deck. It straightened
itself into a little black man--the smallest I have ever seen--with a
great, misshapen head and a shock of tangled, dishevelled hair.
Holmes had already drawn his revolver, and I whipped out mine at the
sight of this savage, distorted creature. He was wrapped in some sort
of dark ulster or blanket, which left only his face exposed; but that
face was enough to give a man a sleepless night. Never have I seen
features so deeply marked with all bestiality and cruelty. His small
eyes glowed and burned with a sombre light, and his thick lips were
writhed back from his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with a
half animal fury.

"Fire if he raises his hand," said Holmes, quietly. We were within a
boat's-length by this time, and almost within touch of our quarry. I
can see the two of them now as they stood, the white man with his
legs far apart, shrieking out curses, and the unhallowed dwarf with
his hideous face, and his strong yellow teeth gnashing at us in the
light of our lantern.

It was well that we had so clear a view of him. Even as we looked he
plucked out from under his covering a short, round piece of wood,
like a school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang out
together. He whirled round, threw up his arms, and with a kind of
choking cough fell sideways into the stream. I caught one glimpse of
his venomous, menacing eyes amid the white swirl of the waters. At
the same moment the wooden-legged man threw himself upon the rudder
and put it hard down, so that his boat made straight in for the
southern bank, while we shot past her stern, only clearing her by a
few feet. We were round after her in an instant, but she was already
nearly at the bank. It was a wild and desolate place, where the moon
glimmered upon a wide expanse of marsh-land, with pools of stagnant
water and beds of decaying vegetation. The launch with a dull thud
ran up upon the mud-bank, with her bow in the air and her stern flush
with the water. The fugitive sprang out, but his stump instantly sank
its whole length into the sodden soil. In vain he struggled and
writhed. Not one step could he possibly take either forwards or
backwards. He yelled in impotent rage, and kicked frantically into
the mud with his other foot, but his struggles only bored his wooden
pin the deeper into the sticky bank. When we brought our launch
alongside he was so firmly anchored that it was only by throwing the
end of a rope over his shoulders that we were able to haul him out,
and to drag him, like some evil fish, over our side. The two Smiths,
father and son, sat sullenly in their launch, but came aboard meekly
enough when commanded. The Aurora herself we hauled off and made fast
to our stern. A solid iron chest of Indian workmanship stood upon the
deck. This, there could be no question, was the same that had
contained the ill-omened treasure of the Sholtos. There was no key,
but it was of considerable weight, so we transferred it carefully to
our own little cabin. As we steamed slowly up-stream again, we
flashed our search-light in every direction, but there was no sign of
the Islander. Somewhere in the dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames
lie the bones of that strange visitor to our shores.

"See here," said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway. "We were
hardly quick enough with our pistols." There, sure enough, just
behind where we had been standing, stuck one of those murderous darts
which we knew so well. It must have whizzed between us at the instant
that we fired. Holmes smiled at it and shrugged his shoulders in his
easy fashion, but I confess that it turned me sick to think of the
horrible death which had passed so close to us that night.





CHAPTER XI
The Great Agra Treasure


Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the iron box which he had
done so much and waited so long to gain. He was a sunburned,
reckless-eyed fellow, with a net-work of lines and wrinkles all over
his mahogany features, which told of a hard, open-air life. There was
a singular prominence about his bearded chin which marked a man who
was not to be easily turned from his purpose. His age may have been
fifty or thereabouts, for his black, curly hair was thickly shot with
gray. His face in repose was not an unpleasing one, though his heavy
brows and aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a terrible
expression when moved to anger. He sat now with his handcuffed hands
upon his lap, and his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with
his keen, twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his
ill-doings. It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in
his rigid and contained countenance. Once he looked up at me with a
gleam of something like humour in his eyes.

"Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry
that it has come to this."

"And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly. "I don't believe that I can
swing over the job. I give you my word on the book that I never
raised hand against Mr. Sholto. It was that little hell-hound Tonga
who shot one of his cursed darts into him. I had no part in it, sir.
I was as grieved as if it had been my blood-relation. I welted the
little devil with the slack end of the rope for it, but it was done,
and I could not undo it again."

"Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had best take a pull out of my
flask, for you are very wet. How could you expect so small and weak a
man as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him while
you were climbing the rope?"

"You seem to know as much about it as if you were there, sir. The
truth is that I hoped to find the room clear. I knew the habits of
the house pretty well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually
went down to his supper. I shall make no secret of the business. The
best defence that I can make is just the simple truth. Now, if it had
been the old major I would have swung for him with a light heart. I
would have thought no more of knifing him than of smoking this cigar.
But it's cursed hard that I should be lagged over this young Sholto,
with whom I had no quarrel whatever."

"You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard. He
is going to bring you up to my rooms, and I shall ask you for a true
account of the matter. You must make a clean breast of it, for if you
do I hope that I may be of use to you.  I think I can prove that the
poison acts so quickly that the man was dead before ever you reached
the room."

"That he was, sir. I never got such a turn in my life as when I saw
him grinning at me with his head on his shoulder as I climbed through
the window. It fairly shook me, sir. I'd have half killed Tonga for
it if he had not scrambled off. That was how he came to leave his
club, and some of his darts too, as he tells me, which I dare say
helped to put you on our track; though how you kept on it is more
than I can tell. I don't feel no malice against you for it. But it
does seem a queer thing," he added, with a bitter smile, "that I who
have a fair claim to nigh upon half a million of money should spend
the first half of my life building a breakwater in the Andamans, and
am like to spend the other half digging drains at Dartmoor. It was an
evil day for me when first I clapped eyes upon the merchant Achmet
and had to do with the Agra treasure, which never brought anything
but a curse yet upon the man who owned it. To him it brought murder,
to Major Sholto it brought fear and guilt, to me it has meant slavery
for life."

At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad face and heavy
shoulders into the tiny cabin. "Quite a family party," he remarked.
"I think I shall have a pull at that flask, Holmes.  Well, I think we
may all congratulate each other. Pity we didn't take the other alive;
but there was no choice. I say, Holmes, you must confess that you cut
it rather fine. It was all we could do to overhaul her."

"All is well that ends well," said Holmes. "But I certainly did not
know that the Aurora was such a clipper."

"Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on the river, and that
if he had had another man to help him with the engines we should
never have caught her. He swears he knew nothing of this Norwood
business."

"Neither he did," cried our prisoner,--"not a word. I chose his
launch because I heard that she was a flier. We told him nothing, but
we paid him well, and he was to get something handsome if we reached
our vessel, the Esmeralda, at Gravesend, outward bound for the
Brazils."

"Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that no wrong comes to
him. If we are pretty quick in catching our men, we are not so quick
in condemning them." It was amusing to notice how the consequential
Jones was already beginning to give himself airs on the strength of
the capture. From the slight smile which played over Sherlock
Holmes's face, I could see that the speech had not been lost upon
him.

"We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said Jones, "and shall
land you, Dr. Watson, with the treasure-box. I need hardly tell you
that I am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in doing
this. It is most irregular; but of course an agreement is an
agreement. I must, however, as a matter of duty, send an inspector
with you, since you have so valuable a charge. You will drive, no
doubt?"

"Yes, I shall drive."

"It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory first.
You will have to break it open. Where is the key, my man?"

"At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly.

"Hum! There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble. We have
had work enough already through you. However, doctor, I need not warn
you to be careful. Bring the box back with you to the Baker Street
rooms. You will find us there, on our way to the station."

They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff,
genial inspector as my companion. A quarter of an hour's drive
brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The servant seemed surprised at
so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she
explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in
the drawing-room: so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving
the obliging inspector in the cab.

She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white
diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and
waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned
back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and
tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant
hair. One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and
her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the
sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright
flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her pale cheeks.

"I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester
had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you.
What news have you brought me?"

"I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the
box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my
heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is
worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune."

She glanced at iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked,
coolly enough.

"Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half
is Thaddeus Sholto's. You will have a couple of hundred thousand
each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be
few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?"

I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that
she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her
eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously.

"If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you."

"No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes.
With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue
which has taxed even his analytical genius.  As it was, we very
nearly lost it at the last moment."

"Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she.

I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her
last,--Holmes's new method of search, the discovery of the Aurora,
the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and
the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and
shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the
dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I
feared that she was about to faint.

"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water.
"I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed
my friends in such horrible peril."

"That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no
more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the
treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it
with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see
it."

"It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no
eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that
it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize
which had cost so much to win.

"What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian
work, I suppose?"

"Yes; it is Benares metal-work."

"And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone
must be of some value. Where is the key?"

"Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs.
Forrester's poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp,
wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end
of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open
with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We
both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty!

No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch
thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest
constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or
crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and
completely empty.

"The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly.

As I listened to the words and realized what they meant, a great
shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra
treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed.
It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realize
nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank
God!" I ejaculated from my very heart.

She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say
that?" she asked.

"Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She
did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a
man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my
lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is
why I said, 'Thank God.'"

"Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, as I drew her to my
side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had
gained one.





CHAPTER XII
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small


A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary
time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him
the empty box.

"There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money
there is no pay. This night's work would have been worth a tenner
each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there."

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you
are rewarded, treasure or no."

The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It's a bad job,"
he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think."

His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank
enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They
had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had
changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon
the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual
listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with
his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty
box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud.

"This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily.

"Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he
cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can't have the loot
I'll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no
living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the
Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have
the use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through
for them as much as for myself. It's been the sign of four with us
always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have
done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to
kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich
that we did for Achmet. You'll find the treasure where the key is,
and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us,
I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this
journey."

"You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you
had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been
easier for you to have thrown box and all."

"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered,
with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt
me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a
river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a
harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when
you came up with us. However, there's no good grieving over it. I've
had ups in my life, and I've had downs, but I've learned not to cry
over spilled milk."

"This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you
had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would
have had a better chance at your trial."

"Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is
this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it
up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it!
Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under
the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts,
bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed
black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That
was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice
because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that
another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have
one of Tonga's darts in my hide, than live in a convict's cell and
feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that
should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this
came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the
handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his
hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the
man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had
possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict
was upon his track.

"You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly.
"We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may
originally have been on your side."

"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see
that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists.
Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If
you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say
to you is God's truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the
glass beside me here, and I'll put my lips to it if I am dry.

"I am a Worcestershire man myself,--born near Pershore. I dare say
you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look.
I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is
that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they
would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going
folk, small farmers, well known and respected over the country-side,
while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was
about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess
over a girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the queen's
shilling and joining the 3d Buffs, which was just starting for India.

"I wasn't destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got
past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool
enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company
sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was
one of the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me, just
as I was half-way across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a
surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock
and the loss of blood, I fainted, and should have drowned if Holder
had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months
in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it
with this timber toe strapped to my stump I found myself invalided
out of the army and unfitted for any active occupation.

"I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for
I was a useless cripple though not yet in my twentieth year. However,
my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man named
Abelwhite, who had come out there as an indigo-planter, wanted an
overseer to look after his coolies and keep them up to their work. He
happened to be a friend of our colonel's, who had taken an interest
in me since the accident. To make a long story short, the colonel
recommended me strongly for the post and, as the work was mostly to
be done on horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough
knee left to keep good grip on the saddle. What I had to do was to
ride over the plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they worked,
and to report the idlers. The pay was fair, I had comfortable
quarters, and altogether I was content to spend the remainder of my
life in indigo-planting. Mr. Abelwhite was a kind man, and he would
often drop into my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for white
folk out there feel their hearts warm to each other as they never do
here at home.

"Well, I was never in luck's way long. Suddenly, without a note of
warning, the great mutiny broke upon us. One month India lay as still
and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there
were two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and the country was
a perfect hell. Of course you know all about it, gentlemen,--a deal
more than I do, very like, since reading is not in my line. I only
know what I saw with my own eyes. Our plantation was at a place
called Muttra, near the border of the Northwest Provinces. Night
after night the whole sky was alight with the burning bungalows, and
day after day we had small companies of Europeans passing through our
estate with their wives and children, on their way to Agra, where
were the nearest troops. Mr. Abelwhite was an obstinate man. He had
it in his head that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it
would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung up. There he sat on his
veranda, drinking whiskey-pegs and smoking cheroots, while the
country was in a blaze about him. Of course we stuck by him, I and
Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the book-work and the
managing. Well, one fine day the crash came. I had been away on a
distant plantation, and was riding slowly home in the evening, when
my eye fell upon something all huddled together at the bottom of a
steep nullah. I rode down to see what it was, and the cold struck
through my heart when I found it was Dawson's wife, all cut into
ribbons, and half eaten by jackals and native dogs. A little further
up the road Dawson himself was lying on his face, quite dead, with an
empty revolver in his hand and four Sepoys lying across each other in
front of him. I reined up my horse, wondering which way I should
turn, but at that moment I saw thick smoke curling up from
Abelwhite's bungalow and the flames beginning to burst through the
roof. I knew then that I could do my employer no good, but would only
throw my own life away if I meddled in the matter. From where I stood
I could see hundreds of the black fiends, with their red coats still
on their backs, dancing and howling round the burning house. Some of
them pointed at me, and a couple of bullets sang past my head; so I
broke away across the paddy-fields, and found myself late at night
safe within the walls at Agra.

"As it proved, however, there was no great safety there, either. The
whole country was up like a swarm of bees. Wherever the English could
collect in little bands they held just the ground that their guns
commanded. Everywhere else they were helpless fugitives. It was a
fight of the millions against the hundreds; and the cruellest part of
it was that these men that we fought against, foot, horse, and
gunners, were our own picked troops, whom we had taught and trained,
handling our own weapons, and blowing our own bugle-calls. At Agra
there were the 3d Bengal Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of horse,
and a battery of artillery. A volunteer corps of clerks and merchants
had been formed, and this I joined, wooden leg and all. We went out
to meet the rebels at Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them back
for a time, but our powder gave out, and we had to fall back upon the
city. Nothing but the worst news came to us from every side,--which
is not to be wondered at, for if you look at the map you will see
that we were right in the heart of it. Lucknow is rather better than
a hundred miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as far to the south.
From every point on the compass there was nothing but torture and
murder and outrage.

"The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with fanatics and fierce
devil-worshippers of all sorts. Our handful of men were lost among
the narrow, winding streets. Our leader moved across the river,
therefore, and took up his position in the old fort at Agra. I don't
know if any of you gentlemen have ever read or heard anything of that
old fort. It is a very queer place,--the queerest that ever I was in,
and I have been in some rum corners, too. First of all, it is
enormous in size. I should think that the enclosure must be acres and
acres. There is a modern part, which took all our garrison, women,
children, stores, and everything else, with plenty of room over. But
the modern part is nothing like the size of the old quarter, where
nobody goes, and which is given over to the scorpions and the
centipedes. It is all full of great deserted halls, and winding
passages, and long corridors twisting in and out, so that it is easy
enough for folk to get lost in it. For this reason it was seldom that
any one went into it, though now and again a party with torches might
go exploring.

"The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so protects
it, but on the sides and behind there are many doors, and these had
to be guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in that which
was actually held by our troops. We were short-handed, with hardly
men enough to man the angles of the building and to serve the guns.
It was impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong guard at
every one of the innumerable gates. What we did was to organize a
central guard-house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate
under the charge of one white man and two or three natives. I was
selected to take charge during certain hours of the night of a small
isolated door upon the southwest side of the building. Two Sikh
troopers were placed under my command, and I was instructed if
anything went wrong to fire my musket, when I might rely upon help
coming at once from the central guard. As the guard was a good two
hundred paces away, however, and as the space between was cut up into
a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had great doubts as to
whether they could arrive in time to be of any use in case of an
actual attack.

"Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me,
since I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that. For two
nights I kept the watch with my Punjaubees. They were tall,
fierce-looking chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah Khan by name, both
old fighting-men who had borne arms against us at Chilian-wallah.
They could talk English pretty well, but I could get little out of
them. They preferred to stand together and jabber all night in their
queer Sikh lingo. For myself, I used to stand outside the gate-way,
looking down on the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights
of the great city. The beating of drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and
the yells and howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bang,
were enough to remind us all night of our dangerous neighbors across
the stream. Every two hours the officer of the night used to come
round to all the posts, to make sure that all was well.

"The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small,
driving rain. It was dreary work standing in the gate-way hour after
hour in such weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk,
but without much success. At two in the morning the rounds passed,
and broke for a moment the weariness of the night. Finding that my
companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe,
and laid down my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two
Sikhs were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock up and levelled
it at my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat and
swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a
step.

"My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the
rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault. If our door
were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women
and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen
think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my
word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the
knife at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a
scream, if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard. The
man who held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced
myself to it, he whispered, 'Don't make a noise. The fort is safe
enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river.' There was
the ring of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my
voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow's brown eyes. I
waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they wanted
from me.

"'Listen to me, Sahib,' said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the
one whom they called Abdullah Khan. 'You must either be with us now
or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us
to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on
the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown
into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel
army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We
can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing,
and all must be done before the rounds come again.'

"'How can I decide?' said I. 'You have not told me what you want of
me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of
the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your
knife and welcome.'

"'It is nothing against the fort,' said he. 'We only ask you to do
that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be
rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon
the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever
known to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot. A
quarter of the treasure shall be yours. We can say no fairer.'

"'But what is the treasure, then?' I asked. 'I am as ready to be rich
as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done.'

"'You will swear, then,' said he, 'by the bones of your father, by
the honor of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no
hand and speak no word against us, either now or afterwards?'

"'I will swear it,' I answered, 'provided that the fort is not
endangered.'

"'Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of
the treasure which shall be equally divided among the four of us.'

"'There are but three,' said I.

"'No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can tell the tale to you
while we await them. Do you stand at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and
give notice of their coming. The thing stands thus, Sahib, and I tell
it to you because I know that an oath is binding upon a Feringhee,
and that we may trust you. Had you been a lying Hindoo, though you
had sworn by all the gods in their false temples, your blood would
have been upon the knife, and your body in the water. But the Sikh
knows the Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh. Hearken,
then, to what I have to say.

"'There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has much wealth,
though his lands are small. Much has come to him from his father, and
more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and
hoards his gold rather than spend it. When the troubles broke out he
would be friends both with the lion and the tiger,--with the Sepoy
and with the Company's raj. Soon, however, it seemed to him that the
white men's day was come, for through all the land he could hear of
nothing but of their death and their overthrow. Yet, being a careful
man, he made such plans that, come what might, half at least of his
treasure should be left to him. That which was in gold and silver he
kept by him in the vaults of his palace, but the most precious stones
and the choicest pearls that he had he put in an iron box, and sent
it by a trusty servant who, under the guise of a merchant, should
take it to the fort at Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace.
Thus, if the rebels won he would have his money, but if the Company
conquered his jewels would be saved to him. Having thus divided his
hoard, he threw himself into the cause of the Sepoys, since they were
strong upon his borders. By doing this, mark you, Sahib, his property
becomes the due of those who have been true to their salt.

"'This pretended merchant, who travels under the name of Achmet, is
now in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the fort.
He has with him as travelling-companion my foster-brother Dost Akbar,
who knows his secret. Dost Akbar has promised this night to lead him
to a side-postern of the fort, and has chosen this one for his
purpose. Here he will come presently, and here he will find Mahomet
Singh and myself awaiting him. The place is lonely, and none shall
know of his coming. The world shall know of the merchant Achmet no
more, but the great treasure of the rajah shall be divided among us.
What say you to it, Sahib?'

"In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great and a sacred
thing; but it is very different when there is fire and blood all
round you and you have been used to meeting death at every turn.
Whether Achmet the merchant lived or died was a thing as light as air
to me, but at the talk about the treasure my heart turned to it, and
I thought of what I might do in the old country with it, and how my
folk would stare when they saw their ne'er-do-well coming back with
his pockets full of gold moidores. I had, therefore, already made up
my mind. Abdullah Khan, however, thinking that I hesitated, pressed
the matter more closely.

"'Consider, Sahib,' said he, 'that if this man is taken by the
commandant he will be hung or shot, and his jewels taken by the
government, so that no man will be a rupee the better for them. Now,
since we do the taking of him, why should we not do the rest as well?
The jewels will be as well with us as in the Company's coffers. There
will be enough to make every one of us rich men and great chiefs. No
one can know about the matter, for here we are cut off from all men.
What could be better for the purpose?  Say again, then, Sahib,
whether you are with us, or if we must look upon you as an enemy.'

"'I am with you heart and soul,' said I.

"'It is well,' he answered, handing me back my firelock. 'You see
that we trust you, for your word, like ours, is not to be broken. We
have now only to wait for my brother and the merchant.'

"'Does your brother know, then, of what you will do?' I asked.

"'The plan is his. He has devised it. We will go to the gate and
share the watch with Mahomet Singh.'

"The rain was still falling steadily, for it was just the beginning
of the wet season. Brown, heavy clouds were drifting across the sky,
and it was hard to see more than a stone-cast. A deep moat lay in
front of our door, but the water was in places nearly dried up, and
it could easily be crossed. It was strange to me to be standing there
with those two wild Punjaubees waiting for the man who was coming to
his death.

"Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded lantern at the other
side of the moat. It vanished among the mound-heaps, and then
appeared again coming slowly in our direction.

"'Here they are!' I exclaimed.

"'You will challenge him, Sahib, as usual,' whispered Abdullah. 'Give
him no cause for fear. Send us in with him, and we shall do the rest
while you stay here on guard. Have the lantern ready to uncover, that
we may be sure that it is indeed the man.'

"The light had flickered onwards, now stopping and now advancing,
until I could see two dark figures upon the other side of the moat. I
let them scramble down the sloping bank, splash through the mire, and
climb half-way up to the gate, before I challenged them.

"'Who goes there?' said I, in a subdued voice.

"'Friends,' came the answer. I uncovered my lantern and threw a flood
of light upon them. The first was an enormous Sikh, with a black
beard which swept nearly down to his cummerbund. Outside of a show I
have never seen so tall a man. The other was a little, fat, round
fellow, with a great yellow turban, and a bundle in his hand, done up
in a shawl. He seemed to be all in a quiver with fear, for his hands
twitched as if he had the ague, and his head kept turning to left and
right with two bright little twinkling eyes, like a mouse when he
ventures out from his hole. It gave me the chills to think of killing
him, but I thought of the treasure, and my heart set as hard as a
flint within me. When he saw my white face he gave a little chirrup
of joy and came running up towards me.

"'Your protection, Sahib,' he panted,--'your protection for the
unhappy merchant Achmet. I have travelled across Rajpootana that I
might seek the shelter of the fort at Agra. I have been robbed and
beaten and abused because I have been the friend of the Company. It
is a blessed night this when I am once more in safety,--I and my poor
possessions.'

"'What have you in the bundle?' I asked.

"'An iron box,' he answered, 'which contains one or two little family
matters which are of no value to others, but which I should be sorry
to lose. Yet I am not a beggar; and I shall reward you, young Sahib,
and your governor also, if he will give me the shelter I ask.'

"I could not trust myself to speak longer with the man. The more I
looked at his fat, frightened face, the harder did it seem that we
should slay him in cold blood. It was best to get it over.

"'Take him to the main guard,' said I. The two Sikhs closed in upon
him on each side, and the giant walked behind, while they marched in
through the dark gate-way. Never was a man so compassed round with
death. I remained at the gate-way with the lantern.

"I could hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding through
the lonely corridors. Suddenly it ceased, and I heard voices, and a
scuffle, with the sound of blows. A moment later there came, to my
horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my direction, with the loud
breathing of a running man. I turned my lantern down the long,
straight passage, and there was the fat man, running like the wind,
with a smear of blood across his face, and close at his heels,
bounding like a tiger, the great black-bearded Sikh, with a knife
flashing in his hand. I have never seen a man run so fast as that
little merchant. He was gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if
he once passed me and got to the open air he would save himself yet.
My heart softened to him, but again the thought of his treasure
turned me hard and bitter. I cast my firelock between his legs as he
raced past, and he rolled twice over like a shot rabbit. Ere he could
stagger to his feet the Sikh was upon him, and buried his knife twice
in his side. The man never uttered moan nor moved muscle, but lay
were he had fallen. I think myself that he may have broken his neck
with the fall. You see, gentlemen, that I am keeping my promise. I am
telling you every work of the business just exactly as it happened,
whether it is in my favor or not."

He stopped, and held out his manacled hands for the whiskey-and-water
which Holmes had brewed for him. For myself, I confess that I had now
conceived the utmost horror of the man, not only for this
cold-blooded business in which he had been concerned, but even more
for the somewhat flippant and careless way in which he narrated it.
Whatever punishment was in store for him, I felt that he might expect
no sympathy from me. Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat with their hands
upon their knees, deeply interested in the story, but with the same
disgust written upon their faces.  He may have observed it, for there
was a touch of defiance in his voice and manner as he proceeded.

"It was all very bad, no doubt," said he. "I should like to know how
many fellows in my shoes would have refused a share of this loot when
they knew that they would have their throats cut for their pains.
Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in the fort. If he
had got out, the whole business would come to light, and I should
have been court-martialled and shot as likely as not; for people were
not very lenient at a time like that."

"Go on with your story," said Holmes, shortly.

"Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I. A fine weight he
was, too, for all that he was so short. Mahomet Singh was left to
guard the door. We took him to a place which the Sikhs had already
prepared. It was some distance off, where a winding passage leads to
a great empty hall, the brick walls of which were all crumbling to
pieces. The earth floor had sunk in at one place, making a natural
grave, so we left Achmet the merchant there, having first covered him
over with loose bricks. This done, we all went back to the treasure.

"It lay where he had dropped it when he was first attacked. The box
was the same which now lies open upon your table. A key was hung by a
silken cord to that carved handle upon the top. We opened it, and the
light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection of gems such as I have
read of and thought about when I was a little lad at Pershore. It was
blinding to look upon them. When we had feasted our eyes we took them
all out and made a list of them. There were one hundred and
forty-three diamonds of the first water, including one which has been
called, I believe, 'the Great Mogul' and is said to be the second
largest stone in existence. Then there were ninety-seven very fine
emeralds, and one hundred and seventy rubies, some of which, however,
were small. There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and ten
sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of beryls, onyxes,
cats'-eyes, turquoises, and other stones, the very names of which I
did not know at the time, though I have become more familiar with
them since. Besides this, there were nearly three hundred very fine
pearls, twelve of which were set in a gold coronet. By the way, these
last had been taken out of the chest and were not there when I
recovered it.

"After we had counted our treasures we put them back into the chest
and carried them to the gate-way to show them to Mahomet Singh. Then
we solemnly renewed our oath to stand by each other and be true to
our secret. We agreed to conceal our loot in a safe place until the
country should be at peace again, and then to divide it equally among
ourselves. There was no use dividing it at present, for if gems of
such value were found upon us it would cause suspicion, and there was
no privacy in the fort nor any place where we could keep them. We
carried the box, therefore, into the same hall where we had buried
the body, and there, under certain bricks in the best-preserved wall,
we made a hollow and put our treasure. We made careful note of the
place, and next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and put
the sign of the four of us at the bottom, for we had sworn that we
should each always act for all, so that none might take advantage.
That is an oath that I can put my hand to my heart and swear that I
have never broken.

"Well, there's no use my telling you gentlemen what came of the
Indian mutiny. After Wilson took Delhi and Sir Colin relieved Lucknow
the back of the business was broken. Fresh troops came pouring in,
and Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the frontier. A flying column
under Colonel Greathed came round to Agra and cleared the Pandies
away from it. Peace seemed to be settling upon the country, and we
four were beginning to hope that the time was at hand when we might
safely go off with our shares of the plunder. In a moment, however,
our hopes were shattered by our being arrested as the murderers of
Achmet.

"It came about in this way. When the rajah put his jewels into the
hands of Achmet he did it because he knew that he was a trusty man.
They are suspicious folk in the East, however: so what does this
rajah do but take a second even more trusty servant and set him to
play the spy upon the first? This second man was ordered never to let
Achmet out of his sight, and he followed him like his shadow. He went
after him that night and saw him pass through the doorway. Of course
he thought he had taken refuge in the fort, and applied for admission
there himself next day, but could find no trace of Achmet. This
seemed to him so strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of
guides, who brought it to the ears of the commandant. A thorough
search was quickly made, and the body was discovered. Thus at the
very moment that we thought that all was safe we were all four seized
and brought to trial on a charge of murder,--three of us because we
had held the gate that night, and the fourth because he was known to
have been in the company of the murdered man. Not a word about the
jewels came out at the trial, for the rajah had been deposed and
driven out of India: so no one had any particular interest in them.
The murder, however, was clearly made out, and it was certain that we
must all have been concerned in it. The three Sikhs got penal
servitude for life, and I was condemned to death, though my sentence
was afterwards commuted into the same as the others.

"It was rather a queer position that we found ourselves in then.
There we were all four tied by the leg and with precious little
chance of ever getting out again, while we each held a secret which
might have put each of us in a palace if we could only have made use
of it. It was enough to make a man eat his heart out to have to stand
the kick and the cuff of every petty jack-in-office, to have rice to
eat and water to drink, when that gorgeous fortune was ready for him
outside, just waiting to be picked up. It might have driven me mad;
but I was always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on and bided
my time.

"At last it seemed to me to have come. I was changed from Agra to
Madras, and from there to Blair Island in the Andamans. There are
very few white convicts at this settlement, and, as I had behaved
well from the first, I soon found myself a sort of privileged person.
I was given a hut in Hope Town, which is a small place on the slopes
of Mount Harriet, and I was left pretty much to myself. It is a
dreary, fever-stricken place, and all beyond our little clearings was
infested with wild cannibal natives, who were ready enough to blow a
poisoned dart at us if they saw a chance. There was digging, and
ditching, and yam-planting, and a dozen other things to be done, so
we were busy enough all day; though in the evening we had a little
time to ourselves. Among other things, I learned to dispense drugs
for the surgeon, and picked up a smattering of his knowledge. All the
time I was on the lookout for a chance of escape; but it is hundreds
of miles from any other land, and there is little or no wind in those
seas: so it was a terribly difficult job to get away.

"The surgeon, Dr. Somerton, was a fast, sporting young chap, and the
other young officers would meet in his rooms of an evening and play
cards. The surgery, where I used to make up my drugs, was next to his
sitting-room, with a small window between us. Often, if I felt
lonesome, I used to turn out the lamp in the surgery, and then,
standing there, I could hear their talk and watch their play. I am
fond of a hand at cards myself, and it was almost as good as having
one to watch the others. There was Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and
Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who were in command of the native troops,
and there was the surgeon himself, and two or three prison-officials,
crafty old hands who played a nice sly safe game. A very snug little
party they used to make.

"Well, there was one thing which very soon struck me, and that was
that the soldiers used always to lose and the civilians to win. Mind,
I don't say that there was anything unfair, but so it was. These
prison-chaps had done little else than play cards ever since they had
been at the Andamans, and they knew each other's game to a point,
while the others just played to pass the time and threw their cards
down anyhow. Night after night the soldiers got up poorer men, and
the poorer they got the more keen they were to play. Major Sholto was
the hardest hit. He used to pay in notes and gold at first, but soon
it came to notes of hand and for big sums. He sometimes would win for
a few deals, just to give him heart, and then the luck would set in
against him worse than ever. All day he would wander about as black
as thunder, and he took to drinking a deal more than was good for
him.

"One night he lost even more heavily than usual. I was sitting in my
hut when he and Captain Morstan came stumbling along on the way to
their quarters. They were bosom friends, those two, and never far
apart. The major was raving about his losses.

"'It's all up, Morstan,' he was saying, as they passed my hut. 'I
shall have to send in my papers. I am a ruined man.'

"'Nonsense, old chap!' said the other, slapping him upon the
shoulder. 'I've had a nasty facer myself, but--' That was all I could
hear, but it was enough to set me thinking.

A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling on the beach: so I
took the chance of speaking to him.

"'I wish to have your advice, major,' said I.

"'Well, Small, what is it?' he asked, taking his cheroot from his
lips.

"'I wanted to ask you, sir,' said I, 'who is the proper person to
whom hidden treasure should be handed over. I know where half a
million worth lies, and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought perhaps
the best thing that I could do would be to hand it over to the proper
authorities, and then perhaps they would get my sentence shortened
for me.'

"'Half a million, Small?' he gasped, looking hard at me to see if I
was in earnest.

"'Quite that, sir,--in jewels and pearls. It lies there ready for
anyone. And the queer thing about it is that the real owner is
outlawed and cannot hold property, so that it belongs to the first
comer.'

"'To government, Small,' he stammered,--'to government.' But he said
it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had got him.

"'You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the
Governor-General?' said I, quietly.

"'Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might
repent. Let me hear all about it, Small. Give me the facts.'

"I told him the whole story, with small changes so that he could not
identify the places. When I had finished he stood stock still and
full of thought. I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was
a struggle going on within him.

"'This is a very important matter, Small,' he said, at last. 'You
must not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again
soon.'

"Two nights later he and his friend Captain Morstan came to my hut in
the dead of the night with a lantern.

"'I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your
own lips, Small,' said he.

"I repeated it as I had told it before.

"'It rings true, eh?' said he. 'It's good enough to act upon?'

"Captain Morstan nodded.

"'Look here, Small,' said the major. 'We have been talking it over,
my friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this
secret of yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but is a
private concern of your own, which of course you have the power of
disposing of as you think best. Now, the question is, what price
would you ask for it? We might be inclined to take it up, and at
least look into it, if we could agree as to terms.' He tried to speak
in a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with excitement
and greed.

"'Why, as to that, gentlemen,' I answered, trying also to be cool,
but feeling as excited as he did, 'there is only one bargain which a
man in my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my
freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs.  We shall then
take yo into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide
between you.'

"'Hum!' said he. 'A fifth share! That is not very tempting.'

"'It would come to fifty thousand apiece,' said I.

"'But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask
an impossibility.'

"'Nothing of the sort,' I answered. 'I have thought it all out to the
last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat
fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time.
There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras
which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one over. We shall
engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any
part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the
bargain.'

"'If there were only one,' he said.

"'None or all,' I answered. 'We have sworn it. The four of us must
always act together.'

"'You see, Morstan,' said he, 'Small is a man of his word. He does
not flinch from his friend. I think we may very well trust him.'

"'It's a dirty business,' the other answered. 'Yet, as you say, the
money would save our commissions handsomely.'

"'Well, Small,' said the major, 'we must, I suppose, try and meet
you. We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. Tell me
where the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back to
India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair.'

"'Not so fast,' said I, growing colder as he got hot. 'I must have
the consent of my three comrades. I tell you that it is four or none
with us.'

"'Nonsense!' he broke in. 'What have three black fellows to do with
our agreement?'

"'Black or blue,' said I, 'they are in with me, and we all go
together.'

"Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mahomet Singh,
Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present. We talked the matter
over again, and at last we came to an arrangement. We were to provide
both the officers with charts of the part of the Agra fort and mark
the place in the wall where the treasure was hid. Major Sholto was to
go to India to test our story. If he found the box he was to leave it
there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a voyage, which was
to lie off Rutland Island, and to which we were to make our way, and
finally to return to his duties. Captain Morstan was then to apply
for leave of absence, to meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a
final division of the treasure, he taking the major's share as well
as his own. All this we sealed by the most solemn oaths that the mind
could think or the lips utter. I sat up all night with paper and ink,
and by the morning I had the two charts all ready, signed with the
sign of four,--that is, of Abdullah, Akbar, Mahomet, and myself.

"Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story, and I know that my
friend Mr. Jones is impatient to get me safely stowed in chokey. I'll
make it as short as I can. The villain Sholto went off to India, but
he never came back again. Captain Morstan showed me his name among a
list of passengers in one of the mail-boats very shortly afterwards.
His uncle had died, leaving him a fortune, and he had left the army,
yet he could stoop to treat five men as he had treated us. Morstan
went over to Agra shortly afterwards, and found, as we expected, that
the treasure was indeed gone. The scoundrel had stolen it all,
without carrying out one of the conditions on which we had sold him
the secret. From that day I lived only for vengeance. I thought of it
by day and I nursed it by night. It became an overpowering, absorbing
passion with me. I cared nothing for the law,--nothing for the
gallows. To escape, to track down Sholto, to have my hand upon his
throat,--that was my one thought. Even the Agra treasure had come to
be a smaller thing in my mind than the slaying of Sholto.

"Well, I have set my mind on many things in this life, and never one
which I did not carry out. But it was weary years before my time
came. I have told you that I had picked up something of medicine. One
day when Dr. Somerton was down with a fever a little Andaman Islander
was picked up by a convict-gang in the woods. He was sick to death,
and had gone to a lonely place to die. I took him in hand, though he
was as venomous as a young snake, and after a couple of months I got
him all right and able to walk. He took a kind of fancy to me then,
and would hardly go back to his woods, but was always hanging about
my hut. I learned a little of his lingo from him, and this made him
all the fonder of me.

"Tonga--for that was his name--was a fine boatman, and owned a big,
roomy canoe of his own. When I found that he was devoted to me and
would do anything to serve me, I saw my chance of escape. I talked it
over with him. He was to bring his boat round on a certain night to
an old wharf which was never guarded, and there he was to pick me up.
I gave him directions to have several gourds of water and a lot of
yams, cocoa-nuts, and sweet potatoes.

"He was stanch and true, was little Tonga. No man ever had a more
faithful mate. At the night named he had his boat at the wharf. As it
chanced, however, there was one of the convict-guard down there,--a
vile Pathan who had never missed a chance of insulting and injuring
me. I had always vowed vengeance, and now I had my chance. It was as
if fate had placed him in my way that I might pay my debt before I
left the island. He stood on the bank with his back to me, and his
carbine on his shoulder. I looked about for a stone to beat out his
brains with, but none could I see.

"Then a queer thought came into my head and showed me where I could
lay my hand on a weapon. I sat down in the darkness and unstrapped my
wooden leg. With three long hops I was on him. He put his carbine to
his shoulder, but I struck him full, and knocked the whole front of
his skull in. You can see the split in the wood now where I hit him.
We both went down together, for I could not keep my balance, but when
I got up I found him still lying quiet enough. I made for the boat,
and in an hour we were well out at sea. Tonga had brought all his
earthly possessions with him, his arms and his gods. Among other
things, he had a long bamboo spear, and some Andaman cocoa-nut
matting, with which I made a sort of sail. For ten days we were
beating about, trusting to luck, and on the eleventh we were picked
up by a trader which was going from Singapore to Jiddah with a cargo
of Malay pilgrims. They were a rum crowd, and Tonga and I soon
managed to settle down among them. They had one very good quality:
they let you alone and asked no questions.

"Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that my little chum
and I went through, you would not thank me, for I would have you here
until the sun was shining. Here and there we drifted about the world,
something always turning up to keep us from London. All the time,
however, I never lost sight of my purpose. I would dream of Sholto at
night. A hundred times I have killed him in my sleep. At last,
however, some three or four years ago, we found ourselves in England.
I had no great difficulty in finding where Sholto lived, and I set to
work to discover whether he had realized the treasure, or if he still
had it. I made friends with someone who could help me,--I name no
names, for I don't want to get any one else in a hole,--and I soon
found that he still had the jewels. Then I tried to get at him in
many ways; but he was pretty sly, and had always two prize-fighters,
besides his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him.

"One day, however, I got word that he was dying. I hurried at once to
the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that,
and, looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his
sons on each side of him. I'd have come through and taken my chance
with the three of them, only even as I looked at him his jaw dropped,
and I knew that he was gone. I got into his room that same night,
though, and I searched his papers to see if there was any record of
where he had hidden our jewels. There was not a line, however: so I
came away, bitter and savage as a man could be. Before I left I
bethought me that if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a
satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of our hatred: so I
scrawled down the sign of the four of us, as it had been on the
chart, and I pinned it on his bosom. It was too much that he should
be taken to the grave without some token from the men whom he had
robbed and befooled.

"We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs
and other such places as the black cannibal. He would eat raw meat
and dance his war-dance: so we always had a hatful of pennies after a
day's work. I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and
for some years there was no news to hear, except that they were
hunting for the treasure. At last, however, came what we had waited
for so long. The treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the
house, in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto's chemical laboratory. I came at
once and had a look at the place, but I could not see how with my
wooden leg I was to make my way up to it. I learned, however, about a
trap-door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto's supper-hour. It
seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I
brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist. He
could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the roof,
but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the
room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in
killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting
about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made
at him with the rope's end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty
imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down
myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to
show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most
right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and
made off the way that he had come.

"I don't know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a
waterman speak of the speed of Smith's launch, the Aurora, so I
thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old
Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship.
He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in
our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you,
gentlemen, it is not to amuse you,--for you have not done me a very
good turn,--but it is because I believe the best defence I can make
is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I
have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the
death of his son."

"A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up
to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me
in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your
own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had
lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat."

"He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe
at the time."

"Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that."

"Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked
the convict, affably.

"I think not, thank you," my companion answered.

"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humored,
and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is
duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend
asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller
here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two
inspectors down-stairs. I am much obliged to you both for your
assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to
you."

"Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small.

"You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room.
"I'll take particular care that you don't club me with your wooden
leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman
Isles."

"Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after
we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the
last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your
methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honor to accept me as a husband
in prospective."

He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really
cannot congratulate you."

I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my
choice?" I asked.

"Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I
ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have
been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in
which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her
father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is
opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I
should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment."

"I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the
ordeal. But you look weary."

"Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag
for a week."

"Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call
laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigor."

"Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine
loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of
those lines of old Goethe,--

Schade, daß die Natur nur einen Mensch aus Dir schuf,
Denn zum würdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.

"By the way, a propos of this Norwood business, you see that they
had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none
other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided
honor of having caught one fish in his great haul."

"The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all
the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the
credit, pray what remains for you?"

"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the
cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it.






THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES





A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA





Table of contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3















CHAPTER I



To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him
mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and
predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any
emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one
particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably
balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and
observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would
have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer
passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things
for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives
and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions
into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to
introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his
mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of
his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong
emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to
him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and
questionable memory.

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away
from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred
interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master
of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention,
while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole
Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among
his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and
ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his
own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study
of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers
of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those
mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official
police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings:
of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his
clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at
Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so
delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared
with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former
friend and companion.

One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was returning
from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil
practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the
well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with
my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was
seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was
employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit,
and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in
a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly,
eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped
behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude
and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen
out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new
problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had
formerly been in part my own.

His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think,
to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved
me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a
spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the
fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.

"Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you have put
on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."

"Seven!" I answered.

"Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I
fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me
that you intended to go into harness."

"Then, how do you know?"

"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting
yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and
careless servant girl?"

"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would certainly have
been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had
a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I
have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary
Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but
there, again, I fail to see how you work it out."

He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

"It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the
inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the
leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have
been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the
edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you
see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and
that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the
London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my
rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver
upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his
top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be
dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the
medical profession."

I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his
process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I
remarked, "the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously
simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive
instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your
process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours."

"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself
down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe. The
distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps
which lead up from the hall to this room."

"Frequently."

"How often?"

"Well, some hundreds of times."

"Then how many are there?"

"How many? I don't know."

"Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just
my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have
both seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are interested in these
little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or
two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this." He
threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted note-paper which had been
lying open upon the table. "It came by the last post," said he. "Read
it aloud."

The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

"There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o'clock,"
it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the
very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses
of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with
matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated.
This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your
chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor
wear a mask."

"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine that it
means?"

"I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one
has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories,
instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you
deduce from it?"

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
written.

"The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I remarked,
endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper could
not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong
and stiff."

"Peculiar--that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not an English
paper at all. Hold it up to the light."

I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," a "P," and a large
"G" with a small "t" woven into the texture of the paper.

"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.

"The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather."

"Not at all. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for 'Gesellschaft,'
which is the German for 'Company.' It is a customary contraction like
our 'Co.' 'P,' of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the 'Eg.' Let
us glance at our Continental Gazetteer." He took down a heavy brown
volume from his shelves. "Eglow, Eglonitz--here we are, Egria. It is
in a German-speaking country--in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad.
'Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for
its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, what
do you make of that?" His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue
triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.

"Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note
the peculiar construction of the sentence--'This account of you we
have from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or Russian could not
have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his
verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this
German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to
showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve
all our doubts."

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and grating
wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes
whistled.

"A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing out of
the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred
and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this case, Watson, if
there is nothing else."

"I think that I had better go, Holmes."

"Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.
And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it."

"But your client--"

"Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes.
Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention."

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in
the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a
loud and authoritative tap.

"Come in!" said Holmes.

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six
inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress
was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as
akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the
sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue
cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with
flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which
consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up
his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur,
completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by
his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand,
while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past
the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted
that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered.
From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong
character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin
suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

"You had my note?" he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly
marked German accent. "I told you that I would call." He looked from
one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

"Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and colleague,
Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases.
Whom have I the honour to address?"

"You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I
understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and
discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme
importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you
alone."

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back
into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say before
this gentleman anything which you may say to me."

The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin," said he,
"by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of
that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not
too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence
upon European history."

"I promise," said Holmes.

"And I."

"You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor. "The
august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you,
and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called
myself is not exactly my own."

"I was aware of it," said Holmes dryly.

"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to
be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and
seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak
plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein,
hereditary kings of Bohemia."

"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself down in
his armchair and closing his eyes.

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as
the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes
slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic
client.

"If your Majesty would condescend to state your case," he remarked,
"I should be better able to advise you."

The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he
tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You are
right," he cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal
it?"

"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not spoken before I
was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von
Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of
Bohemia."

"But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down once
more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, "you can
understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own
person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to
an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito
from Prague for the purpose of consulting you."

"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

"The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy
visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known
adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you."

"Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured Holmes without
opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing
all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to
name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish
information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between
that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written
a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.

"Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858.
Contralto--hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of
Warsaw--yes! Retired from operatic stage--ha! Living in London--quite
so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young
person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of
getting those letters back."

"Precisely so. But how--"

"Was there a secret marriage?"

"None."

"No legal papers or certificates?"

"None."

"Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should
produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to
prove their authenticity?"

"There is the writing."

"Pooh, pooh! Forgery."

"My private note-paper."

"Stolen."

"My own seal."

"Imitated."

"My photograph."

"Bought."

"We were both in the photograph."

"Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an
indiscretion."

"I was mad--insane."

"You have compromised yourself seriously."

"I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now."

"It must be recovered."

"We have tried and failed."

"Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought."

"She will not sell."

"Stolen, then."

"Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her
house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has
been waylaid. There has been no result."

"No sign of it?"

"Absolutely none."

Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem," said he.

"But a very serious one to me," returned the King reproachfully.

"Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?"

"To ruin me."

"But how?"

"I am about to be married."

"So I have heard."

"To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King
of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She
is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my
conduct would bring the matter to an end."

"And Irene Adler?"

"Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know
that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of
steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind
of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another
woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go--none."

"You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"

"I am sure."

"And why?"

"Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the
betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday."

"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes with a yawn. "That is
very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look
into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London
for the present?"

"Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the
Count Von Kramm."

"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress."

"Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety."

"Then, as to money?"

"You have carte blanche."

"Absolutely?"

"I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to
have that photograph."

"And for present expenses?"

The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and
laid it on the table.

"There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,"
he said.

Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed
it to him.

"And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."

Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he. "Was the
photograph a cabinet?"

"It was."

"Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have
some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he added, as the
wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. "If you will be
good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o'clock I should
like to chat this little matter over with you."





CHAPTER II



At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not
yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house
shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down beside the
fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he
might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though
it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were
associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still,
the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it
a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the
investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his
masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning,
which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to
follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most
inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success
that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my
head.

It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking
groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and
disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my
friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three
times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he
vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes
tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his
pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed
heartily for some minutes.

"Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until
he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.

"What is it?"

"It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed
my morning, or what I ended by doing."

"I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits,
and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler."

"Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you,
however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this morning
in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful
sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you
will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is
a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front
right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large
sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows
almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners
which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save
that the passage window could be reached from the top of the
coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every
point of view, but without noting anything else of interest.

"I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there
was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I
lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in
exchange twopence, a glass of half and half, two fills of shag
tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler,
to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in
whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was
compelled to listen to."

"And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.

"Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She is the
daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the
Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts,
drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner.
Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one
male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and
dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a
Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a
cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from
Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all
they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once
more, and to think over my plan of campaign.

"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter.
He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between
them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client,
his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably
transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less
likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should
continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the
gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it
widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these
details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are
to understand the situation."

"I am following you closely," I answered.

"I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove
up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably
handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached--evidently the man of
whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the
cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with
the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.

"He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses
of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down,
talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing.
Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he
stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and
looked at it earnestly, 'Drive like the devil,' he shouted, 'first to
Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St.
Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty
minutes!'

"Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do
well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the
coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear,
while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles.
It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it.
I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely
woman, with a face that a man might die for.

"'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 'and half a sovereign
if you reach it in twenty minutes.'

"This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing
whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her
landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at
such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. 'The
Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it
in twenty minutes.' It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of
course it was clear enough what was in the wind.

"My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but the
others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their
steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the
man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there save the
two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be
expostulating with them. They were all three standing in a knot in
front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler
who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at
the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard
as he could towards me.

"'Thank God,' he cried. 'You'll do. Come! Come!'

"'What then?' I asked.

"'Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'

"I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I
found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and
vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting
in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton,
bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman
thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the
clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous
position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the
thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there
had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman
absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and
that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally
out into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a
sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the
occasion."

"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and what then?"

"Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the
pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very
prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church door,
however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to
her own house. 'I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,' she
said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different
directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements."

"Which are?"

"Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the bell.
"I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier
still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your
co-operation."

"I shall be delighted."

"You don't mind breaking the law?"

"Not in the least."

"Nor running a chance of arrest?"

"Not in a good cause."

"Oh, the cause is excellent!"

"Then I am your man."

"I was sure that I might rely on you."

"But what is it you wish?"

"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to
you. Now," he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our
landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not
much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the
scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her
drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her."

"And what then?"

"You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur.
There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not
interfere, come what may. You understand?"

"I am to be neutral?"

"To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small
unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed
into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room
window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open
window."

"Yes."

"You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."

"Yes."

"And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room what I
give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire.
You quite follow me?"

"Entirely."

"It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long cigar-shaped
roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's smoke-rocket,
fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task
is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be
taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of
the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have
made myself clear?"

"I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at
the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire,
and to wait you at the corner of the street."

"Precisely."

"Then you may entirely rely on me."

"That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I
prepare for the new role I have to play."

He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the
character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman.
His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his
sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent
curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It
was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his
manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he
assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute
reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.

It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still
wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine
Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as
we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming
of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from
Sherlock Holmes' succinct description, but the locality appeared to
be less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street
in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a
group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a
scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with
a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up
and down with cigars in their mouths.

"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the
house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph
becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be
as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is
to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is--Where
are we to find the photograph?"

"Where, indeed?"

"It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is
cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's dress.
She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid and
searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may
take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her."

"Where, then?"

"Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am
inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they
like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone
else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell
what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a
business man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it
within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It
must be in her own house."

"But it has twice been burgled."

"Pshaw! They did not know how to look."

"But how will you look?"

"I will not look."

"What then?"

"I will get her to show me."

"But she will refuse."

"She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her
carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter."

As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round the
curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to
the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at
the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a
copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up
with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was
increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the
loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the
other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had
stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed
and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their
fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady;
but just as he reached her he gave a cry and dropped to the ground,
with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the
guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in
the other, while a number of better-dressed people, who had watched
the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady
and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call
her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her
superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back
into the street.

"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.

"He is dead," cried several voices.

"No, no, there's life in him!" shouted another. "But he'll be gone
before you can get him to hospital."

"He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have had the lady's
purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a gang, and a
rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now."

"He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"

"Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable
sofa. This way, please!"

Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in
the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my
post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not
been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do
not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for
the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily
ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature
against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which
she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest
treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had
intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from
under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We
are but preventing her from injuring another.

Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who
is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At
the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed
my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!" The word was no sooner
out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and
ill--gentlemen, ostlers, and servant-maids--joined in a general
shriek of "Fire!" Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and
out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a
moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it
was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way
to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find
my friend's arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He
walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had
turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware
Road.

"You did it very nicely, Doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could have
been better. It is all right."

"You have the photograph?"

"I know where it is."

"And how did you find out?"

"She showed me, as I told you she would."

"I am still in the dark."

"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The matter was
perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was
an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening."

"I guessed as much."

"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the
palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my
face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick."

"That also I could fathom."

"Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else
could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room
which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was
determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air,
they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance."

"How did that help you?"

"It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire,
her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most.
It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once
taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington substitution
scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle
business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches
for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had
nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest
of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably
done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel.
She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a
sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an
instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I
cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the
rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose,
and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether
to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had
come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to wait.
A little over-precipitance may ruin all."

"And now?" I asked.

"Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King
to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be
shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable
that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It
might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own
hands."

"And when will you call?"

"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a
clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a
complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King
without delay."

We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was
searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

"Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the
greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had
hurried by.

"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the dimly
lit street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been."





CHAPTER III



I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our
toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into
the room.

"You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by
either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

"Not yet."

"But you have hopes?"

"I have hopes."

"Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."

"We must have a cab."

"No, my brougham is waiting."

"Then that will simplify matters." We descended and started off once
more for Briony Lodge.

"Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

"Married! When?"

"Yesterday."

"But to whom?"

"To an English lawyer named Norton."

"But she could not love him."

"I am in hopes that she does."

"And why in hopes?"

"Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If
the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she
does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should
interfere with your Majesty's plan."

"It is true. And yet--Well! I wish she had been of my own station!
What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a moody silence,
which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon
the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the
brougham.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.

"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a
questioning and rather startled gaze.

"Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left
this morning with her husband by the 5.15 train from Charing Cross
for the Continent."

"What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and
surprise. "Do you mean that she has left England?"

"Never to return."

"And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is lost."

"We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed into the
drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was
scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open
drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her
flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding
shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a
letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress,
the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till
called for." My friend tore it open and we all three read it
together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in
this way:

"My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
"You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after
the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how
I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against
you months ago. I had been told that if the King employed an agent it
would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with
all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I
became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind
old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress
myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of
the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you,
ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call them, and came
down just as you departed.
"Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was
really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for
the Temple to see my husband.
"We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so
formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you
call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace.
I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he
will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep
it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will
always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I
leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear
Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
"Very truly yours,
"Irene Norton, née Adler."

"What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when we
had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick and
resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it
not a pity that she was not on my level?"

"From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very
different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am sorry
that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to a more
successful conclusion."

"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be
more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is
now as safe as if it were in the fire."

"I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."

"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can
reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from his
finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

"Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,"
said Holmes.

"You have but to name it."

"This photograph!"

The King stared at him in amazement.

"Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."

"I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the
matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning." He bowed,
and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had
stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of
Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by
a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women,
but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene
Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the
honourable title of the woman.






THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very
stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an
apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled
me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,"
he said cordially.

"I was afraid that you were engaged."

"So I am. Very much so."

"Then I can wait in the next room."

"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and
helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that
he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes.

"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and
putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial
moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is
bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday
life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has
prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so,
somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures."

"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I
observed.

"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that
for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life
itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
imagination."

"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

"You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view,
for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your
reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now,
Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this
morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the
most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard
me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often
connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and
occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any
positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is
impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of
crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most
singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would
have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not
merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part
but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to
have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have
heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to
guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to
my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the
facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the
inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement
column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon
his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the
fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be
presented by his dress or appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore
every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd's check
trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front,
and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square
pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat
and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a
chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing
remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the
expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his
head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. "Beyond the
obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he
takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and
that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can
deduce nothing else."

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon
the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did manual
labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter."

"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than
your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
developed."

"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use
an arc-and-compass breastpin."

"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five
inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where
you rest it upon the desk?"

"Well, but China?"

"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist
could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of
tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the
subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a delicate pink
is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin
hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple."

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I
thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that
there was nothing in it, after all."

"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake in
explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my poor
little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so
candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

"Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger
planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what began it
all. You just read it for yourself, sir."

I took the paper from him and read as follows:

"To the Red-headed League: On account of the bequest of the late
Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now
another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a
salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men
who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years,
are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan
Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street."

"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice read
over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in
high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?" said
he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about
yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had
upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper
and the date."

"It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago."

"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"
said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small pawnbroker's
business at Coburg Square, near the City. It's not a very large
affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a
living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep
one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come
for half wages so as to learn the business."

"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, either.
It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr.
Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn
twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied,
why should I put ideas in his head?"

"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes
under the full market price. It is not a common experience among
employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is not as
remarkable as your advertisement."

"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a
fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to
be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a
rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault,
but on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice in him."

"He is still with you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple
cooking and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the house,
for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly,
sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our
debts, if we do nothing more.

"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding,
he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this
very paper in his hand, and he says:

"'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'

"'Why that?' I asks.

"'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the
Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets
it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are
men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to do with the
money. If my hair would only change colour, here's a nice little crib
all ready for me to step into.'

"'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very
stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having
to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over
the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what was going on
outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

"'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he asked
with his eyes open.

"'Never.'

"'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the
vacancies.'

"'And what are they worth?' I asked.

"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and
it need not interfere very much with one's other occupations.'

"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for
the business has not been over-good for some years, and an extra
couple of hundred would have been very handy.

"'Tell me all about it,' said I.

"'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for
yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address
where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the
League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who
was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had
a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it was found
that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with
instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to
men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay
and very little to do.'

"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would
apply.'

"'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is really
confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started
from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a
good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if
your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright,
blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would
just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put
yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.'

"Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my
hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if
there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a
chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to
know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just
ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away
with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the
business up and started off for the address that was given us in the
advertisement.

"I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his
hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet
Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like
a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so
many in the whole country as were brought together by that single
advertisement. Every shade of colour they were--straw, lemon, orange,
brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were
not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how
many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding
would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he
pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and
right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double
stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back
dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found
ourselves in the office."

"Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked Holmes
as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of
snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

"There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a
deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even
redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came
up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would
disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very
easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man
was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he
closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word
with us.

"'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is willing to
fill a vacancy in the League.'

"'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He has
every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so
fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and
gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged
forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.

"'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will, however, I
am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' With that he
seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the
pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he as he released me. 'I
perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for
we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell
you tales of cobbler's wax which would disgust you with human
nature.' He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the
top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of
disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in
different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except
my own and that of the manager.

"'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the
pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a
married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'

"I answered that I had not.

"His face fell immediately.

"'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I am sorry
to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation
and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is
exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.'

"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not
to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few
minutes he said that it would be all right.

"'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be fatal,
but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of
hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?'

"'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,' said
I.

"'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent Spaulding. 'I
should be able to look after that for you.'

"'What would be the hours?' I asked.

"'Ten to two.'

"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr.
Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before
pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the
mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that
he would see to anything that turned up.

"'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'

"'Is £4 a week.'

"'And the work?'

"'Is purely nominal.'

"'What do you call purely nominal?'

"'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building,
the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position
forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don't comply
with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.'

"'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,'
said I.

"'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither sickness nor
business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your
billet.'

"'And the work?'

"'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." There is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be
ready to-morrow?'

"'Certainly,' I answered.

"'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once
more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough
to gain.' He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my
assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my
own good fortune.

"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low
spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair
must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I
could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could
make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing
anything so simple as copying out the 'Encyclopaedia Britannica.'
Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I
had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I
determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I
started off for Pope's Court.

"Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as
possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was
there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the
letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time
to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he bade me
good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and
locked the door of the office after me.

"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager
came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week's work.
It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning
I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.
Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after
a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to
leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I
would not risk the loss of it.

"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots
and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with
diligence that I might get on to the B's before very long. It cost me
something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my
writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end."

"To an end?"

"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual
at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little
square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a
tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of
note-paper. It read in this fashion:

The Red-headed League
is
Dissolved
October 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful
face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely
overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a
roar of laughter.

"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our client,
flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can do nothing
better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he
had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It
is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my
saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps
did you take when you found the card upon the door?"

"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at
the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.
Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such
body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the
name was new to him.

"'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'

"'What, the red-headed man?'

"'Yes.'

"'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and
was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises
were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

"'Where could I find him?'

"'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King
Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'

"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a
manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard
of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say
that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good
enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a
struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice
to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you."

"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an exceedingly
remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you
have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from
it than might at first sight appear."

"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost four pound a
week."

"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do not
see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On
the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £30, to say
nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every
subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by
them."

"No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and
what their object was in playing this prank--if it was a prank--upon
me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and
thirty pounds."

"We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one
or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first
called your attention to the advertisement--how long had he been with
you?"

"About a month then."

"How did he come?"

"In answer to an advertisement."

"Was he the only applicant?"

"No, I had a dozen."

"Why did you pick him?"

"Because he was handy and would come cheap."

"At half-wages, in fact."

"Yes."

"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
forehead."

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I thought as
much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
earrings?"

"Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a
lad."

"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is still with
you?"

"Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."

"And has your business been attended to in your absence?"

"Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of a
morning."

"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion
upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday,
and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

"Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left us, "what do
you make of it all?"

"I make nothing of it," I answered frankly. "It is a most mysterious
business."

"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless
crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the
most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter."

"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg
that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled himself up
in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and
there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting
out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion
that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he
suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has
made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

"Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he remarked.
"What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few
hours?"

"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing."

"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first,
and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good
deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my
taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to
introspect. Come along!"

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short
walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story
which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little,
shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick
houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of
weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight
against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls
and a brown board with "Jabez Wilson" in white letters, upon a corner
house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his
business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one
side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down
again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he
returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously upon the
pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door
and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking,
clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.

"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would go
from here to the Strand."

"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly, closing
the door.

"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He is, in
my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am
not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something
of him before."

"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal
in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired
your way merely in order that you might see him."

"Not him."

"What then?"

"The knees of his trousers."

"And what did you see?"

"What I expected to see."

"Why did you beat the pavement?"

"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are
spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner
from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to
it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and
west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce
flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were
black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to
realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business
premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded
and stagnant square which we had just quitted.

"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along
the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the houses
here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London.
There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the
Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian
Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us
right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we've done our work, so
it's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then
off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony,
and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very
capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,
gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his
gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those
of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and
his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often
thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him
from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was
never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been
lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter
editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come
upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the
level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his
methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not
that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in
the music at St. James's Hall I felt that an evil time might be
coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.

"You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we emerged.

"Yes, it would be as well."

"And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being
Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help
to-night."

"At what time?"

"Ten will be early enough."

"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

"Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so
kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved his hand,
turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always
oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with
Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what
he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw
clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen,
while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I
drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the
extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the "Encyclopaedia"
down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with
which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and
why should I go armed?  Where were we going, and what were we to do?
I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's
assistant was a formidable man--a man who might play a deep game. I
tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter
aside until night should bring an explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way
across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I
heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I found
Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I
recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other
was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and
oppressively respectable frock-coat.

"Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket
and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. "Watson, I think you
know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.
Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night's adventure."

"We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in his
consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running
down."

"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,"
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the
police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods, which are, if
he won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and
fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not
too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto
murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than
the official force."

"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the stranger
with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the
first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had
my rubber."

"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will play
for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the
play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will
be some £30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you
wish to lay your hands."

"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young
man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I
would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London.
He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a
royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is
as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every
turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a crib
in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in
Cornwall the next. I've been on his track for years and have never
set eyes on him yet."

"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.
I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree
with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten,
however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the
first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second."

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and
lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the
afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
until we emerged into Farrington Street.

"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow
Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the
matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a
bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one
positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a
lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are
waiting for us."

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and
through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small
corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was
opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which
terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to
light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling
passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or
cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he held
up the lantern and gazed about him.

"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!"
he remarked, looking up in surprise.

"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes
severely. "You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down
upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees
upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to
examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds
sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his
glass in his pocket.

"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can
hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.
Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work
the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present,
Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the cellar of the City
branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the
chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are
reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a
considerable interest in this cellar at present."

"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had several
warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

"Your French gold?"

"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and
borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France.
It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the
money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which
I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil.
Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept
in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon
the subject."

"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is
time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour
matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we
must put the screen over that dark lantern."

"And sit in the dark?"

"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I
thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might have your rubber
after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have gone so far
that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we
must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall
take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are
careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal
yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close
in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting
them down."

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind
which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his
lantern and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute darkness as I
have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to
assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a
moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of
expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden
gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.

"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back through
the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I
asked you, Jones?"

"I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."

"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and
wait."

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an
hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have
almost gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary
and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were
worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so
acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my
companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of
the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director.
From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the
floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it
lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any
warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white,
almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little
area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing
fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as
suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid
spark which marked a chink between the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending,
tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its
side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light
of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face,
which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of
the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one
knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of
the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like
himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the bags?
Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.
The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth
as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of
a revolver, but Holmes' hunting crop came down on the man's wrist,
and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no chance at
all."

"So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy
that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails."

"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must
compliment you."

"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new and
effective."

"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker at
climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the
derbies."

"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands," remarked
our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "You may not
be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness,
also, when you address me always to say 'sir' and 'please.'"

"All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would you
please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your
Highness to the police-station?"

"That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to
the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the
detective.

"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from
the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.
There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most
complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery
that have ever come within my experience."

"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over this
matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am
amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways
unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the
Red-headed League."

"You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning as
we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it was
perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of
this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League,
and the copying of the 'Encyclopaedia,' must be to get this not
over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every
day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be
difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to
Clay's ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice's hair. The £4
a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who
were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue
has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply
for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning
in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come
for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive
for securing the situation."

"But how could you guess what the motive was?"

"Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere
vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man's
business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which
could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an
expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the
house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for
photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar!
There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to
this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of
the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing
something in the cellar--something which took many hours a day for
months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing
save that he was running a tunnel to some other building.

"So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It
was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never
set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His
knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how
worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of
burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for.
I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on
our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When
you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon
the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have
seen."

"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?"
I asked.

"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that
they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other
words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential
that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the
bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any
other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all
these reasons I expected them to come to-night."

"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned
admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."

"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel
it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape
from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to
do so."

"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,'
as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."






A CASE OF IDENTITY

"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of
the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely
stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would
not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of
existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover
over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the
queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the
plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events,
working through generations, and leading to the most outré results,
it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen
conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which come
to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar
enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme
limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither
fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the police
report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of
the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain
the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is
nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking
so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and
helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three
continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and
bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper from the
ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading
upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his wife.' There is half a
column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all
perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the
drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or
landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude."

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument," said
Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This is the
Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing
up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a
teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of
was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by
taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you
will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of
the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and
acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example."

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the
centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely
ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It
is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my
assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which
sparkled upon his finger.

"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in
which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it
even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my
little problems."

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest.
They are important, you understand, without being interesting.
Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that
there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of
cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The
larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the
more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one
rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from
Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest.
It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very
many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much
mistaken."

He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted
blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there
stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large
curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a
coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under
this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at
our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her
fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as
of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and
we heard the sharp clang of the bell.

"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his
cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always means
an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that the
matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we
may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man
she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell
wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the
maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she
comes in person to resolve our doubts."

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons
entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself
loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man
behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy
courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and
bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet
abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.

"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a
little trying to do so much typewriting?"

"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters are
without looking." Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his
words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and
astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've heard about
me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know all that?"

"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know
things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If
not, why should you come to consult me?"

"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose
husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him
up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I'm
not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides
the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to
know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked Sherlock
Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss
Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said, "for
it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank--that is,
my father--took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would
not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on
saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on
with my things and came right away to you."

"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the name
is different."

"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too,
for he is only five years and two months older than myself."

"And your mother is alive?"

"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.
Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and a
man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a
plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business
behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but
when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was
very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got £4700 for the
goodwill and interest, which wasn't near as much as father could have
got if he had been alive."

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling
and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened
with the greatest concentration of attention.

"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the
business?"

"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in
Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4½ per cent. Two
thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the
interest."

"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so
large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain,
you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I
believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of
about £60."

"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand
that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a burden to them,
and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with
them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws
my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that
I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me
twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in
a day."

"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes. "This is
my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before
myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer
Angel."

A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked nervously
at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the gasfitters'
ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets when he was alive,
and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr.
Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere.
He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school
treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what
right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to
know, when all father's friends were to be there. And he said that I
had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never
so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would
do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went,
mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was
there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from
France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."

"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and
shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to
a woman, for she would have her way."

"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a
gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we
had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is to say, Mr.
Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back
again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more."

"No?"

"Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He wouldn't
have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a
woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used
to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I
had not got mine yet."

"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?"

"Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer
wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each
other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used
to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there
was no need for father to know."

"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we
took. Hosmer--Mr. Angel--was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall
Street--and--"

"What office?"

"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."

"Where did he live, then?"

"He slept on the premises."

"And you don't know his address?"

"No--except that it was Leadenhall Street."

"Where did you address your letters, then?"

"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He
said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all
the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to
typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that, for he
said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when
they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had come
between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr.
Holmes, and the little things that he would think of."

"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an axiom of
mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.  Can
you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in
the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be
conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was
gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he
told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating,
whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat
and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore
tinted glasses against the glare."

"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather,
returned to France?"

"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should
marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me
swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would
always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me
swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his
favour from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then,
when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about
father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to
tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with
him. I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I
should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I
didn't want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at
Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices, but the letter
came back to me on the very morning of the wedding."

"It missed him, then?"

"Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived."

"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the
Friday. Was it to be in church?"

"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near
King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St.
Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two
of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler,
which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the
church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to
step out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box
and looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not
imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his
own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or
heard anything since then to throw any light upon what became of
him."

"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said
Holmes.

"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the
morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be
true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to
separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and
that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange
talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a
meaning to it."

"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some
unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"

"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would
not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened."

"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"

"None."

"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"

"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter
again."

"And your father? Did you tell him?"

"Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened,
and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest
could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then
leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me
and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but
Hosmer was very independent about money and never would look at a
shilling of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he
not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can't
sleep a wink at night." She pulled a little handkerchief out of her
muff and began to sob heavily into it.

"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and I
have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the
weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell
upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from
your memory, as he has done from your life."

"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

"I fear not."

"Then what has happened to him?"

"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate
description of him and any letters of his which you can spare."

"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she. "Here
is the slip and here are four letters from him."

"Thank you. And your address?"

"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your
father's place of business?"

"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of
Fenchurch Street."

"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave
the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let
the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect
your life."

"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true
to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was
something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled
our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and
went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be
summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips
still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and
his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the
rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor,
and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue
cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in
his face.

"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found her
more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is
rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my
index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of the sort at The
Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two
details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most
instructive."

"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible
to me," I remarked.

"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look,
and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to
realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails,
or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you
gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it."

"Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a
feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads
sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress
was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple
plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn
through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't observe. She had
small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly
well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way."

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

"'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have
really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed
everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you
have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my
boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always
at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the
knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her
sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The
double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses
against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of
the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and
on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right
across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face,
and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I
ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to
surprise her."

"It surprised me."

"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and
interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which
she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd
ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a
plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of
five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see
that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home
with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that
she came away in a hurry."

"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my
friend's incisive reasoning.

"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home
but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was
torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both
glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a
hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or
the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing,
though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson.
Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer
Angel?"

I held the little printed slip to the light.

"Missing," it said, "on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman
named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly
built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre,
bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight
infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat
faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris
tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to
have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody
bringing--"

"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued,
glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in
them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one
remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you."

"They are typewritten," I remarked.

"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat
little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no
superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The
point about the signature is very suggestive--in fact, we may call it
conclusive."

"Of what?"

"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears
upon the case?"

"I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to
deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were
instituted."

"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters,
which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the
other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him
whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening. It is
just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And
now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters
come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the
interim."

I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers of
reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must
have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which
he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to
fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of
Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to
the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary
circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it
would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the
conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find
that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the
identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.

A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at
the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the
sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found myself
free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street,
half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the dénouement of
the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half
asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his
armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the
pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent
his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.

"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.

"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."

"No, no, the mystery!" I cried.

"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There
was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday,
some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there
is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."

"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss
Sutherland?"

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet
opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the
passage and a tap at the door.

"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes.
"He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!"

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty
years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland,
insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating
grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his
shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down
into the nearest chair.

"Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think that this
typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with
me for six o'clock?"

"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my
own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled
you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to
wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that
she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may
have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up
her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you
are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to
have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a
useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?"

"On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have every reason to
believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."

Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. "I am
delighted to hear it," he said.

"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter has
really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless
they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters
get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you
remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there
is some little slurring over of the 'e,' and a slight defect in the
tail of the 'r.' There are fourteen other characteristics, but those
are the more obvious."

"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no
doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing keenly at
Holmes with his bright little eyes.

"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr.
Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another little
monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to
crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention.
I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man.
They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the 'e's'
slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you will observe, if you care to
use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to
which I have alluded are there as well."

Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. "I
cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes," he
said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you
have done it."

"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the
door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"

"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and
glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

"Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes suavely. "There is no
possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too
transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it
was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right!
Sit down and let us talk it over."

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter
of moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable," he stammered.

"I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,
Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a
petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the
course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on
the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his
pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.

"The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,"
said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long
as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in
their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious
difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was
of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in
her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal
advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain
single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a
hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He
takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to
seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that
that would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her
rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a
certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives
an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the
connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered
those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache
and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an
insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's short
sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by
making love himself."

"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never thought
that she would have been so carried away."

"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very
decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her
stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an
instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's
attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed
admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was
obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a
real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an
engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from
turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up
forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The
thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a
dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the
young lady's mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor
for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a
Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something
happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished
Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as
to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not
listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and
then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the
old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the
other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"

Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had
been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon
his pale face.

"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but if you are
so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who
are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable
from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay
yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint."

"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking and
throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who deserved
punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he
ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he continued,
flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it
is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop
handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to--" He took two swift
steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild
clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and
from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top
of his speed down the road.

"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he
threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will rise
from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a
gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of
interest."

"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I
remarked.

"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer
Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it
was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the
incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact
that the two men were never together, but that the one always
appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted
spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as
did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his
peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course,
inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would
recognise even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated
facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same
direction."

"And how did you verify them?"

"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew
the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed
description, I eliminated everything from it which could be the
result of a disguise--the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I
sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether
it answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had
already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to
the man himself at his business address asking him if he would come
here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed the same
trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter
from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the
description tallied in every respect with that of their employee,
James Windibank. Voilà tout!"

"And Miss Sutherland?"

"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old
Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub,
and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.' There is
as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the
world."






THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY

We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid
brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this
way:

"Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from
the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall
be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave
Paddington by the 11.15."
"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me. "Will
you go?"

"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at
present."

"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a
little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and
you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes' cases."

"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through
one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack at once,
for I have only half an hour."

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect
of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and
simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my
valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was
pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even
gaunter and taller by his long grey travelling-cloak and
close-fitting cloth cap.

"It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It makes a
considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can
thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else
biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the
tickets."

We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers
which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read,
with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past
Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and
tossed them up onto the rack.

"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.

"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."

"The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been
looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple
cases which are so extremely difficult."

"That sounds a little paradoxical."

"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue.
The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult
it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established
a very serious case against the son of the murdered man."

"It is a murder, then?"

"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted
until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will
explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to
understand it, in a very few words.

"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr.
John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years
ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of
Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an
ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that
it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should
do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the
richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it
seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently
together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an
only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living.
They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English
families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys
were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of
the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants--a man and a girl.
Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least.
That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now
for the facts.

"On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at
Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the
Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of
the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with
his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that
he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at
three. From that appointment he never came back alive.

"From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a
mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was
an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William
Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these
witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper
adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had
seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under
his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight
at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the
matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had
occurred.

"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the
game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded
round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A
girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the
lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods
picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the
border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son,
and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr.
McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw
the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so
frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother
when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling
near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to
fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came
running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in
the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much
excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and
sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him
they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the
pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and
blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been
inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which was found lying on
the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances
the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful
murder' having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on
Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred
the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as
they came out before the coroner and the police-court."

"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If ever
circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here."

"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes
thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but
if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it
pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely
different. It must be confessed, however, that the case looks
exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that
he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the
neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of
the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who
have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in connection with the
Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade,
being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is
that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an
hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home."

"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you will
find little credit to be gained out of this case."

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he answered,
laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious
facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You
know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall
either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite
incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first
example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the
window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr.
Lestrade would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that."

"How on earth--"

"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which
characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you
shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less
complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes
positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is
surely very clear that that side is less illuminated than the other.
I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an
equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this
as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my
métier, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in the
investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points
which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth
considering."

"What are they?"

"It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the
return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing
him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to
hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation
of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which
might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury."

"It was a confession," I ejaculated.

"No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."

"Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at
least a most suspicious remark."

"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift which I can
at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could
not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances
were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own
arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as
highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be
natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best
policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks
him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable
self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it
was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead
body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very
day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and
even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to
raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition
which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a
healthy mind rather than of a guilty one."

I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far slighter
evidence," I remarked.

"So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged."

"What is the young man's own account of the matter?"

"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though
there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find
it here, and may read it for yourself."

He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire
paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph
in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of
what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the
carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this way:

"Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called
and gave evidence as follows: 'I had been away from home for three
days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last
Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my
arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to
Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the
wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw
him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware
in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out
in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting
the rabbit warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw
William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence;
but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had
no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards from
the pool I heard a cry of "Cooee!" which was a usual signal between
my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him standing
by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked
me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation ensued which
led to high words and almost to blows, for my father was a man of a
very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming
ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hatherley Farm. I had
not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry
behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father
expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped
my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I
knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr.
Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for
assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have
no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being
somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I
know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.'
"The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he
died?
"Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some
allusion to a rat.
"The Coroner: What did you understand by that?
"Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was
delirious.
"The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had
this final quarrel?
"Witness: I should prefer not to answer.
"The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.
"Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure
you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.
"The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out
to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case
considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.
"Witness: I must still refuse.
"The Coroner: I understand that the cry of 'Cooee' was a common
signal between you and your father?
"Witness: It was.
"The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you,
and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?
"Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.
"A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when
you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally
injured?
"Witness: Nothing definite.
"The Coroner: What do you mean?
"Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the
open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a
vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground
to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a
coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I
looked round for it, but it was gone.
"'Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?'
"'Yes, it was gone.'
"'You cannot say what it was?'
"'No, I had a feeling something was there.'
"'How far from the body?'
"'A dozen yards or so.'
"'And how far from the edge of the wood?'
"'About the same.'
"'Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards
of it?'
"'Yes, but with my back towards it.'
"This concluded the examination of the witness."

"I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the coroner in
his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He
calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father
having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to
give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular
account of his father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks,
very much against the son."

Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the
cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some pains,"
said he, "to single out the very strongest points in the young man's
favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for having
too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not
invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the
jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness
anything so outré as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of
the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the
point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see
whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket
Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are
on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall
be there in twenty minutes."

It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through the
beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found
ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean,
ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the
platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings
which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no
difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we
drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for
us.

"I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of
tea. "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy
until you had been on the scene of the crime."

"It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered. "It is
entirely a question of barometric pressure."

Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.

"How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in
the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and
the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel
abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the
carriage to-night."

Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already formed
your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case is as plain
as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes.
Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very positive
one, too. She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I
repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do which I
had not already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the
door."

He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the
most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet
eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all
thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement
and concern.

"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the other
of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition, fastening upon my
companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to
tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I want
you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt
upon that point. We have known each other since we were little
children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too
tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who
really knows him."

"I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes.  "You
may rely upon my doing all that I can."

"But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do
you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that
he is innocent?"

"I think that it is very probable."

"There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly
at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my colleague has
been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he said.

"But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it.
And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why
he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was
concerned in it."

"In what way?" asked Holmes.

"It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many
disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there
should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each
other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen
very little of life yet, and--and--well, he naturally did not wish to
do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am
sure, was one of them."

"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of such a union?"

"No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour
of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot
one of his keen, questioning glances at her.

"Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father if
I call to-morrow?"

"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."

"The doctor?"

"Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years
back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his
bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous
system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had
known dad in the old days in Victoria."

"Ha! In Victoria! That is important."

"Yes, at the mines."

"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made
his money."

"Yes, certainly."

"Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me."

"You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will
go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him
that I know him to be innocent."

"I will, Miss Turner."

"I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I
leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking." She
hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard
the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.

"I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity after a few
minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound
to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel."

"I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said Holmes.
"Have you an order to see him in prison?"

"Yes, but only for you and me."

"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still
time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"

"Ample."

"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow,
but I shall only be away a couple of hours."

I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the
streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I
lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed
novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared
to the deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my
attention wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I
at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a
consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy
young man's story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what
absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred
between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when,
drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something
terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the
injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell
and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim
account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated
that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half
of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt
weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must
have been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of
the accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his
father. Still, it did not go for very much, for the older man might
have turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth
while to call Holmes' attention to it. Then there was the peculiar
dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be
delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become
delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he
met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to
find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the grey
cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must
have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his
flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it
away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back turned
not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities
the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet
I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes' insight that I could not lose
hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction
of young McCarthy's innocence.

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for
Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down. "It is
of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over
the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and
keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when
fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy."

"And what did you learn from him?"

"Nothing."

"Could he throw no light?"

"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who
had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that
he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted
youth, though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart."

"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact that
he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this
Miss Turner."

"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,
insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only
a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five
years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the
clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office?
No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening
it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give
his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible.
It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up
into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading
him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means
of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very
hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth.
It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in
Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point.
It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the
barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and
likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to
him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so
that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of
news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered."

"But if he is innocent, who has done it?"

"Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two
points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone
at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for
his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The
second is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he
knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon
which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if
you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow."

There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke
bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with the
carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.

"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is said
that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired
of."

"An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.

"About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life
abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This
business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of
McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have
learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."

"Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

"Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about
here speaks of his kindness to him."

"Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this
McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been
under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his
son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate,
and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case
of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange,
since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The
daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?"

"We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade,
winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes,
without flying away after theories and fancies."

"You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard to
tackle the facts."

"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult
to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.

"And that is--"

"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all
theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,
laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm
upon the left."

"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building,
two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon
the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however,
gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still
lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes'
request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his
death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he had
then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight
different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from
which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as
this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker
Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and
darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was
bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the
veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils
seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his
mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a
question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only
provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he
made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by
way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as
is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon
the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side.
Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he
made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked
behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I
watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction
that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some
fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley
Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods
which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting
pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On
the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there
was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the
edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed
us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so
moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had
been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see
by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be
read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking
up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or
other trace. But how on earth--"

"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its
inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there
it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been
had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed
all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and
they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body.
But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a
lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking
all the time rather to himself than to us. "These are young
McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so
that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That
bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground.
Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is
this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening.
And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too,
quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course
that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and
down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were
well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great
beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way
to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with
a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there,
turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to
me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only
the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A
jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully
examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood
until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.

"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked, returning
to his natural manner. "I fancy that this grey house on the right
must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with
Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may
drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be
with you presently."

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back
into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had
picked up in the wood.

"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out.  "The
murder was done with it."

"I see no marks."

"There are none."

"How do you know, then?"

"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days.
There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds
with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon."

"And the murderer?"

"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars,
uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket.
There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid
us in our search."

Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he said.
"Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed
British jury."

"Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own method,
and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall
probably return to London by the evening train."

"And leave your case unfinished?"

"No, finished."

"But the mystery?"

"It is solved."

"Who was the criminal, then?"

"The gentleman I describe."

"But who is he?"

"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a
populous neighbourhood."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said,
"and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a
left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."

"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance. Here
are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave."

Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we
found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought
with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a
perplexing position.

"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared "just sit
down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't
know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar
and let me expound."

"Pray do so."

"Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young
McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although they
impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that
his father should, according to his account, cry 'Cooee!' before
seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He
mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught
the son's ear. Now from this double point our research must commence,
and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is
absolutely true."

"What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son,
as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was
within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the attention of
whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But 'Cooee' is a
distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians.
There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected
to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia."

"What of the rat, then?"

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it
out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria," he said.
"I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand over part of
the map. "What do you read?"

"ARAT," I read.

"And now?" He raised his hand.

"BALLARAT."

"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son
only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name
of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."

"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down
considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point
which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a certainty.
We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of
an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak."

"Certainly."

"And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be
approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly
wander."

"Quite so."

"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground
I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade,
as to the personality of the criminal."

"But how did you gain them?"

"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles."

"His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of
his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."

"Yes, they were peculiar boots."

"But his lameness?"

"The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his
left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped--he was
lame."

"But his left-handedness."

"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by
the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately
behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless
it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during
the interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I
found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes
enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know,
devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the
ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette
tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the
stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar,
of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam."

"And the cigar-holder?"

"I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he
used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut
was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."

"Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from which he
cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as
if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in
which all this points. The culprit is--"

"Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our
sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow,
limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude,
and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs
showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of
character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding,
drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his
appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and
the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was
clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and
chronic disease.

"Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my note?"

"Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see
me here to avoid scandal."

"I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."

"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my companion
with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already
answered.

"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "It is
so. I know all about McCarthy."

The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he cried. "But
I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word
that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes."

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.

"I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would
break her heart--it will break her heart when she hears that I am
arrested."

"It may not come to that," said Holmes.

"What?"

"I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who
required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young
McCarthy must be got off, however."

"I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had diabetes for years.
My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I
would rather die under my own roof than in a jail."

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a
bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth," he said. "I
shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can
witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last
extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use
it unless it is absolutely needed."

"It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I shall
live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to
spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it
has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to
tell.

"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I
tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he.
His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my
life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in his power.

"It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap then,
hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got
among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took
to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a
highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of
it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons
on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I
went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the
Ballarat Gang.

"One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we
lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six
of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles
at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before
we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who
was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him
then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on
my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the
gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without
being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and determined to
settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate,
which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little
good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it.
I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my dear
little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to
lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word,
I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All
was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.

"I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent
Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.

"'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be as
good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and you
can have the keeping of us. If you don't--it's a fine, law-abiding
country is England, and there's always a policeman within hail.'

"Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them
off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since.
There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I
would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew
worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her
knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have,
and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses,
until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for
Alice.

"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was
known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his
lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I
would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any
dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I
stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We
were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.

"When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked
a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I
listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to
come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as
little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off
the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most
dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap
the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of
mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed.
But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence
that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply
as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But
that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was
more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction
than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought
back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was
forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my
flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred."

"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man
signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we may
never be exposed to such a temptation."

"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"

"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you
will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the
Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I
shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal
eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe
with us."

"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds,
when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which
you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his giant
frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.

"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate play
such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as
this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but for
the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'"

James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a
number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted
to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our
interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the
son and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of
the black cloud which rests upon their past.






THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS

When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases
between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which present
strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know
which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already
gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a
field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so
high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to
illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would
be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have
been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded
rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical
proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last
which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its
results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the
fact that there are points in connection with it which never have
been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up.

The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or
less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under
this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the
Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a
luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the
facts connected with the loss of the British barque "Sophy Anderson",
of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of
Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as
may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead
man's watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and
that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time--a
deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the
case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of
them present such singular features as the strange train of
circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.

It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had
set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and
the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the
heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds
for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the
presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind
through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage.
As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind
cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat
moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of
crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine
sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend
with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the
long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's,
and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at
Baker Street.

"Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was surely the
bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?"

"Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not encourage
visitors."

"A client, then?"

"If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on
such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely
to be some crony of the landlady's."

Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came
a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his
long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant
chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

"Come in!" said he.

The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside,
well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and
delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his
hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather
through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare
of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes
heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great
anxiety.

"I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his
eyes. "I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought
some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber."

"Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes. "They may rest here on
the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the
south-west, I see."

"Yes, from Horsham."

"That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite
distinctive."

"I have come for advice."

"That is easily got."

"And help."

"That is not always so easy."

"I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how
you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."

"Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards."

"He said that you could solve anything."

"He said too much."

"That you are never beaten."

"I have been beaten four times--three times by men, and once by a
woman."

"But what is that compared with the number of your successes?"

"It is true that I have been generally successful."

"Then you may be so with me."

"I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me
with some details as to your case."

"It is no ordinary one."

"None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal."

"And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have
ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events
than those which have happened in my own family."

"You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us the essential
facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to
those details which seem to me to be most important."

The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards
the blaze.

"My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as
far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is
a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I
must go back to the commencement of the affair.

"You must know that my grandfather had two sons--my uncle Elias and
my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he
enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee
of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such
success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome
competence.

"My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and
became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very
well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army, and
afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid
down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained
for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe
and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very
considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them
was his aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican
policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man,
fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and
of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at
Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and
two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his
exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his
room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he
would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own
brother.

"He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time
when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be
in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England.
He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to
me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing
backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make me his
representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so
that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house.
I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked,
so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one
singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room
up among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would
never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy's
curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to
see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be
expected in such a room.

"One day--it was in March, 1883--a letter with a foreign stamp lay
upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was not a common
thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in
ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. 'From India!' said he
as he took it up, 'Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?' Opening
it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which
pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh
was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen,
his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared
at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand, 'K. K.
K.!' he shrieked, and then, 'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken
me!'

"'What is it, uncle?' I cried.

"'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room,
leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw
scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the
letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five
dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I
left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him
coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the
attic, in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the
other.

"'They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,' said he
with an oath. 'Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day,
and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.'

"I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step
up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there
was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the
brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I
noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K
which I had read in the morning upon the envelope.

"'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my will. I leave my
estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my
brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If
you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot,
take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am
sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't say what turn
things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham
shows you.'

"I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with
him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest
impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in
my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not
shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the
sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to
disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my
uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for
any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room,
with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge
in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear
about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he
was afraid of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a
sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits were over,
however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar
it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the
terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen
his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it
were new raised from a basin.

"Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse
your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken
sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to
search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which
lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and
the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to
his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of 'suicide.' But I, who
knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to
persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The
matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the
estate, and of some £14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank."

"One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I foresee, one
of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the
date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of
his supposed suicide."

"The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks
later, upon the night of May 2nd."

"Thank you. Pray proceed."

"When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request,
made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked
up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been
destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the
initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and 'Letters, memoranda,
receipts, and a register' written beneath. These, we presume,
indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by
Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance
in the attic save a great many scattered papers and note-books
bearing upon my uncle's life in America. Some of them were of the war
time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the
repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the
reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned with
politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the
carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.

"Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live at
Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January
of '85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a
sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table.
There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and
five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He
had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the
colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same
thing had come upon himself.

"'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he stammered.

"My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' said I.

"He looked inside the envelope. 'So it is,' he cried. 'Here are the
very letters. But what is this written above them?'

"'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peeping over his shoulder.

"'What papers? What sundial?' he asked.

"'The sundial in the garden. There is no other,' said I; 'but the
papers must be those that are destroyed.'

"'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. 'We are in a
civilised land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind. Where
does the thing come from?'

"'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.

"'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. 'What have I to do with
sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.'

"'I should certainly speak to the police,' I said.

"'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'

"'Then let me do so?'

"'No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such nonsense.'

"It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I
went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.

"On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from
home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command
of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should
go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was
away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day
of his absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to
come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits
which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a
shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having
ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been
returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was
unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no
hesitation in bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental
causes.' Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death,
I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder.
There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record
of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell
you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh
certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.

"In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why
I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that
our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my
uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house
as in another.

"It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two
years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I
have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this
curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the
last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however;
yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had
come upon my father."

The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and
turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange
pips.

"This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is
London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon
my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the papers on the
sundial.'"

"What have you done?" asked Holmes.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white hands--"I
have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when
the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some
resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions
can guard against."

"Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are
lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair."

"I have seen the police."

"Ah!"

"But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the
inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical
jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as
the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings."

Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible imbecility!"
he cried.

"They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the
house with me."

"Has he come with you to-night?"

"No. His orders were to stay in the house."

Again Holmes raved in the air.

"Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, above all, why did you not
come at once?"

"I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast
about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you."

"It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted
before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which
you have placed before us--no suggestive detail which might help us?"

"There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat
pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper,
he laid it out upon the table. "I have some remembrance," said he,
"that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the
small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this
particular colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his
room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers
which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that
way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see
that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some
private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle's."

Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper,
which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a
book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were the following
enigmatical notices:


4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain, of St.
Augustine.
9th. McCauley cleared.
10th. John Swain cleared.
12th. Visited Paramore. All well.

"Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to
our visitor. "And now you must on no account lose another instant. We
cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get
home instantly and act."

"What shall I do?"

"There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put
this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which
you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the
other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one
which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry
conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box
out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?"

"Entirely."

"Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I
think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web
to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is
to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to
clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties."

"I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling on his
overcoat. "You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly
do as you advise."

"Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the
meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are
threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?"

"By train from Waterloo."

"It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you
may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely."

"I am armed."

"That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case."

"I shall see you at Horsham, then?"

"No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it."

"Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to
the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every
particular." He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the
wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the
windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid
the mad elements--blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a
gale--and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more.

Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk
forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit
his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue
smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

"I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all our cases we
have had none more fantastic than this."

"Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."

"Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to
me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos."

"But have you," I asked, "formed any definite conception as to what
these perils are?"

"There can be no question as to their nature," he answered.

"Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue
this unhappy family?"

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms
of his chair, with his finger-tips together. "The ideal reasoner," he
remarked, "would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all
its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which
led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As
Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation
of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one
link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all
the other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the
results which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved
in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution
by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest
pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise
all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself
implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge,
which, even in these days of free education and encyclopaedias, is a
somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that
a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to
him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I
remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our
friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion."

"Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singular document. Philosophy,
astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany
variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region
within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy
unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique,
violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine
and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis."

Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he said, "I say now, as I
said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with
all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put
away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he
wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to
us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly
hand me down the letter K of the 'American Encyclopaedia' which
stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the
situation and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we
may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some
very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do
not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming
climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town.
His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was
in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working
hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him
from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by
considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and
his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?"

"The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the
third from London."

"From East London. What do you deduce from that?"

"They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship."

"Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the
probability--the strong probability--is that the writer was on board
of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of
Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its
fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that
suggest anything?"

"A greater distance to travel."

"But the letter had also a greater distance to come."

"Then I do not see the point."

"There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or
men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their
singular warning or token before them when starting upon their
mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came
from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they
would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter
of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks
represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the
letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer."

"It is possible."

"More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency
of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow
has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the
senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and
therefore we cannot count upon delay."

"Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless persecution?"

"The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance
to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is
quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man
could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a
coroner's jury. There must have been several in it, and they must
have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean
to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K.
K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge
of a society."

"But of what society?"

"Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking
his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"

"I never have."

Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it
is," said he presently:

"'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the
sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was
formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after
the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different
parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas,
Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes,
principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering
and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views.
Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked
man in some fantastic but generally recognised shape--a sprig of
oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On
receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways,
or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death
would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and
unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society,
and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon
record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in
which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For
some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the
United States government and of the better classes of the community
in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather
suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of
the same sort since that date.'

"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that the
sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the
disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well
have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family
have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can
understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the
first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep
easy at night until it is recovered."

"Then the page we have seen--"

"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent the
pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to them.
Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the
country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister
result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into
this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw
has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing
more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and
let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the
still more miserable ways of our fellow-men."

It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued
brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city.
Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.

"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I
foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young
Openshaw's."

"What steps will you take?" I asked.

"It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I
may have to go down to Horsham, after all."

"You will not go there first?"

"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid
will bring up your coffee."

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and
glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill
to my heart.

"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."

"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it
done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy Near
Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:

"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a
splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and
stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was
quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given,
and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually
recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as
it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John
Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that
he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo
Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his
path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for
river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there
can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an
unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the
attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside
landing-stages."

We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken
than I had ever seen him.

"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty
feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal
matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand
upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should
send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair and paced
about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his
sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin
hands.

"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could they
have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line
to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a
night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in
the long run. I am going out now!"

"To the police?"

"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take
the flies, but not before."

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the
evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not
come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he entered, looking
pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece
from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long
draught of water.

"You are hungry," I remarked.

"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
breakfast."

"Nothing?"

"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."

"And how have you succeeded?"

"Well."

"You have a clue?"

"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long
remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish
trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"

"What do you mean?"

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he
squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and
thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote "S.
H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain James
Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia."

"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling. "It
may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor
of his fate as Openshaw did before him."

"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."

"How did you trace it, then?"

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with
dates and names.

"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers and
files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel
which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in '83. There
were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there
during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly
attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having
cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the
states of the Union."

"Texas, I think."

"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have
an American origin."

"What then?"

"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque Lone
Star was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a certainty. I
then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of
London."

"Yes?"

"The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert
Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early
tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend
and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is
easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not
very far from the Isle of Wight."

"What will you do, then?"

"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn,
the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and
Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship
last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their
cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the
mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have
informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly
wanted here upon a charge of murder."

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and
the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips
which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as
themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the
equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star
of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that
somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat
was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S."
carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate
of the Lone Star.






THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of
the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium.
The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak
when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's description of
his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum
in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more
have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of,
and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object
of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see
him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point
pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell, about
the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I
sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap
and made a little face of disappointment.

"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps
upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some
dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly
losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my
wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!"
she cried; "I do so want a little help."

"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney.  How
you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came
in."

"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was
always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to
a light-house.

"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and
water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should
you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about
Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about
him!"

It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's
trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school
companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could
find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we
could bring him back to her?

It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he
had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the
farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been
confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered,
in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty
hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks,
breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to
be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam
Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman,
make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among
the ruffians who surrounded him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.
Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,
why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and
as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were
alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab
within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given
me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a
strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future
only could show how strange it was to be.

But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.
Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves
which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of
steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found
the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed
down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of
drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the
door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick
and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden
berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in
strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown
back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,
lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows
there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint,
as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.
The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others
talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their
conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into
silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to
the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of
burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there
sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists,
and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for
me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of
mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering
through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring
out at me.

"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of
reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock
is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Of what day?"

"Of Friday, June 19th."

"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What
d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms
and began to sob in a high treble key.

"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this
two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a
few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll go
home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate. Give me
your hand! Have you a cab?"

"Yes, I have one waiting."

"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,
Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat
by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice
whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell
quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have
come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as
ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling
down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer
lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back.
It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a
cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see
him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull
eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and
grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made
a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned
his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a
doddering, loose-lipped senility.

"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you
would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of
yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."

"I have a cab outside."

"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend
you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you
have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be
with you in five minutes."

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests,
for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with
such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was
once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and
for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated
with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the
normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my
note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him
driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure
had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street
with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent
back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he
straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added
opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views."

"I was certainly surprised to find you there."

"But not more so than I to find you."

"I came to find a friend."

"And I to find an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.
Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and
I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these
sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my
life would not have been worth an hour's purchase; for I have used it
before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it
has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back
of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell
some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless
nights."

"What! You do not mean bodies?"

"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £1000 for every
poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest
murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair
has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here."
He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly--a
signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance,
followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses'
hoofs.

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the
gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side
lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?"

"If I can be of use."

"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more
so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

"The Cedars?"

"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I
conduct the inquiry."

"Where is it, then?"

"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."

"But I am all in the dark."

"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here.
All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out
for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!"

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the
endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened
gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge,
with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay
another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only
by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and
shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting
slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and
there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with
his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in
thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest
might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to
break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several
miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of
suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and
lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that
he is acting for the best.

"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes you
quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great thing
for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not
over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little
woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

"You forget that I know nothing about it."

"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we
get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get
nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't
get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case clearly and
concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is
dark to me."

"Proceed, then."

"Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee a
gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of
money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and
lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the
neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer,
by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was
interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the
morning, returning by the 5.14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr.
St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate
habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is
popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the
present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to
£88 10s., while he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and
Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money
troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than
usual, remarking before he started that he had two important
commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a
box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a
telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to
the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which she had
been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen
Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will
know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which
branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs.
St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping,
proceeded to the company's office, got her packet, and found herself
at exactly 4.35 walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the
station. Have you followed me so far?"

"It is very clear."

"If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.
Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as
she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While
she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an
ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking
down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a
second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his
face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his
hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so
suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some
irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her
quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as
he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the
steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which you
found me to-night--and running through the front room she attempted
to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the
stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken,
who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant
there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening
doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune,
met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on
their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her
back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor,
they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been
seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that
floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous
aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar
stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the
afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was
staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had
been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which
lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade
of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring
home.

"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed,
made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms
were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable
crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led
into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the
wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip,
which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least
four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and
opened from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen
upon the windowsill, and several scattered drops were visible upon
the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the
front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the
exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his
watch--all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of
these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St.
Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other
exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill
gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the
tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.

"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated
in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest
antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to have
been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her
husband's appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more
than an accessory to the crime. His defence was one of absolute
ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings
of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way
for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes.

"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who
lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly
the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His
name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to
every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar,
though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a
small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle
Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked,
a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his
daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap,
and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends
into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him.
I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of
making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at
the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you
see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him.
A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar,
which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper
lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which
present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him
out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his
wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which
may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now
learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the
last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."

"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handed
against a man in the prime of life?"

"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other
respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely
your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one
limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others."

"Pray continue your narrative."

"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the
window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her
presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful
examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw
any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting
Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he
might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault
was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything
being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some
blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his
ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the
bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not
long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came
doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever
seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes
in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs.
St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the
window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming.
He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the
inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide
might afford some fresh clue.

"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had
feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not Neville St.
Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think
they found in the pockets?"

"I cannot imagine."

"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies
and half-pennies--421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder
that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a
different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the
house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained
when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river."

"But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.
Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that
this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there
is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do
then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of
the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the
act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim
and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle
downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he
has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are
hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes
to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his
beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands
into the pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it
out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he
heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the
window when the police appeared."

"It certainly sounds feasible."

"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better.
Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but
it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything
against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar,
but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one.
There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to
be solved--what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what
happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had
to do with his disappearance--are all as far from a solution as ever.
I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which
looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such
difficulties."

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of
events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town
until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled
along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he
finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a
few lights still glimmered in the windows.

"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We have touched
on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex,
passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light
among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a
woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught
the clink of our horse's feet."

"But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" I asked.

"Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs.
St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may
rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend
and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her
husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"

We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own
grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, and springing
down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led
to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little
blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light
mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck
and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of
light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her
body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and
parted lips, a standing question.

"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were two of
us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my
companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"No good news?"

"None."

"No bad?"

"No."

"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had
a long day."

"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me
in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for
me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation."

"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly. "You
will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our
arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly
upon us."

"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I
can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any
assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed
happy."

"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a well-lit
dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out,
"I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to
which I beg that you will give a plain answer."

"Certainly, madam."

"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to
fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."

"Upon what point?"

"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. "Frankly,
now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at
him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

"You think that he is dead?"

"I do."

"Murdered?"

"I don't say that. Perhaps."

"And on what day did he meet his death?"

"On Monday."

"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it
is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.

"What!" he roared.

"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper
in the air.

"May I see it?"

"Certainly."

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon
the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left
my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a
very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with
the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was
considerably after midnight.

"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not your husband's
writing, madam."

"No, but the enclosure is."

"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and
inquire as to the address."

"How can you tell that?"

"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried
itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that
blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off,
and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has
written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the
address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is,
of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.
Let us now see the letter. Ha!  there has been an enclosure here!"

"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."

"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

"One of his hands."

"One?"

"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual
writing, and yet I know it well."

"Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge
error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in
patience.
"Neville.

Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no
water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty
thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in
error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no
doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"

"None. Neville wrote those words."

"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the
clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is
over."

"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The
ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him."

"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only
posted to-day."

"That is possible."

"If so, much may have happened between."

"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well
with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know
if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut
himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs
instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do
you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant
of his death?"

"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may
be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And
in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to
corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write
letters, why should he remain away from you?"

"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

"No."

"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

"Very much so."

"Was the window open?"

"Yes."

"Then he might have called to you?"

"He might."

"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

"Yes."

"A call for help, you thought?"

"Yes. He waved his hands."

"But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"

"It is possible."

"And you thought he was pulled back?"

"He disappeared so suddenly."

"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?"

"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the
Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary
clothes on?"

"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat."

"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

"Never."

"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

"Never."

"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about
which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little
supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow."

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after
my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when
he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even
for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts,
looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed
it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon
evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He
took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown,
and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and
cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a
sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged,
with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front
of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old
briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner
of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,
motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline
features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a
sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun
shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the
smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco
haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon
the previous night.

"Awake, Watson?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Game for a morning drive?"

"Certainly."

"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy
sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He chuckled to himself
as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the
sombre thinker of the previous night.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was
stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished
when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the
horse.

"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his
boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of
one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from
here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now."

"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," he
continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been there,
and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag.
Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock."

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the
bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with
the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and
away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were
stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of
villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a
dream.

"It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes, flicking
the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as blind as a
mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at
all."

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from
their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.
Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found
ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,
and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the
horse's head while the other led us in.

"Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

"Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

"Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come down
the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. "I
wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet." "Certainly, Mr.
Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small, office-like room,
with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from
the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged with
being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
Lee."

"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."

"So I heard. You have him here?"

"In the cells."

"Is he quiet?"

"Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."

"Dirty?"

"Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is
as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been settled, he
will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you
would agree with me that he needed it."

"I should like to see him very much."

"Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your
bag."

"No, I think that I'll take it."

"Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a passage,
opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to
a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

"The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it is!" He
quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced
through.

"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."

We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face
towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He
was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a
coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He
was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which
covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by
its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that
three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright
red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.

"He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an idea that he
might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me." He
opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my
astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.

"He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.

"Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very
quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure."

"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn't look a
credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped his key into the
lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half
turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes
stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it
twice vigorously across and down the prisoner's face.

"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
Lee, in the county of Kent."

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled off
under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown
tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and
the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A
twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in
his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and
smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy
bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a
scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing
man. I know him from the photograph."

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons
himself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am I
charged with?"

"With making away with Mr. Neville St.--Oh, come, you can't be
charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of
it," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been twenty-seven
years in the force, but this really takes the cake."

"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has
been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained."

"No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said Holmes.
"You would have done better to have trusted your wife."

"It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner.
"God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God!
What an exposure! What can I do?"

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him
kindly on the shoulder.

"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said he,
"of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you
convince the police authorities that there is no possible case
against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details
should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I
am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit
it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court
at all."

"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would have
endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my
miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

"You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent
education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally
became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor
wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis,
and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all
my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur
that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an
actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had
been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of
my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as
possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist
by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red
head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the
business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as
a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home
in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less
than 26s. 4d.

"I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until,
some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served
upon me for £25. I was at my wit's end where to get the money, but a
sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's grace from the
creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time
in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money
and had paid the debt.

"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work
at £2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by
smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground,
and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the
money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat
day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity
by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man
knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to
lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a
squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a
well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by
me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his
possession.

"Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of
money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could
earn £700 a year--which is less than my average takings--but I had
exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a
facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a
recognised character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied
by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I
failed to take £2.

"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,
and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my
real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City.
She little knew what.

"Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room
above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my
horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street,
with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up
my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar,
entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her
voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I
threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my
pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a
disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in
the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the
window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted
upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which
was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from
the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the
window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would
have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up
the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my
relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I
was arrested as his murderer.

"I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was
determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my
preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly
anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a
moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried
scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear."

"That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.

"Good God! What a week she must have spent!"

"The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet,
"and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a
letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of
his, who forgot all about it for some days."

"That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubt of
it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"

"Many times; but what was a fine to me?"

"It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police are to
hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."

"I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take."

"In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may
be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am
sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having
cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results."

"I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five pillows
and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to
Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."






THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning
after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of
the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown,
a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled
morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the
couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very
seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and
cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat
of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner
for the purpose of examination.

"You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

"Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my
results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one"--he jerked his thumb
in the direction of the old hat--"but there are points in connection
with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of
instruction."

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were
thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that, homely
as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it--that
it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery
and the punishment of some crime."

"No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of
those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four
million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a
few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of
humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to
take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be
striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had
experience of such."

"So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I have
added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime."

"Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler
papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the
adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that
this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know
Peterson, the commissionaire?"

"Yes."

"It is to him that this trophy belongs."

"It is his hat."

"No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look
upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.
And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas
morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt,
roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are
these: about four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you
know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small
jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court
Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking
with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his
shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out
between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter
knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend
himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window
behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from
his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and
seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him,
dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth
of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The
roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was
left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of
victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable
Christmas goose."

"Which surely he restored to their owner?"

"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs.
Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the
bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are
legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands
of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it
is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them."

"What, then, did Peterson do?"

"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The
goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in
spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore,
to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain
the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."

"Did he not advertise?"

"No."

"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

"Only as much as we can deduce."

"From his hat?"

"Precisely."

"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered
felt?"

"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself
as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?"

I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,
hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk,
but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but, as
Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one
side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic
was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and
spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some
attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however,
to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
inferences."

"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than
it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences
which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual
is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen
upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly,
pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline
of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably
drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact
that his wife has ceased to love him."

"My dear Holmes!"

"He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a
sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is
middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last
few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more
patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way,
that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his
house."

"You are certainly joking, Holmes."

"Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you
these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

"I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am
unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man
was intellectual?"

For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over
the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a
question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain
must have something in it."

"The decline of his fortunes, then?"

"This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge
came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band
of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to
buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since,
then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

"Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight
and the moral retrogression?"

Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he putting his
finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.  "They are
never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a
certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take
this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken
the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he
has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal
some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is
a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect."

"Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

"The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream,
are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of
the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut
by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and
there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe,
is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust
of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the
time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive
that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be
in the best of training."

"But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

"This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when
your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you
also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection."

"But he might be a bachelor."

"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

"You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce
that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

"One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see
no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning
tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and
a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains
from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"

"Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as you
said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done
save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of
energy."

Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew
open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment
with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with
astonishment.

"The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.

"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off
through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon the
sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

"See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out his
hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of
such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in
the dark hollow of his hand.

Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said he,
"this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have
got?"

"A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it
were putty."

"It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."

"Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

"Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have
read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is
absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the
reward offered of £1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of
the market price."

"A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire plumped
down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

"That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the
gem."

"It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I
remarked.

"Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a
plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's
jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here,
I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates,
until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the
following paragraph:

"Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst. abstracted
from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known
as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel,
gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the
dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery
in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was
loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally
been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared,
that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco
casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was
accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the
dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was
arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either
upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the
Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on
discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where
she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector
Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who
struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest
terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been
given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily
with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had
shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away
at the conclusion and was carried out of court."

"Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully,
tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the
sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the
crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see,
Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more
important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came
from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the
gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with
which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously
to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in
this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means
first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the
evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other
methods."

"What will you say?"

"Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: 'Found at the
corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry
Baker can have the same by applying at 6.30 this evening at 221b,
Baker Street.' That is clear and concise."

"Very. But will he see it?"

"Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man,
the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance
in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he
thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly
regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again,
the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone
who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are,
Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the
evening papers."

"In which, sir?"

"Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News,
Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."

"Very well, sir. And this stone?"

"Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson,
just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we
must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which
your family is now devouring."

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held
it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it
glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime.
Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger
and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone
is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy
River in southern China and is remarkable in having every
characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade
instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister
history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide,
and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain
weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy
would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in
my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have
it."

"Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

"I cannot tell."

"Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
anything to do with the matter?"

"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely
innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was
of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That,
however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer
to our advertisement."

"And you can do nothing until then?"

"Nothing."

"In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall
come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should
like to see the solution of so tangled a business."

"Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I
believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought
to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six
when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the
house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was
buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle
which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was
opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes' room.

"Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his armchair and
greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so
readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a
cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for
summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right
time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?"

"Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a
broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled
brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his
extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his habits. His rusty
black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar
turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a
sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing
his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of
learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

"We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes, "because
we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I
am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not been
so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had no doubt
that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat
and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless
attempt at recovering them."

"Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat
it."

"To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.

"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But
I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about
the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
well?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.

"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your
own bird, so if you wish--"

The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as
relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly see
what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be
to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my
attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the
sideboard."

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of
his shoulders.

"There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the way,
would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am
somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown
goose."

"Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly
gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who frequent
the Alpha Inn, near the Museum--we are to be found in the Museum
itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host,
Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on
consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a
bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar
to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted
neither to my years nor my gravity." With a comical pomposity of
manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.

"So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the
door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever
about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

"Not particularly."

"Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up
this clue while it is still hot."

"By all means."

It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats
about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a
cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke
like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly
as we swung through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley
Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a
quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a
small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs
down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and
ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned
landlord.

"Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese," said
he.

"My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who
was a member of your goose club."

"Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

"Indeed! Whose, then?"

"Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."

"Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"

"Breckinridge is his name."

"Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health landlord, and
prosperity to your house. Good-night."

"Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat as we
came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that though we have
so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the
other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude
unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our
inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line
of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a
singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the
bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!"

We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag
of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the
name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking
man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to
put up the shutters.

"Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.

"Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the bare
slabs of marble.

"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

"That's no good."

"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

"Ah, but I was recommended to you."

"Who by?"

"The landlord of the Alpha."

"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"

To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
salesman.

"Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms
akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."

"It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese
which you supplied to the Alpha."

"Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you should
be so warm over such a trifle."

"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When
I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the
business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the
geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would think
they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made
over them."

"Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been
making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us the
bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on a
matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is
country bred."

"Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped the
salesman.

"It's nothing of the kind."

"I say it is."

"I don't believe it."

"D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them
ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to
the Alpha were town bred."

"You'll never persuade me to believe that."

"Will you bet, then?"

"It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll
have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate."

The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said he.

The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.

"Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I was
out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is still one
left in my shop. You see this little book?"

"Well?"

"That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well, then,
here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their
names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You
see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town
suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me."

"Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes.

"Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."

Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs. Oakshott,
117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"

"Now, then, what's the last entry?"

"'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"

"Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"

"'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"

"What have you to say now?"

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his
pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of
a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped
under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which
was peculiar to him.

"When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the 'Pink 'un'
protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet," said
he. "I daresay that if I had put £100 down in front of him, that man
would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from
him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we
are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which
remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs.
Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It
is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others
besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should--"

His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out
from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little
rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light
which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
fiercely at the cringing figure.

"I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you were
all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with
your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here
and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the
geese off you?"

"No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little man.

"Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

"She told me to ask you."

"Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had
enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and the
inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

"Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes.
"Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow."
Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the
flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and
touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in
the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his
face.

"Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering voice.

"You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help
overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I
think that I could be of assistance to you."

"You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
people don't know."

"But you can know nothing of this?"

"Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace
some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a
salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the
Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member."

"Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried the
little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. "I can
hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that
case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this
wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we go
farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he
answered with a sidelong glance.

"No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always awkward
doing business with an alias."

A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then," said
he, "my real name is James Ryder."

"Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step
into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which
you would wish to know."

The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he
is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped
into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at
Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high,
thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and
unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.

"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. "The
fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder.
Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we
settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what
became of those geese?"

"Yes, sir."

"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in
which you were interested--white, with a black bar across the tail."

Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell me
where it went to?"

"It came here."

"Here?"

"Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you
should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead--the
bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it
here in my museum."

Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with
his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue
carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,
many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face,
uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

"The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or you'll
be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He's
not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a
dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp
it is, to be sure!"

For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy
brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with
frightened eyes at his accuser.

"I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I
could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me.
Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case
complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of
Morcar's?"

"It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a crackling
voice.

"I see--her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden
wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for
better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means
you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very
pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber,
had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion
would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made
some small job in my lady's room--you and your confederate
Cusack--and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then,
when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and
had this unfortunate man arrested. You then--"

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked. "Think
of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went
wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll swear it on a
Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's sake, don't!"

"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very well to
cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor
Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

"I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the
charge against him will break down."

"Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of
the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the
goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your
only hope of safety."

Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you it
just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been arrested,
it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the
stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not
take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place
about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some
commission, and I made for my sister's house. She had married a man
named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls
for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be
a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night,
the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road.
My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I
told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel.
Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it
would be best to do.

"I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has
just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and
fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid
of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew
one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to
Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would
show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in
safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from
the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there
would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the
wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about
round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me
how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.

"My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick
of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always
as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would
carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and
behind this I drove one of the birds--a fine big one, white, with a
barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the
stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave
a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its
crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister
to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute
broke loose and fluttered off among the others.

"'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.

"'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I was
feeling which was the fattest.'

"'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you--Jem's bird, we call
it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six of them,
which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the
market.'

"'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the same to you, I'd
rather have that one I was handling just now.'

"'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we
fattened it expressly for you.'

"'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.

"'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it you
want, then?'

"'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
flock.'

"'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

"Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all
the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man
that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he
choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to
water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some
terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my
sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be
seen there.

"'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

"'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

"'Which dealer's?'

"'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

"'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same as
the one I chose?'

"'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell
them apart.'

"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet
would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at
once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone.
You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me
like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think
that I am myself. And now--and now I am myself a branded thief,
without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character.
God help me! God help me!" He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his
face buried in his hands.

There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by
the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the edge of
the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

"Get out!" said he.

"What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

"No more words. Get out!"

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the
stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls
from the street.

"After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay
pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies.
If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow
will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose
that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am
saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too
terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a
jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance
has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its
solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch
the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also
a bird will be the chief feature."






THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND

On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have
during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock
Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely
strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the
love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to
associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards
the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases,
however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features
than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of
the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the
early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms
as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed
them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the
time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the
untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is
perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have
reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of
Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible
than the truth.

It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to find
Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He
was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece
showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him
in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was
myself regular in my habits.

"Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the common
lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon
me, and I on you."

"What is it, then--a fire?"

"No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a
considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is
waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about
the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people
up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing
which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting
case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I
thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the
chance."

"My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as
intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he
unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw
on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend
down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled,
who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

"Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before
whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see
that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw
up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe
that you are shivering."

"It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a low
voice, changing her seat as requested.

"What, then?"

"It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her veil as she
spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of
agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened
eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were
those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature
grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran
her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

"You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending forward and patting
her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You
have come in by train this morning, I see."

"You know me, then?"

"No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of
your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good
drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the
station."

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.

"There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling. "The left arm
of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places.
The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart
which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the
left-hand side of the driver."

"Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct," said she.
"I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past,
and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this
strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to
turn to--none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow,
can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard
of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore
need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not
think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light
through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out
of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six
weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then
at least you shall not find me ungrateful."

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.

"Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned
with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can
only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to
your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my
profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray
whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best.
And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us
in forming an opinion upon the matter."

"Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my situation lies in
the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his
soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that
you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart.
You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me."

"I am all attention, madam."

"My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is
the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey."

Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," said he.

"The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family
ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the
Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the
horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In
a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and
narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long
term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and
disappointed man.

"When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My
sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the
time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of
money--not less than £1000 a year--and this she bequeathed to Dr.
Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a
certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of
our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died--she
was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr.
Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice
in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at
Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all
our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

"But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,
who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back
in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom
came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might
cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been
hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather's case it
had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the
tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which
ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of the
village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of
immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

"Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a
stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could
gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He
had no friends at all save the wandering gypsies, and he would give
these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered
land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return
the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes
for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are
sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a
cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are
feared by the villagers almost as much as their master.

"You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had
no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and
for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty
at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to
whiten, even as mine has."

"Your sister is dead, then?"

"She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss
Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
allowed to pay short visits at this lady's house. Julia went there at
Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines,
to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement
when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but
within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding,
the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only
companion."

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes
closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids
now and glanced across at his visitor.

"Pray be precise as to details," said he.

"It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said,
very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this
wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central
block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott's,
the second my sister's, and the third my own. There is no
communication between them, but they all open out into the same
corridor. Do I make myself plain?"

"Perfectly so."

"The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of
the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left
her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o'clock she rose to
leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.

"'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone whistle in
the dead of the night?'

"'Never,' said I.

"'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your
sleep?'

"'Certainly not. But why?'

"'Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in
the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it
has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from--perhaps from the
next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
whether you had heard it.'

"'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the
plantation.'

"'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did
not hear it also.'

"'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'

"'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.' She smiled back
at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn
in the lock."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Was it your custom always to lock yourselves
in at night?"

"Always."

"And why?"

"I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a
baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked."

"Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."

"I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending
misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were
twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls
which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was
howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the
windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth
the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister's
voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed
into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low
whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a
clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the
passage, my sister's door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its
hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to
issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister
appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands
groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a
drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground.  She
writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully
convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as
I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall
never forget, 'Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled
band!' There was something else which she would fain have said, and
she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the
doctor's room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her
words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him
hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my
sister's side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down
her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts
were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered
her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister."

"One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this whistle and
metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"

"That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my
strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the
gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been
deceived."

"Was your sister dressed?"

"No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."

"Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the
alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the
coroner come to?"

"He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott's conduct
had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any
satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had
been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every
night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite
solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with
the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone
when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence
upon her."

"How about poison?"

"The doctors examined her for it, but without success."

"What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"

"It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though
what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."

"Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?"

"Yes, there are nearly always some there."

"Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band--a speckled
band?"

"Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of
delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people,
perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know
whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over
their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she
used."

Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

"These are very deep waters," said he; "pray go on with your
narrative."

"Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately
lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have
known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in
marriage. His name is Armitage--Percy Armitage--the second son of Mr.
Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no
opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of
the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing
of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have
had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in
the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror
when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I
suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had
been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but
nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed
again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I
slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and
drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with
the one object of seeing you and asking your advice."

"You have done wisely," said my friend. "But have you told me all?"

"Yes, all."

"Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather."

"Why, what do you mean?"

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed
the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little livid spots,
the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white
wrist.

"You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.

The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. "He is a
hard man," she said, "and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength."

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon
his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

"This is a very deep business," he said at last. "There are a
thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon
our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to
come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over
these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?"

"As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and
that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper
now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of
the way."

"Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"

"By no means."

"Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?"

"I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so as to be
there in time for your coming."

"And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some
small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and
breakfast?"

"No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided
my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this
afternoon." She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
from the room.

"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes,
leaning back in his chair.

"It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."

"Dark enough and sinister enough."

"Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are
sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then
her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her
mysterious end."

"What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the
very peculiar words of the dying woman?"

"I cannot think."

"When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a
band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the
fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an
interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying
allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner
heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those
metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I
think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be
cleared along those lines."

"But what, then, did the gipsies do?"

"I cannot imagine."

"I see many objections to any such theory."

"And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to
Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,
or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!"

The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our
door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed
himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the
professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long
frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging
in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross
bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from
side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned
yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned
from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and
his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to
a fierce old bird of prey.

"Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.

"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my companion
quietly.

"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."

"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have
traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.

"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man furiously.

"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my
companion imperturbably.

"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step
forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel!  I
have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

My friend smiled.

"Holmes, the busybody!"

His smile broadened.

"Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"

Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most entertaining,"
said he. "When you go out close the door, for there is a decided
draught."

"I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare to meddle with my
affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a
dangerous man to fall foul of! See here." He stepped swiftly forward,
seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

"See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he snarled, and hurling
the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

"He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing. "I am not
quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my
grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he spoke he picked up
the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

"Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from
her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson,
we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to
Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in
this matter."

It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over
with notes and figures.

"I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he. "To determine
its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices
of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income,
which at the time of the wife's death was little short of £1100, is
now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £750.
Each daughter can claim an income of £250, in case of marriage. It is
evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would
have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to
a very serious extent. My morning's work has not been wasted, since
it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in
the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious
for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are
interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall
call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if
you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley's No. 2 is an
excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into
knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need."

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,
where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five
miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a
bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and
wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and
the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at
least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the
spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My
companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat
pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried
in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on
the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.

"Look there!" said he.

A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening
into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there
jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

"Stoke Moran?" said he.

"Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott," remarked the
driver.

"There is some building going on there," said Holmes; "that is where
we are going."

"There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a cluster of
roofs some distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the
house, you'll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the
foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking."

"And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed Holmes, shading his
eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest."

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to
Leatherhead.

"I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the stile, "that
this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some
definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss
Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word."

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face
which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly for you," she
cried, shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned out splendidly.
Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back
before evening."

"We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaintance," said
Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss
Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

"Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then."

"So it appears."

"He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What
will he say when he returns?"

"He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more
cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from
him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt's
at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take
us at once to the rooms which we are to examine."

The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central
portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out
on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and
blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a
picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but
the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the
windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed
that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been
erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken
into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our
visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and
examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows.

"This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the
centre one to your sister's, and the one next to the main building to
Dr. Roylott's chamber?"

"Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one."

"Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not
seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall."

"There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my
room."

"Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing
runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are
windows in it, of course?"

"Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through."

"As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were
unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go
into your room and bar your shutters?"

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through
the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open,
but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be
passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but
they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry.
"Hum!" said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, "my theory
certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these
shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws
any light upon the matter."

A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the
three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber,
so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now
sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a
homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after
the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in
one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a
dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles,
with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the
room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards
round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak,
so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original
building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner
and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and
down, taking in every detail of the apartment.

"Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at last pointing to
a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually
lying upon the pillow.

"It goes to the housekeeper's room."

"It looks newer than the other things?"

"Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."

"Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"

"No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
wanted for ourselves."

"Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You
will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this
floor." He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand
and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the
cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work
with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the
bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up
and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave
it a brisk tug.

"Why, it's a dummy," said he.

"Won't it ring?"

"No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You
can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little
opening for the ventilator is."

"How very absurd! I never noticed that before."

"Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. "There are one
or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool
a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with
the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!"

"That is also quite modern," said the lady.

"Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked Holmes.

"Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time."

"They seem to have been of a most interesting character--dummy
bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the
inner apartment."

Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that of his
step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small
wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an
armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a
round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which
met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of
them with the keenest interest.

"What's in here?" he asked, tapping the safe.

"My stepfather's business papers."

"Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

"Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers."

"There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

"No. What a strange idea!"

"Well, look at this!" He took up a small saucer of milk which stood
on the top of it.

"No; we don't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon."

"Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I
daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine." He
squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of
it with the greatest attention.

"Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising and putting his
lens in his pocket. "Hullo! Here is something interesting!"

The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one
corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied
so as to make a loop of whipcord.

"What do you make of that, Watson?"

"It's a common enough lash. But I don't know why it should be tied."

"That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's a wicked world, and
when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I
think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your
permission we shall walk out upon the lawn."

I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow so dark as it
was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had
walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor
myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself
from his reverie.

"It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you should
absolutely follow my advice in every respect."

"I shall most certainly do so."

"The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend
upon your compliance."

"I assure you that I am in your hands."

"In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in
your room."

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

"Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the
village inn over there?"

"Yes, that is the Crown."

"Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?"

"Certainly."

"You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache,
when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for
the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp,
put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with
everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used
to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could
manage there for one night."

"Oh, yes, easily."

"The rest you will leave in our hands."

"But what will you do?"

"We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the
cause of this noise which has disturbed you."

"I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,"
said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion's sleeve.

"Perhaps I have."

"Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister's
death."

"I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak."

"You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if
she died from some sudden fright."

"No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr.
Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain.  Good-bye,
and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest
assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you."

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from
our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the
inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr.
Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the
little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight
difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse
roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which he shook his
clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we
saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in
one of the sitting-rooms.

"Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together in the
gathering darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking you
to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."

"Can I be of assistance?"

"Your presence might be invaluable."

"Then I shall certainly come."

"It is very kind of you."

"You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms
than was visible to me."

"No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine
that you saw all that I did."

"I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that
could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."

"You saw the ventilator, too?"

"Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have
a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could
hardly pass through."

"I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke
Moran."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her
sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that suggested
at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It
could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the
coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

"But what harm can there be in that?"

"Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator
is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does
not that strike you?"

"I cannot as yet see any connection."

"Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?"

"No."

"It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like
that before?"

"I cannot say that I have."

"The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
relative position to the ventilator and to the rope--or so we may
call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

"Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We
are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime."

"Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is
the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and
Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes
even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike
deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is
over; for goodness' sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds
for a few hours to something more cheerful."

About nine o'clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and
all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed
slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a
single bright light shone out right in front of us.

"That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his feet; "it comes
from the middle window."

As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord,
explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and
that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment
later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our
faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the
gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.

There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired
breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees,
we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the
window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what
seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the
grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into
the darkness.

"My God!" I whispered; "did you see it?"

Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a
vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh
and put his lips to my ear.

"It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."

I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There was
a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any
moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following
Holmes' example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the
bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp
onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had
seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet
of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all
that I could do to distinguish the words:

"The least sound would be fatal to our plans."

I nodded to show that I had heard.

"We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator."

I nodded again.

"Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your
pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the
bed, and you in that chair."

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the
bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a
candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a
sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my
companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state
of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the
least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our
very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the
cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones
of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How
long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and
three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction
of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a
strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next
room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and
then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For
half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound
became audible--a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small
jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we
heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed
furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.

"You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard
a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary
eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend
lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly
pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and
was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the
silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever
listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and
fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that
away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry
raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts,
and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of
it had died away into the silence from which it rose.

"What can it mean?" I gasped.

"It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps, after
all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.
Roylott's room."

With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor.
Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within.
Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the
cocked pistol in my hand.

It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of
light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this
table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long
grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet
thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the
short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day.
His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful,
rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a
peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be
bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor
motion.

"The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes.

I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to
move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

"It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in India.
He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in
truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit
which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its
den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and
let the county police know what has happened."

As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man's lap, and
throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew it from its
horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into the iron
safe, which he closed upon it.

Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of
Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative
which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke
the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the
morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow
process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor
met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The
little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock
Holmes as we travelled back next day.

"I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which
shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the
word 'band,' which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain
the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light
of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent.
I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position
when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened
an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the
door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to
you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the
bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was
clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the
rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and
coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and
when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished
with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on
the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not
possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as
would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern
training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect
would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a
sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark
punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their
work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the
snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had
trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return
to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the
hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl
down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the
occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner
or later she must fall a victim.

"I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room.
An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of
standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he
should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of
milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any
doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss
Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the
door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my
mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to
the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did
also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it."

"With the result of driving it through the ventilator."

"And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at
the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its
snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this
way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott's
death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon
my conscience."






THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB

Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there
were only two which I was the means of introducing to his
notice--that of Mr. Hatherley's thumb, and that of Colonel
Warburton's madness. Of these the latter may have afforded a finer
field for an acute and original observer, but the other was so
strange in its inception and so dramatic in its details that it may
be the more worthy of being placed upon record, even if it gave my
friend fewer openings for those deductive methods of reasoning by
which he achieved such remarkable results. The story has, I believe,
been told more than once in the newspapers, but, like all such
narratives, its effect is much less striking when set forth en bloc
in a single half-column of print than when the facts slowly evolve
before your own eyes, and the mystery clears gradually away as each
new discovery furnishes a step which leads on to the complete truth.
At the time the circumstances made a deep impression upon me, and the
lapse of two years has hardly served to weaken the effect.

It was in the summer of '89, not long after my marriage, that the
events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to
civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street
rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even
persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and
visit us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to
live at no very great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few
patients from among the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of
a painful and lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my
virtues and of endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he
might have any influence.

One morning, at a little before seven o'clock, I was awakened by the
maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from
Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed
hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom
trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the
guard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him.

"I've got him here," he whispered, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder; "he's all right."

"What is it, then?" I asked, for his manner suggested that it was
some strange creature which he had caged up in my room.

"It's a new patient," he whispered. "I thought I'd bring him round
myself; then he couldn't slip away. There he is, all safe and sound.
I must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you." And
off he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank
him.

I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the
table. He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft
cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his
hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with
bloodstains. He was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should
say, with a strong, masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and
gave me the impression of a man who was suffering from some strong
agitation, which it took all his strength of mind to control.

"I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor," said he, "but I have
had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this
morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a
doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid
a card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table."

I took it up and glanced at it. "Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic
engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor)." That was the name,
style, and abode of my morning visitor. "I regret that I have kept
you waiting," said I, sitting down in my library-chair. "You are
fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a
monotonous occupation."

"Oh, my night could not be called monotonous," said he, and laughed.
He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in
his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up
against that laugh.

"Stop it!" I cried; "pull yourself together!" and I poured out some
water from a caraffe.

It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical
outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is
over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and
pale-looking.

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

"Not at all. Drink this." I dashed some brandy into the water, and
the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.

"That's better!" said he. "And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly
attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to
be."

He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my
hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding
fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have
been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots.

"Good heavens!" I cried, "this is a terrible injury. It must have
bled considerably."

"Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must
have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it
was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly
round the wrist and braced it up with a twig."

"Excellent! You should have been a surgeon."

"It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own
province."

"This has been done," said I, examining the wound, "by a very heavy
and sharp instrument."

"A thing like a cleaver," said he.

"An accident, I presume?"

"By no means."

"What! a murderous attack?"

"Very murderous indeed."

"You horrify me."

I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it
over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without
wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.

"How is that?" I asked when I had finished.

"Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I
was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through."

"Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently
trying to your nerves."

"Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but,
between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this
wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement,
for it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of
proof with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the
clues which I can give them are so vague that it is a question
whether justice will be done."

"Ha!" cried I, "if it is anything in the nature of a problem which
you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to
my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official
police."

"Oh, I have heard of that fellow," answered my visitor, "and I should
be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must
use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to
him?"

"I'll do better. I'll take you round to him myself."

"I should be immensely obliged to you."

"We'll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a
little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?"

"Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story."

"Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an
instant." I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife,
and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new
acquaintance to Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room
in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The Times and
smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the
plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all
carefully dried and collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He
received us in his quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and
eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he
settled our new acquaintance upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath
his head, and laid a glass of brandy and water within his reach.

"It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr.
Hatherley," said he. "Pray, lie down there and make yourself
absolutely at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired
and keep up your strength with a little stimulant."

"Thank you," said my patient. "but I have felt another man since the
doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the
cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so
I shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences."

Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded
expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat
opposite to him, and we listened in silence to the strange story
which our visitor detailed to us.

"You must know," said he, "that I am an orphan and a bachelor,
residing alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic
engineer, and I have had considerable experience of my work during
the seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the
well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time,
and having also come into a fair sum of money through my poor
father's death, I determined to start in business for myself and took
professional chambers in Victoria Street.

"I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in
business a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so.
During two years I have had three consultations and one small job,
and that is absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My
gross takings amount to £27 10s. Every day, from nine in the morning
until four in the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last
my heart began to sink, and I came to believe that I should never
have any practice at all.

"Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my
clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see
me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of
'Colonel Lysander Stark' engraved upon it. Close at his heels came
the colonel himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an
exceeding thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a
man. His whole face sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin
of his cheeks was drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet
this emaciation seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no
disease, for his eye was bright, his step brisk, and his bearing
assured. He was plainly but neatly dressed, and his age, I should
judge, would be nearer forty than thirty.

"'Mr. Hatherley?' said he, with something of a German accent. 'You
have been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not
only proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of
preserving a secret.'

"I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an
address. 'May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?'

"'Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at
this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an
orphan and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.'

"'That is quite correct,' I answered; 'but you will excuse me if I
say that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional
qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter
that you wished to speak to me?'

"'Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the
point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy
is quite essential--absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course
we may expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who
lives in the bosom of his family.'

"'If I promise to keep a secret,' said I, 'you may absolutely depend
upon my doing so.'

"He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had
never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.

"'Do you promise, then?' said he at last.

"'Yes, I promise.'

"'Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No
reference to the matter at all, either in word or writing?'

"'I have already given you my word.'

"'Very good.' He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning
across the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was
empty.

"'That's all right,' said he, coming back. 'I know that clerks are
sometimes curious as to their master's affairs. Now we can talk in
safety.' He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare
at me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.

"A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to
rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my
dread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my
impatience.

"'I beg that you will state your business, sir,' said I; 'my time is
of value.' Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words
came to my lips.

"'How would fifty guineas for a night's work suit you?' he asked.

"'Most admirably.'

"'I say a night's work, but an hour's would be nearer the mark. I
simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has
got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it
right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that?'

"'The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.'

"'Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last
train.'

"'Where to?'

"'To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of
Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from
Paddington which would bring you there at about 11.15.'

"'Very good.'

"'I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.'

"'There is a drive, then?'

"'Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good
seven miles from Eyford Station.'

"'Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would
be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the
night.'

"'Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.'

"'That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient
hour?'

"'We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to
recompense you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a
young and unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very
heads of your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw
out of the business, there is plenty of time to do so.'

"I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be
to me. 'Not at all,' said I, 'I shall be very happy to accommodate
myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little
more clearly what it is that you wish me to do.'

"'Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we
have exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no
wish to commit you to anything without your having it all laid before
you. I suppose that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?'

"'Entirely.'

"'Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that
fuller's-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found in
one or two places in England?'

"'I have heard so.'

"'Some little time ago I bought a small place--a very small
place--within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to
discover that there was a deposit of fuller's-earth in one of my
fields. On examining it, however, I found that this deposit was a
comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two very
much larger ones upon the right and left--both of them, however, in
the grounds of my neighbours. These good people were absolutely
ignorant that their land contained that which was quite as valuable
as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to buy their land
before they discovered its true value, but unfortunately I had no
capital by which I could do this. I took a few of my friends into the
secret, however, and they suggested that we should quietly and
secretly work our own little deposit and that in this way we should
earn the money which would enable us to buy the neighbouring fields.
This we have now been doing for some time, and in order to help us in
our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This press, as I have
already explained, has got out of order, and we wish your advice upon
the subject. We guard our secret very jealously, however, and if it
once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our
little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts
came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these fields
and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise me
that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford
to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?'

"'I quite follow you,' said I. 'The only point which I could not
quite understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in
excavating fuller's-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like
gravel from a pit.'

"'Ah!' said he carelessly, 'we have our own process. We compress the
earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they
are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my
confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you.'
He rose as he spoke. 'I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11.15.'

"'I shall certainly be there.'

"'And not a word to a soul.' He looked at me with a last long,
questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp,
he hurried from the room.

"Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much
astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which
had been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for
the fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I set a
price upon my own services, and it was possible that this order might
lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my
patron had made an unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not
think that his explanation of the fuller's-earth was sufficient to
explain the necessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme
anxiety lest I should tell anyone of my errand. However, I threw all
fears to the winds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and
started off, having obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding
my tongue.

"At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station.
However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached
the little dim-lit station after eleven o'clock. I was the only
passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform
save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through
the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of the morning
waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a word he grasped
my arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door of which was standing
open. He drew up the windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work,
and away we went as fast as the horse could go."

"One horse?" interjected Holmes.

"Yes, only one."

"Did you observe the colour?"

"Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the
carriage. It was a chestnut."

"Tired-looking or fresh?"

"Oh, fresh and glossy."

"Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your
most interesting statement."

"Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel
Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should
think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we
took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in
silence all the time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced
in his direction, that he was looking at me with great intensity. The
country roads seem to be not very good in that part of the world, for
we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to
see something of where we were, but they were made of frosted glass,
and I could make out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a
passing light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to break the
monotony of the journey, but the colonel answered only in
monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however,
the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a
gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander
Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly
into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were,
right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to
catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant
that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us,
and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove
away.

"It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about
looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door
opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of
light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman
appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head,
pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was
pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark
dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a
foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my
companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that
the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her,
whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the
room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the
lamp in his hand.

"'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few
minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet,
little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on
which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down
the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not keep
you waiting an instant,' said he, and vanished into the darkness.

"I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance
of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the
others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window,
hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an
oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a
wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly
somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still.
A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these
German people, and what were they doing living in this strange,
out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so
from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or
west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other
large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so
secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute
stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room,
humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling that
I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee.

"Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter
stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was
standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the
yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face.
I could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight
sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn
me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English
at me, her eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into
the gloom behind her.

"'I would go,' said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak
calmly; 'I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you
to do.'

"'But, madam,' said I, 'I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot
possibly leave until I have seen the machine.'

"'It is not worth your while to wait,' she went on. 'You can pass
through the door; no one hinders.' And then, seeing that I smiled and
shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a
step forward, with her hands wrung together. 'For the love of
Heaven!' she whispered, 'get away from here before it is too late!'

"But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage
in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my
fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant
night which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why
should I slink away without having carried out my commission, and
without the payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I
knew, be a monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her
manner had shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my
head and declared my intention of remaining where I was. She was
about to renew her entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the
sound of several footsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened
for an instant, threw up her hands with a despairing gesture, and
vanished as suddenly and as noiselessly as she had come.

"The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man with
a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who
was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.

"'This is my secretary and manager,' said the colonel. 'By the way, I
was under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear
that you have felt the draught.'

"'On the contrary,' said I, 'I opened the door myself because I felt
the room to be a little close.'

"He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. 'Perhaps we had better
proceed to business, then,' said he. 'Mr. Ferguson and I will take
you up to see the machine.'

"'I had better put my hat on, I suppose.'

"'Oh, no, it is in the house.'

"'What, you dig fuller's-earth in the house?'

"'No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All
we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us know what
is wrong with it.'

"We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat
manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with
corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors,
the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had
crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture
above the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls,
and the damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I
tried to put on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not
forgotten the warnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them,
and I kept a keen eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be
a morose and silent man, but I could see from the little that he said
that he was at least a fellow-countryman.

"Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he
unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us
could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the
colonel ushered me in.

"'We are now,' said he, 'actually within the hydraulic press, and it
would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to
turn it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of
the descending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons
upon this metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water
outside which receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it
in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily
enough, but there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has
lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to
look it over and to show us how we can set it right.'

"I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very
thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising
enormous pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down
the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound
that there was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of
water through one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that
one of the india-rubber bands which was round the head of a
driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to fill the socket along which
it worked. This was clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I
pointed it out to my companions, who followed my remarks very
carefully and asked several practical questions as to how they should
proceed to set it right. When I had made it clear to them, I returned
to the main chamber of the machine and took a good look at it to
satisfy my own curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that the story
of the fuller's-earth was the merest fabrication, for it would be
absurd to suppose that so powerful an engine could be designed for so
inadequate a purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted
of a large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I could see a
crust of metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was scraping
at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a muttered
exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of the colonel
looking down at me.

"'What are you doing there?' he asked.

"I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that
which he had told me. 'I was admiring your fuller's-earth,' said I;
'I think that I should be better able to advise you as to your
machine if I knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used.'

"The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my
speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey
eyes.

"'Very well,' said he, 'you shall know all about the machine.' He
took a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in
the lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was
quite secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves.
'Hullo!' I yelled. 'Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!'

"And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart
into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the
leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood
upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By
its light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me,
slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force
which must within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw
myself, screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the
lock. I implored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless
clanking of the levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot
or two above my head, and with my hand upraised I could feel its
hard, rough surface. Then it flashed through my mind that the pain of
my death would depend very much upon the position in which I met it.
If I lay on my face the weight would come upon my spine, and I
shuddered to think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way,
perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly
black shadow wavering down upon me? Already I was unable to stand
erect, when my eye caught something which brought a gush of hope back
to my heart.

"I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the
walls were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a
thin line of yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened
and broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I
could hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from
death. The next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting
upon the other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the
crash of the lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two
slabs of metal, told me how narrow had been my escape.

"I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I
found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a
woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she
held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning
I had so foolishly rejected.

"'Come! come!' she cried breathlessly. 'They will be here in a
moment. They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the
so-precious time, but come!'

"This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my
feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair.
The latter led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it we
heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one
answering the other from the floor on which  we were and from the one
beneath. My guide stopped and looked about her like one  who is at
her wit's end. Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom,
through the window of which the moon was shining brightly.

"'It is your only chance,' said she. 'It is high, but it may be that
you can jump it.'

"As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the
passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing
forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher's
cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the
window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden
looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet
down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I
should have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who
pursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined
to go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through
my mind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she
threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back.

"'Fritz! Fritz!' she cried in English, 'remember your promise after
the last time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent!
Oh, he will be silent!'

"'You are mad, Elise!' he shouted, struggling to break away from her.
'You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I
say!' He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at
me with his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the
hands to the sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull
pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the garden below.

"I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and
rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood
that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I
ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at
my hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time,
saw that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring
from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but
there came a sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a
dead faint among the rose-bushes.

"How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been a
very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was
breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew,
and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. The
smarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my
night's adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I
might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment,
when I came to look round me, neither house nor garden were to be
seen. I had been lying in an angle of the hedge close by the
highroad, and just a little lower down was a long building, which
proved, upon my approaching it, to be the very station at which I had
arrived upon the previous night. Were it not for the ugly wound upon
my hand, all that had passed during those dreadful hours might have
been an evil dream.

"Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning
train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same
porter was on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I
inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark.
The name was strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night
before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station
anywhere near? There was one about three miles off.

"It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to
wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police.
It was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my
wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along
here. I put the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you
advise."

We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this
extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the
shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his
cuttings.

"Here is an advertisement which will interest you," said he. "It
appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this:

"'Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a
hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o'clock at night, and
has not been heard of since. Was dressed in--'

etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the colonel needed
to have his machine overhauled, I fancy."

"Good heavens!" cried my patient. "Then that explains what the girl
said."

"Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and
desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should
stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates
who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment
now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to
Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford."

Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together,
bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were
Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of
Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread
an ordnance map of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his
compasses drawing a circle with Eyford for its centre.

"There you are," said he. "That circle is drawn at a radius of ten
miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that
line. You said ten miles, I think, sir."

"It was an hour's good drive."

"And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were
unconscious?"

"They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having
been lifted and conveyed somewhere."

"What I cannot understand," said I, "is why they should have spared
you when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the
villain was softened by the woman's entreaties."

"I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my
life."

"Oh, we shall soon clear up all that," said Bradstreet. "Well, I have
drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the
folk that we are in search of are to be found."

"I think I could lay my finger on it," said Holmes quietly.

"Really, now!" cried the inspector, "you have formed your opinion!
Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for
the country is more deserted there."

"And I say east," said my patient.

"I am for west," remarked the plain-clothes man. "There are several
quiet little villages up there."

"And I am for north," said I, "because there are no hills there, and
our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any."

"Come," cried the inspector, laughing; "it's a very pretty diversity
of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your
casting vote to?"

"You are all wrong."

"But we can't all be."

"Oh, yes, you can. This is my point." He placed his finger in the
centre of the circle. "This is where we shall find them."

"But the twelve-mile drive?" gasped Hatherley.

"Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the
horse was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if
it had gone twelve miles over heavy roads?"

"Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough," observed Bradstreet
thoughtfully. "Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of
this gang."

"None at all," said Holmes. "They are coiners on a large scale, and
have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place
of silver."

"We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work," said
the inspector. "They have been turning out half-crowns by the
thousand. We even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no
farther, for they had covered their traces in a way that showed that
they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I
think that we have got them right enough."

But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined
to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station
we saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a
small clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an immense
ostrich feather over the landscape.

"A house on fire?" asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on
its way.

"Yes, sir!" said the station-master.

"When did it break out?"

"I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and
the whole place is in a blaze."

"Whose house is it?"

"Dr. Becher's."

"Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is Dr. Becher a German, very thin,
with a long, sharp nose?"

The station-master laughed heartily. "No, sir, Dr. Becher is an
Englishman, and there isn't a man in the parish who has a
better-lined waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a
patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a
little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm."

The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all
hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill,
and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us,
spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front
three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under.

"That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. "There is the
gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second
window is the one that I jumped from."

"Well, at least," said Holmes, "you have had your revenge upon them.
There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was
crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt
they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the
time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last
night, though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off
by now."

And Holmes' fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no
word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister
German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had
met a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes
driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of
the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes' ingenuity failed ever to
discover the least clue as to their whereabouts.

The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which
they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly
severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About
sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and they
subdued the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the
whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some
twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of the
machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so dearly.
Large masses of nickel and of tin were discovered stored in an
out-house, but no coins were to be found, which may have explained
the presence of those bulky boxes which have been already referred
to.

How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the
spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a
mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain
tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom
had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the
whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less
bold or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to
bear the unconscious man out of the way of danger.

"Well," said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return
once more to London, "it has been a pretty business for me! I have
lost my thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I
gained?"

"Experience," said Holmes, laughing. "Indirectly it may be of value,
you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation
of being excellent company for the remainder of your existence."






THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR

The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long
ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which
the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it,
and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this
four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the
full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my
friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the
matter up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without
some little sketch of this remarkable episode.

It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was
still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home
from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for
him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a
sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet
which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan
campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one
easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a
cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the
day, I tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge
crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering
lazily who my friend's noble correspondent could be.

"Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he entered. "Your
morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a
tide-waiter."

"Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety," he
answered, smiling, "and the humbler are usually the more interesting.
This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call
upon a man either to be bored or to lie."

He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

"Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all."

"Not social, then?"

"No, distinctly professional."

"And from a noble client?"

"One of the highest in England."

"My dear fellow, I congratulate you."

"I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my
client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his
case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting
in this new investigation. You have been reading the papers
diligently of late, have you not?"

"It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the
corner. "I have had nothing else to do."

"It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read
nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is
always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely
you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?"

"Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."

"That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St.
Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these
papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what
he says:

"'My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
"'Lord Backwater tells me that I may place implicit reliance upon
your judgment and discretion. I have determined, therefore, to call
upon you and to consult you in reference to the very painful event
which has occurred in connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of
Scotland Yard, is acting already in the matter, but he assures me
that he sees no objection to your co-operation, and that he even
thinks that it might be of some assistance. I will call at four
o'clock in the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement
at that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of
paramount importance.
"'Yours faithfully,
"'St. Simon.'

"It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and
the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the
outer side of his right little finger," remarked Holmes as he folded
up the epistle.

"He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour."

"Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the
subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their
order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is." He
picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside
the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he, sitting down and flattening
it out upon his knee. "'Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon,
second son of the Duke of Balmoral.' Hum! 'Arms: Azure, three
caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.' He's forty-one
years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for
the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at
one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet
blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well,
there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I must
turn to you Watson, for something more solid."

"I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I, "for
the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I
feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an
inquiry on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other
matters."

"Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture
van. That is quite cleared up now--though, indeed, it was obvious
from the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper
selections."

"Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal
column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks back:

"'A marriage has been arranged [it says] and will, if rumour is
correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon,
second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only
daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.'

That is all."

"Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin
legs towards the fire.

"There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers
of the same week. Ah, here it is:

"'There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage market,
for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against
our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of
Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from
across the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the
last week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by
these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself for
over twenty years proof against the little god's arrows, has now
definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran,
the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran,
whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at
the Westbury House festivities, is an only child, and it is currently
reported that her dowry will run to considerably over the six
figures, with expectancies for the future. As it is an open secret
that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures
within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no property of
his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the
Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an alliance which will
enable her to make the easy and common transition from a Republican
lady to a British peeress.'"

"Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning.

"Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning Post to
say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would
be at St. George's, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate
friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the
furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr.
Aloysius Doran. Two days later--that is, on Wednesday last--there is
a curt announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the
honeymoon would be passed at Lord Backwater's place, near
Petersfield. Those are all the notices which appeared before the
disappearance of the bride."

"Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start.

"The vanishing of the lady."

"When did she vanish, then?"

"At the wedding breakfast."

"Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite
dramatic, in fact."

"Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common."

"They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the
honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as
this. Pray let me have the details."

"I warn you that they are very incomplete."

"Perhaps we may make them less so."

"Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a
morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed,
'Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding':

"'The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the
greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have
taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly
announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous
morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the
strange rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In
spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much
public attention has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be
served by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for
conversation.
"'The ceremony, which was performed at St. George's, Hanover Square,
was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the
bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater,
Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister
of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party
proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster
Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little
trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained,
who endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal
party, alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was
only after a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the
butler and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the
house before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast
with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and
retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some
comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that she
had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster
and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen
declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled, but
had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be
with the company. On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared,
Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put
themselves in communication with the police, and very energetic
inquiries are being made, which will probably result in a speedy
clearing up of this very singular business. Up to a late hour last
night, however, nothing had transpired as to the whereabouts of the
missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is
said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who had
caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or
some other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange
disappearance of the bride.'"

"And is that all?"

"Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a
suggestive one."

"And it is--"

"That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has
actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a danseuse
at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years.
There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands
now--so far as it has been set forth in the public press."

"And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not
have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson,
and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt
that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going,
Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check
to my own memory."

"Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page-boy, throwing open the
door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed
and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and
with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had
ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet
his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a
slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His
hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled
round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was
careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black
frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and
light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his
head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord
which held his golden eyeglasses.

"Good-day, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Pray
take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.
Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over."

"A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr.
Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have
already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I
presume that they were hardly from the same class of society."

"No, I am descending."

"I beg pardon."

"My last client of the sort was a king."

"Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?"

"The King of Scandinavia."

"What! Had he lost his wife?"

"You can understand," said Holmes suavely, "that I extend to the
affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you
in yours."

"Of course! Very right! very right! I'm sure I beg pardon. As to my
own case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you
in forming an opinion."

"Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints,
nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct--this article,
for example, as to the disappearance of the bride."

Lord St. Simon glanced over it. "Yes, it is correct, as far as it
goes."

"But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer
an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by
questioning you."

"Pray do so."

"When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?"

"In San Francisco, a year ago."

"You were travelling in the States?"

"Yes."

"Did you become engaged then?"

"No."

"But you were on a friendly footing?"

"I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused."

"Her father is very rich?"

"He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope."

"And how did he make his money?"

"In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold,
invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds."

"Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady's--your wife's
character?"

The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into
the fire. "You see, Mr. Holmes," said he, "my wife was twenty before
her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a
mining camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her
education has come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She
is what we call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and
free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is
impetuous--volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift in making up
her mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the other
hand, I would not have given her the name which I have the honour to
bear"--he gave a little stately cough--"had not I thought her to be
at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic
self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to
her."

"Have you her photograph?"

"I brought this with me." He opened a locket and showed us the full
face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory
miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the
lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth.
Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and
handed it back to Lord St. Simon.

"The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your
acquaintance?"

"Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met
her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her."

"She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?"

"A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family."

"And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a fait
accompli?"

"I really have made no inquiries on the subject."

"Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the
wedding?"

"Yes."

"Was she in good spirits?"

"Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future
lives."

"Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the
wedding?"

"She was as bright as possible--at least until after the ceremony."

"And did you observe any change in her then?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever
seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however,
was too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the
case."

"Pray let us have it, for all that."

"Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the
vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over
into the pew. There was a moment's delay, but the gentleman in the
pew handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse
for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me
abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly
agitated over this trifling cause."

"Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the
general public were present, then?"

"Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open."

"This gentleman was not one of your wife's friends?"

"No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a
common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I
think that we are wandering rather far from the point."

"Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful
frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering
her father's house?"

"I saw her in conversation with her maid."

"And who is her maid?"

"Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with
her."

"A confidential servant?"

"A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her
to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon
these things in a different way."

"How long did she speak to this Alice?"

"Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of."

"You did not overhear what they said?"

"Lady St. Simon said something about 'jumping a claim.' She was
accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant."

"American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife
do when she finished speaking to her maid?"

"She walked into the breakfast-room."

"On your arm?"

"No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that.
Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose
hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She
never came back."

"But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her
room, covered her bride's dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet,
and went out."

"Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in
company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had
already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran's house that morning."

"Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and
your relations to her."

Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. "We
have been on a friendly footing for some years--I may say on a very
friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated
her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me,
but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little
thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She
wrote me dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be
married, and, to tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage
celebrated so quietly was that I feared lest there might be a scandal
in the church. She came to Mr. Doran's door just after we returned,
and she endeavoured to push her way in, uttering very abusive
expressions towards my wife, and even threatening her, but I had
foreseen the possibility of something of the sort, and I had two
police fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out
again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a
row."

"Did your wife hear all this?"

"No, thank goodness, she did not."

"And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?"

"Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so
serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some
terrible trap for her."

"Well, it is a possible supposition."

"You think so, too?"

"I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this
as likely?"

"I do not think Flora would hurt a fly."

"Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is
your own theory as to what took place?"

"Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have
given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it
has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair,
the consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had
the effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife."

"In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?"

"Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back--I will
not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without
success--I can hardly explain it in any other fashion."

"Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis," said Holmes,
smiling. "And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my
data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so
that you could see out of the window?"

"We could see the other side of the road and the Park."

"Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I
shall communicate with you."

"Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem," said our
client, rising.

"I have solved it."

"Eh? What was that?"

"I say that I have solved it."

"Where, then, is my wife?"

"That is a detail which I shall speedily supply."

Lord St. Simon shook his head. "I am afraid that it will take wiser
heads than yours or mine," he remarked, and bowing in a stately,
old-fashioned manner he departed.

"It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on
a level with his own," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "I think that
I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this
cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before
our client came into the room."

"My dear Holmes!"

"I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked
before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to
turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is
occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk,
to quote Thoreau's example."

"But I have heard all that you have heard."

"Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves
me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years
back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich the year
after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases--but, hullo,
here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra
tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box."

The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which
gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black
canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and
lit the cigar which had been offered to him.

"What's up, then?" asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. "You look
dissatisfied."

"And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage
case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business."

"Really! You surprise me."

"Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip
through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day."

"And very wet it seems to have made you," said Holmes laying his hand
upon the arm of the pea-jacket.

"Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine."

"In heaven's name, what for?"

"In search of the body of Lady St. Simon."

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

"Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?" he asked.

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the
one as in the other."

Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. "I suppose you know
all about it," he snarled.

"Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up."

"Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the
matter?"

"I think it very unlikely."

"Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in
it?" He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a
wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a
bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water.
"There," said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the
pile. "There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes."

"Oh, indeed!" said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air.  "You
dragged them from the Serpentine?"

"No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They
have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the
clothes were there the body would not be far off."

"By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be found in
the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to
arrive at through this?"

"At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance."

"I am afraid that you will find it difficult."

"Are you, indeed, now?" cried Lestrade with some bitterness. "I am
afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions
and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes.
This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar."

"And how?"

"In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the
card-case is a note. And here is the very note." He slapped it down
upon the table in front of him. "Listen to this:

"'You will see me when all is ready. Come at once.
"'F.H.M.'

Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away
by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was
responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is
the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the
door and which lured her within their reach."

"Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, laughing. "You really are very
fine indeed. Let me see it." He took up the paper in a listless way,
but his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry
of satisfaction. "This is indeed important," said he.

"Ha! you find it so?"

"Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly."

Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. "Why," he
shrieked, "you're looking at the wrong side!"

"On the contrary, this is the right side."

"The right side? You're mad! Here is the note written in pencil over
here."

"And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill,
which interests me deeply."

"There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," said Lestrade.

"'Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s.
6d., glass sherry, 8d.' I see nothing in that."

"Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note,
it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate
you again."

"I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, rising. "I believe in hard
work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day,
Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter
first." He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and
made for the door.

"Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled Holmes before his rival
vanished; "I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St.
Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such
person."

Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped
his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.

He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his
overcoat. "There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor
work," he remarked, "so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to
your papers for a little."

It was after five o'clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no
time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner's
man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a
youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great
astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid
out upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of
brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a pâté de foie gras pie with a
group of ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these
luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the
Arabian Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been
paid for and were ordered to this address.

Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the
room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye
which made me think that he had not been disappointed in his
conclusions.

"They have laid the supper, then," he said, rubbing his hands.

"You seem to expect company. They have laid for five."

"Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in," said he. "I am
surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy
that I hear his step now upon the stairs."

It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in,
dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very
perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.

"My messenger reached you, then?" asked Holmes.

"Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure.
Have you good authority for what you say?"

"The best possible."

Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his
forehead.

"What will the Duke say," he murmured, "when he hears that one of the
family has been subjected to such humiliation?"

"It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any
humiliation."

"Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint."

"I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady
could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was
undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to
advise her at such a crisis."

"It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said Lord St. Simon, tapping
his fingers upon the table.

"You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so
unprecedented a position."

"I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been
shamefully used."

"I think that I heard a ring," said Holmes. "Yes, there are steps on
the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the
matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be
more successful." He opened the door and ushered in a lady and
gentleman. "Lord St. Simon," said he "allow me to introduce you to
Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already
met."

At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat
and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust
into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The
lady had taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him,
but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his
resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard
to resist.

"You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, I guess you have every cause
to be."

"Pray make no apology to me," said Lord St. Simon bitterly.

"Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should
have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from
the time when I saw Frank here again I just didn't know what I was
doing or saying. I only wonder I didn't fall down and do a faint
right there before the altar."

"Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the
room while you explain this matter?"

"If I may give an opinion," remarked the strange gentleman, "we've
had just a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my
part, I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it."
He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face
and alert manner.

"Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady. "Frank here and
I met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies, where pa was
working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then
one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank
here had a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer pa
grew the poorer was Frank; so at last pa wouldn't hear of our
engagement lasting any longer, and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank
wouldn't throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he
saw me without pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made
him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said
that he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to claim
me until he had as much as pa. So then I promised to wait for him to
the end of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he
lived. 'Why shouldn't we be married right away, then,' said he, 'and
then I will feel sure of you; and I won't claim to be your husband
until I come back?' Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all
up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did
it right there; and then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I
went back to pa.

"The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he
went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico.
After that came a long newspaper story about how a miners' camp had
been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank's name among
the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months
after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in
'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never
doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to
'Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and pa
was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth
would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my poor
Frank.

"Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd have done my
duty by him. We can't command our love, but we can our actions. I
went to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as
good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt
when, just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank
standing and looking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his
ghost at first; but when I looked again there he was still, with a
kind of question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or
sorry to see him. I wonder I didn't drop. I know that everything was
turning round, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz
of a bee in my ear. I didn't know what to do. Should I stop the
service and make a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and
he seemed to know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to
his lips to tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece
of paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his
pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped
the note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a
line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so. Of
course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to
him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct.

"When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and
had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get
a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have
spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother
and all those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and
explain afterwards. I hadn't been at the table ten minutes before I
saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He
beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out,
put on my things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something
or other about Lord St. Simon to me--seemed to me from the little I
heard as if he had a little secret of his own before marriage
also--but I managed to get away from her and soon overtook Frank. W

tflearn_rnn_sherlock.py