The Return of Sherlock Holmes

Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger

cover

The Return of Sherlock Holmes

by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Contents

The Adventure of the Empty House
The Adventure of the Norwood Builder
The Adventure of the Dancing Men
The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist
The Adventure of the Priory School
The Adventure of Black Peter.
The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
The Adventure of the Six Napoleons
The Adventure of the Three Students
The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez
The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter
The Adventure of the Abbey Grange
The Adventure of the Second Stain

THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE

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positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I acknowledged that I was.

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

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

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

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

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

I gripped him by the arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll come with me to-night?”

“When you like and where you like.”

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

“You never were in it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why are we here?”

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

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

“Well?” said he.

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

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

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

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

“But why?”

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

“And you thought the rooms were watched?”

“I _knew_ that they were watched.”

“By whom?”

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

“How do you know?”

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

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

“The shadow has moved!” I cried.

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

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

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

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

“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I have not.”

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

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

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

He handed over the book, and I read:

_Moran_, _Sebastian_, _Colonel_. Unemployed. Formerly 1st
Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran,
C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford.
Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab
(despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of _Heavy Game of the
Western Himalayas_ (1881); _Three Months in the Jungle_ (1884).
Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the
Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.

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

The second most dangerous man in London.

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

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

“It is surely rather fanciful.”

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

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

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

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

“You have formed one, then?”

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at
Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr.
Jonas Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where he
has carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr.
Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep
Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has
had the reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive
and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from
the business, in which he is said to have massed considerable
wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back of
the house, and last night, about twelve o’clock, an alarm was
given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon
upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it
was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had
been entirely consumed. Up to this point the incident bore the
appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem to
point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at the absence of
the master of the establishment from the scene of the fire, and
an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared from
the house. An examination of his room revealed that the bed had
not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a
number of important papers were scattered about the room, and
finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight
traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken
walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the handle.
It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in
his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has been
identified as the property of this person, who is a young London
solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of Graham
and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham Buildings, E.C. The police believe
that they have evidence in their possession which supplies a very
convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be
doubted that sensational developments will follow.
“LATER.—It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the
murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a
warrant has been issued. There have been further and sinister
developments in the investigation at Norwood. Besides the
signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate builder it
is now known that the French windows of his bedroom (which is
on the ground floor) were found to be open, that there were
marks as if some bulky object had been dragged across to the
wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that charred remains
have been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire. The
police theory is that a most sensational crime has been
committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his own
bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across
to the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all
traces of the crime. The conduct of the criminal
investigation has been left in the experienced hands of
Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the
clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.”

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

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

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

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

“Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” said McFarlane.

“Pray proceed.”

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

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

“Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.

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

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

“Not until I have been to Blackheath.”

“You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.

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

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

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

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

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

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

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

“Well, what do _you_ make of it?”

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

Lestrade began to laugh.

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

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

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

“Oh, you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why should the tramp burn the body?”

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

“To hide some evidence.”

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

“And why did the tramp take nothing?”

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

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

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

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

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

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

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

“And why not Norwood?”

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

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

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

“Did you go to Blackheath?”

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

“‘You knew him at that time?’ said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is true.”

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

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

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

It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

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

“This sounds serious,” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lestrade laughed loudly.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I am doing so.”

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

“I have heard something of the kind.”

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

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

“That is final,” said Lestrade.

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

“It is final,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where was the night constable?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So I am.”

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

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

“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

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

“Can you produce him?”

“I think I can.”

“Then do so.”

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

“There are three within call.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fire!” we all yelled.

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

“Fire!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have done no harm.”

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

The wretched creature began to whimper.

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

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

Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But how?”

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

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

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

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

“Well, that’s likely enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holmes smiled indulgently.

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am.”

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“I see no connection.”

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

“How absurdly simple!” I cried.

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

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

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

“Oh, that’s your idea!”

“What else should it be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

AM-HERE-ABE-SLANEY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

“You had better stay here, Watson.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Has she said anything yet?”

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

“But you have found out something for yourself?”

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

“What, the man who draws them?”

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

AT-ELRIGES

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

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

COME-ELSIE

Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

“Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you that fresh drawing?”

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

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

NEVER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ELSIE-PREPARE-TO-MEET-THY-GOD

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

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

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

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

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

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

A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face.

“What makes you think such a thing?”

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

Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.

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

“How long have you been here, Doctor?”

“Since four o’clock.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes, the constable here.”

“And you have touched nothing?”

“Nothing.”

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

“The housemaid, Saunders.”

“Was it she who gave the alarm?”

“She and Mrs. King, the cook.”

“Where are they now?”

“In the kitchen, I believe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I looked for it.”

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

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

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

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

“How do you prove that?”

“Because the candle was not guttered.”

“Capital!” cried the inspector. “Capital!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Whom do you suspect?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

“Is it a lonely farm?”

“Very lonely, sir.”

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

“Maybe not, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

E

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

N-V-R

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

.M .ERE ..E SL.NE.

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

AM HERE A.E SLANE.

Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:

AM HERE ABE SLANEY.

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

A. ELRI. ES.

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

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

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

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

ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.

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

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

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

“How do you know?”

“To fly would be a confession of guilt.”

“Then let us go arrest him.”

“I expect him here every instant.”

“But why should he come.”

“Because I have written and asked him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wrote it, to bring you here.”

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

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

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

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

Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

“It is time for us to go.”

“Can I see her first?”

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

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

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

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

COME-HERE-AT-ONCE

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Last December—four months ago.”

“Pray proceed.”

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

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

The young lady blushed and laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Two or three minutes.”

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

“None.”

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

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

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

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

Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

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

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

“He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

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

“Have you had any other admirers?”

“Several before I knew Cyril.”

“And since?”

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

“No one else?”

Our fair client seemed a little confused.

“Who was he?” asked Holmes.

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

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

“He is a rich man.”

“No carriages or horses?”

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

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

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

“That he should appear only at that point?”

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

“You will go down?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when
I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the
fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced
that his feelings are most deep and most honourable. At the same
time, my promise is of course given. He took my refusal very
seriously, but also very gently. You can understand, however,
that the situation is a little strained.”

“Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters,” said
Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. “The case
certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility
of development than I had originally thought. I should be none
the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the country, and I am
inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories
which I have formed.”

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

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

I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

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

The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes (said she), to hear
that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers’s employment. Even the high
pay cannot reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation.
On Saturday I come up to town, and I do not intend to return.
Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the dangers of the
lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now over.
As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the
strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the
reappearance of that odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always
hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he appears to
have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I saw him out of
the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a
long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited
afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he
did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this
morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a
savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and fear him
more than I can say. How _can_ Mr. Carruthers endure such a
creature for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over on
Saturday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the man!” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re married!” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

“You’re too late. She’s my wife.”

“No, she’s your widow.”

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

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

“Who are you, then?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good Lord!”

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

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

“He will live,” said I.

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

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

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

“And also unfrocked.”

“Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

“I think not. How about the license?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What cable?”

Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

“That’s it,” said he.

It was short and concise:

The old man is dead.

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

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

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

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

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

“What he says is true,” said Carruthers.

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

Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

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

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

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

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

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

“No, by George, I couldn’t!”

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

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL

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

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

“What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

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

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

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

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

“When you are quite restored——”

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

My friend shook his head.

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

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

“What! the late Cabinet Minister?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But there has been some official investigation?”

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

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

“It was entirely dropped.”

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

“I feel it and admit it.”

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

“None at all.”

“Was he in the master’s class?”

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

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

“No.”

“Was any other bicycle missing?”

“No.”

“Is that certain?”

“Quite.”

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

“Certainly not.”

“Then what is the theory in your mind?”

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

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

“Several.”

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

“I suppose he would.”

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

“No.”

“Did he get any letters?”

“Yes, one letter.”

“From whom?”

“From his father.”

“Do you open the boys’ letters?”

“No.”

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

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

“When had he a letter before that?”

“Not for several days.”

“Had he ever one from France?”

“No, never.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Did he say so?”

“No.”

“The Duke, then?”

“Good Heavens, no!”

“Then how could you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But surely, Mr. Wilder——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir, I have not.”

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

The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.

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

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

“No, sir.”

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

“No, I wrote upon the day before.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“Did you post that letter yourself?”

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

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

“You are sure this one was among them?”

“Yes, I observed it.”

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

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

“Not entirely,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holmes'-map

HOLMES’ MAP OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE SCHOOL.

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

“Exactly.”

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

“But the bicycle?” I objected.

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

“But the bicycle?” I persisted.

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

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

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

“Where was it found?”

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

“How do they account for it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”

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

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

“The boy’s, then?”

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

“Or towards it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I congratulate you.”

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

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

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

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

“A side-slip,” I suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

“I could take a note back.”

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

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

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

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

I assented.

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

“Undoubtedly.”

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

“So it would seem.”

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

“The other bicycle.”

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

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

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

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

“In a morass, Watson?”

“I am at my wits’ end.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I have not.”

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

“Don’t put it to the ground.”

“But I can’t walk.”

“Well, then hop.”

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

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

“Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.

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

The landlord pricked up his ears.

“Where do you want to go?”

“To Holdernesse Hall.”

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

Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

“He’ll be glad to see us, anyhow.”

“Why?”

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

The landlord gave a very visible start.

“What, you’re on his track?”

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t got a bicycle.”

Holmes held up a sovereign.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, several.”

“Where?”

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

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

“I don’t remember seeing any.”

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

“Yes, it is strange.”

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

“Yes, I can.”

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

“No, I cannot.”

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

“And what is your conclusion?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It looks like a flight.”

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

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

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

“The bar is on the other side.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.”

“But he is in his room.”

“Then I must go to his room.”

“I believe he is in his bed.”

“I will see him there.”

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

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

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

“Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.

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

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

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

“If your Grace wishes——”

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

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

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

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

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

“Exactly.”

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean, then?”

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

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

“Where is he?” he gasped.

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

The Duke fell back in his chair.

“And whom do you accuse?”

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

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

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

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

“I saw you together last night.”

“Does anyone else beside your friend know?”

“I have spoken to no one.”

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

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

“I hardly understand your Grace.”

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

But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

“No, the murderer has escaped.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

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

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

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

“Your secretary?”

“No, sir, my son.”

It was Holmes’s turn to look astonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Duke bowed his assent.

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

“Under solemn promises——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the first?”

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

THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER

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

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

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

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

“I drove to the butcher’s and back.”

“The butcher’s?”

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

“I will not attempt it.”

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

“And what had you to report?”

“Failure, sir, absolute failure.”

“You have made no progress?”

“None.”

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

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

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

Hopkins looked surprised.

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

“But he had no pipe.”

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

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

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Meaning that you saw none?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What part of the table?”

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

“Excellent! What more?”

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

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

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

“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this
notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views
which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in
which I can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace
any of the securities here mentioned?”

“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the
complete register of the stockholders of these South American
concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse
before we can trace the shares.”

Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his
magnifying lens.

“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book
off the floor.”

“Was the blood-stain above or below?”

“On the side next the boards.”

“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the
crime was committed.”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured
that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay
near the door.”

“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among
the property of the dead man?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was
a knife, was there not?”

“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the
dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s
property.”

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and
have a look at it.”

Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

“Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But
even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you
can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you
will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for
Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of
that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at
bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of
Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the
seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have
been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North
have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves
and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in
a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low,
stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the
fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes,
was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our
direction. It was the scene of the murder.

Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us
to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man,
whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror
in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of
hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her
daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly
at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,
and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a
terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself,
and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the
sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been
worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had
stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and
surprise upon his face.

“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and
the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been
that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed
to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”

“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector, “I
could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”

“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the
grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do
you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”

“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

“You mean that the person will come again?”

“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He
tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could
not manage it. What would he do?”

“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture
within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of
the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes
examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest
was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient
investigation.

“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

“No, I have moved nothing.”

“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of
the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its
side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.
Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few
hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later,
Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the
gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”

It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was
of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the
stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong
blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we
should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the bushes
which grew round the farther window. In this way we should be
able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his
object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies
beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty
beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon
us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which
could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or
would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the
weak and unguarded?

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated
villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our
vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an
absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the
distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and
for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click
came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the
drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear
that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon
the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping
and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock. This time his
skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden
snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and
next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior
of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted
upon the scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face.
He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have
never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable
fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was shaking
in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket
and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched
him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the
candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one
of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the
logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the
table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he
came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of
his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner,
and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave the hut when
Hopkin’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud
gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was
relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering
in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest,
and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and
what do you want here?”

The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.

“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am
connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you
that I am innocent.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your
name?”

“It is John Hopley Neligan.”

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I speak confidentially?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”

The young man winced.

“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I
hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.
Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”

I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes
was keenly interested.

“You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
disappeared.”

“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a
long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey
pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all
listened intently to the young man’s words.

“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I
was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to
feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that
my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It
was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize
them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He
started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant
was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he
bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities
he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.
Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and
he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and
it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the
bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that
some of the securities which my father had with him had
reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I
spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many
doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he
had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the
Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to
Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a
long succession of southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well
have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter
Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In
any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these
securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father
had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit
when he took them.

“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,
but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I
read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it
stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it.
It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of
August, 1883, on board the _Sea Unicorn_, I might settle the
mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night to get at these
logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again
and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that
month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment I found
myself a prisoner in your hands.”

“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

“You have nothing else to tell us?”

He hesitated.

“No, there is nothing.”

“You have not been here before last night?”

“No.

“Then how do you account for _that_?” cried Hopkins, as he held
up the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the
first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and
trembled all over.

“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I
had lost it at the hotel.”

“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have
to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to
the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to
you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns
out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the
case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less, I
am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye
Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together.”

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we
travelled back next morning.

“I can see that you are not satisfied.”

“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
time, Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me.
I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better
things from him. One should always look for a possible
alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of
criminal investigation.”

“What, then, is the alternative?”

“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It
may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow
it to the end.”

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He
snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a
triumphant chuckle of laughter.

“Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten
to-morrow morning.—Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The
other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.
Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if
unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal
case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely
from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last
of it forever.”

Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and
we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson
had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his
success.

“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked
Holmes.

“I could not imagine a more complete case.”

“It did not seem to me conclusive.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

“Does your explanation cover every point?”

“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of
playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get
out when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee,
saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him
with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled
out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had brought with
him in order to question Peter Carey about these different
securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked
with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those
which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but the
others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and
young Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to
recover them in order to do the right thing by his father’s
creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach the hut
again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do so in
order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely that is
all simple and obvious?”

Holmes smiled and shook his head.

“It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is
that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a
harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really
pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you
that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy
matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow
was delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon sank
deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anæmic youth was
capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed
in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was
it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No,
no, Hopkins, it is another and more formidable person for whom we
must seek.”

The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s
speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him.
But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

“You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes.
The book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to
satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it.
Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon _my_ man. As to
this terrible person of yours, where is he?”

“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely.
“I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver
where you can reach it.” He rose and laid a written paper upon a
side-table. “Now we are ready,” said he.

There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.
Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring
for Captain Basil.

“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

“The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with
ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a
letter from his pocket.

“What name?” he asked.

“James Lancaster.”

“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait
there for a few minutes.”

The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his
dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two
bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted,
overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning
his cap round in his hands.

“Your name?” asked Holmes.

“Patrick Cairns.”

“Harpooner?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

“Dundee, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What wages?”

“Eight pounds a month.”

“Could you start at once?”

“As soon as I get my kit.”

“Have you your papers?”

“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his
pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on
the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his
neck.

“This will do,” said he.

I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The
next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground
together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with
the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his
wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had
Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when I pressed the
cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last
understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with
cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.

“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I fear
that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the
rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the
thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant
conclusion.”

Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last,
with a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a
fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I
should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the
master. Even now I see what you have done, but I don’t know how
you did it or what it signifies.”

“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by
experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never
lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young
Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the
true murderer of Peter Carey.”

The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being
man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I
_killed_ Peter Carey, and there’s all the difference. Maybe you
don’t believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you
a yarn.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”

“It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I
knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a
harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me.
That’s how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I’d as soon
die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter’s knife in my
heart.”

“How came you there?” asked Holmes.

“I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so
as I can speak easy. It was in ’83 that it happened—August of
that year. Peter Carey was master of the _Sea Unicorn_, and I was
spare harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way
home, with head winds and a week’s southerly gale, when we picked
up a little craft that had been blown north. There was one man on
her—a landsman. The crew had thought she would founder and had
made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were all
drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and he and the
skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took
off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man’s name
was never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if
he had never been. It was given out that he had either thrown
himself overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that
we were having. Only one man knew what had happened to him, and
that was me, for, with my own eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his
heels and put him over the rail in the middle watch of a dark
night, two days before we sighted the Shetland Lights. Well, I
kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see what would come of
it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and
nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it
was nobody’s business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave
up the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he
was. I guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was
in that tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for
keeping my mouth shut. I found out where he was through a sailor
man that had met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him.
The first night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give
me what would make me free of the sea for life. We were to fix it
all two nights later. When I came, I found him three parts drunk
and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned
about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look
on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought
I might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke out
at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great
clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the
sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell
he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood
there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit,
but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and
there was the tin box on the shelf. I had as much right to it as
Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like
a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.

“Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had
hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid
among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut,
gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he
could run until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted
is more than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a
train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no one the
wiser.

“Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money
in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I
had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London
without a shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these
advertisements about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to the
shipping agents, and they sent me here. That’s all I know, and I
say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should give me
thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”

“A very clear statement said Holmes,” rising and lighting his
pipe. “I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in
conveying your prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not
well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too
large a proportion of our carpet.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my
gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this
result.”

“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this notebook
it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I
heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the
skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskin
tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco—all these pointed to a
seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced that the
initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not those
of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in
his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy
were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are
there who would drink rum when they could get these other
spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”

“And how did you find him?”

“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it
were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on
the _Sea Unicorn_. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no
other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the
end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the
_Sea Unicorn_ in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the
harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the
man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the
country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East End,
devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for
harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and behold the
result!”

“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”

“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
possible,” said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some
apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the
securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There’s
the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for
the trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in
Norway—I’ll send particulars later.”

THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON

It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and
yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time,
even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been
impossible to make the facts public, but now the principal person
concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due
suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no
one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career
both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse
me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might
trace the actual occurrence.

We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and
had returned about six o’clock on a cold, frosty winter’s
evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card
on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of
disgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:

CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
Appledore Towers,
Hampstead.
_Agent_.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and
stretched his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of
the card?”

I turned it over.

“Will call at 6:30—C.A.M.,” I read.

“Hum! He’s about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking
sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo,
and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their
deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that’s how
Milverton impresses me. I’ve had to do with fifty murderers in my
career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion which I
have for this fellow. And yet I can’t get out of doing business
with him—indeed, he is here at my invitation.”

“But who is he?”

“I’ll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and
reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face
and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until he has
drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would
have made his mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as
follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay very
high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth and
position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous
valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have
gained the confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals
with no niggard hand. I happen to know that he paid seven hundred
pounds to a footman for a note two lines in length, and that the
ruin of a noble family was the result. Everything which is in the
market goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in this great
city who turn white at his name. No one knows where his grip may
fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to work from
hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in order to
play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning. I
have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you
how could one compare the ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his
mate, with this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures
the soul and wrings the nerves in order to add to his already
swollen money-bags?”

I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of
feeling.

“But surely,” said I, “the fellow must be within the grasp of the
law?”

“Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit
a woman, for example, to get him a few months’ imprisonment if
her own ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit
back. If ever he blackmailed an innocent person, then indeed we
should have him, but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no, we
must find other ways to fight him.”

“And why is he here?”

“Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my
hands. It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful
_débutante_ of last season. She is to be married in a fortnight
to the Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent
letters—imprudent, Watson, nothing worse—which were written to an
impecunious young squire in the country. They would suffice to
break off the match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl
unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commissioned
to meet him, and—to make the best terms I can.”

At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street
below. Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the
brilliant lamps gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble
chestnuts. A footman opened the door, and a small, stout man in a
shaggy astrakhan overcoat descended. A minute later he was in the
room.

Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual
frozen smile, and two keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from
behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr.
Pickwick’s benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the
insincerity of the fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those
restless and penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave
as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand
extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his first
visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at him
with a face of granite. Milverton’s smile broadened, he shrugged
his shoulders removed his overcoat, folded it with great
deliberation over the back of a chair, and then took a seat.

“This gentleman?” said he, with a wave in my direction. “Is it
discreet? Is it right?”

“Dr. Watson is my friend and partner.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client’s interests
that I protested. The matter is so very delicate——”

“Dr. Watson has already heard of it.”

“Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for
Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?”

“What are your terms?”

“Seven thousand pounds.”

“And the alternative?”

“My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the
money is not paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no
marriage on the 18th.” His insufferable smile was more complacent
than ever.

Holmes thought for a little.

“You appear to me,” he said, at last, “to be taking matters too
much for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of
these letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I
shall counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and
to trust to his generosity.”

Milverton chuckled.

“You evidently do not know the Earl,” said he.

From the baffled look upon Holmes’s face, I could see clearly
that he did.

“What harm is there in the letters?” he asked.

“They are sprightly—very sprightly,” Milverton answered. “The
lady was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the
Earl of Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since
you think otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a
matter of business. If you think that it is in the best interests
of your client that these letters should be placed in the hands
of the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay so large a
sum of money to regain them.” He rose and seized his astrakhan
coat.

Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

“Wait a little,” he said. “You go too fast. We should certainly
make every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter.”

Milverton relapsed into his chair.

“I was sure that you would see it in that light,” he purred.

“At the same time,” Holmes continued, “Lady Eva is not a wealthy
woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain
upon her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond
her power. I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your demands,
and that you will return the letters at the price I indicate,
which is, I assure you, the highest that you can get.”

Milverton’s smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

“I am aware that what you say is true about the lady’s
resources,” said he. “At the same time you must admit that the
occasion of a lady’s marriage is a very suitable time for her
friends and relatives to make some little effort upon her behalf.
They may hesitate as to an acceptable wedding present. Let me
assure them that this little bundle of letters would give more
joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London.”

“It is impossible,” said Holmes.

“Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!” cried Milverton, taking out
a bulky pocketbook. “I cannot help thinking that ladies are
ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!” He held up a
little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. “That belongs
to—well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until
to-morrow morning. But at that time it will be in the hands of
the lady’s husband. And all because she will not find a beggarly
sum which she could get by turning her diamonds into paste. It
_is_ such a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of the
engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking?
Only two days before the wedding, there was a paragraph in the
_Morning Post_ to say that it was all off. And why? It is almost
incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds would
have settled the whole question. Is it not pitiful? And here I
find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms, when your
client’s future and honour are at stake. You surprise me, Mr.
Holmes.”

“What I say is true,” Holmes answered. “The money cannot be
found. Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum
which I offer than to ruin this woman’s career, which can profit
you in no way?”

“There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit
me indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten
similar cases maturing. If it was circulated among them that I
had made a severe example of the Lady Eva, I should find all of
them much more open to reason. You see my point?”

Holmes sprang from his chair.

“Get behind him, Watson! Don’t let him out! Now, sir, let us see
the contents of that notebook.”

Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room
and stood with his back against the wall.

“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” he said, turning the front of his coat
and exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from
the inside pocket. “I have been expecting you to do something
original. This has been done so often, and what good has ever
come from it? I assure you that I am armed to the teeth, and I am
perfectly prepared to use my weapons, knowing that the law will
support me. Besides, your supposition that I would bring the
letters here in a notebook is entirely mistaken. I would do
nothing so foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or two little
interviews this evening, and it is a long drive to Hampstead.” He
stepped forward, took up his coat, laid his hand on his revolver,
and turned to the door. I picked up a chair, but Holmes shook his
head, and I laid it down again. With bow, a smile, and a twinkle,
Milverton was out of the room, and a few moments after we heard
the slam of the carriage door and the rattle of the wheels as he
drove away.

Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his
trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed
upon the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and
still. Then, with the gesture of a man who has taken his
decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into his bedroom. A
little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a
swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the
street. “I’ll be back some time, Watson,” said he, and vanished
into the night. I understood that he had opened his campaign
against Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed the
strange shape which that campaign was destined to take.

For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire,
but beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and
that it was not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At
last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind
screamed and rattled against the windows, he returned from his
last expedition, and having removed his disguise he sat before
the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward fashion.

“You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”

“No, indeed!”

“You’ll be interested to hear that I’m engaged.”

“My dear fellow! I congrat——”

“To Milverton’s housemaid.”

“Good heavens, Holmes!”

“I wanted information, Watson.”

“Surely you have gone too far?”

“It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising
business, Escott, by name. I have walked out with her each
evening, and I have talked with her. Good heavens, those talks!
However, I have got all I wanted. I know Milverton’s house as I
know the palm of my hand.”

“But the girl, Holmes?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You can’t help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as
best you can when such a stake is on the table. However, I
rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut
me out the instant that my back is turned. What a splendid night
it is!”

“You like this weather?”

“It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton’s house
to-night.”

I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the
words, which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated
resolution. As a flash of lightning in the night shows up in an
instant every detail of a wild landscape, so at one glance I
seemed to see every possible result of such an action—the
detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in irreparable
failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at the mercy of the
odious Milverton.

“For heaven’s sake, Holmes, think what you are doing,” I cried.

“My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never
precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and,
indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were possible. Let us
look at the matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will
admit that the action is morally justifiable, though technically
criminal. To burgle his house is no more than to forcibly take
his pocketbook—an action in which you were prepared to aid me.”

I turned it over in my mind.

“Yes,” I said, “it is morally justifiable so long as our object
is to take no articles save those which are used for an illegal
purpose.”

“Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to
consider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should
not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most desperate
need of his help?”

“You will be in such a false position.”

“Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way
of regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the
money, and there are none of her people in whom she could
confide. To-morrow is the last day of grace, and unless we can
get the letters to-night, this villain will be as good as his
word and will bring about her ruin. I must, therefore, abandon my
client to her fate or I must play this last card. Between
ourselves, Watson, it’s a sporting duel between this fellow
Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first
exchanges, but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned to
fight it to a finish.”

“Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When
do we start?”

“You are not coming.”

“Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of
honour—and I never broke it in my life—that I will take a cab
straight to the police-station and give you away, unless you let
me share this adventure with you.”

“You can’t help me.”

“How do you know that? You can’t tell what may happen. Anyway, my
resolution is taken. Other people besides you have self-respect,
and even reputations.”

Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped
me on the shoulder.

“Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this same
room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by
sharing the same cell. You know, Watson, I don’t mind confessing
to you that I have always had an idea that I would have made a
highly efficient criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in
that direction. See here!” He took a neat little leather case out
of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of shining
instruments. “This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit,
with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable
keys, and every modern improvement which the march of
civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything
is in order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?”

“I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.”

“Excellent! And a mask?”

“I can make a couple out of black silk.”

“I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of
thing. Very good, do you make the masks. We shall have some cold
supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall
drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour’s walk
from there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work before
midnight. Milverton is a heavy sleeper, and retires punctually at
ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here by two, with the
Lady Eva’s letters in my pocket.”

Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to
be two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked
up a hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid
off our cab, and with our great coats buttoned up, for it was
bitterly cold, and the wind seemed to blow through us, we walked
along the edge of the heath.

“It’s a business that needs delicate treatment,” said Holmes.
“These documents are contained in a safe in the fellow’s study,
and the study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other
hand, like all these stout, little men who do themselves well, he
is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha—that’s my _fiancée_—says it is a
joke in the servants’ hall that it’s impossible to wake the
master. He has a secretary who is devoted to his interests, and
never budges from the study all day. That’s why we are going at
night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I met
Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so
as to give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its
own grounds. Through the gate—now to the right among the laurels.
We might put on our masks here, I think. You see, there is not a
glimmer of light in any of the windows, and everything is working
splendidly.”

With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of
the most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent,
gloomy house. A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of
it, lined by several windows and two doors.

“That’s his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door opens straight
into the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well
as locked, and we should make too much noise getting in. Come
round here. There’s a greenhouse which opens into the
drawing-room.”

The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and
turned the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had
closed the door behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes
of the law. The thick, warm air of the conservatory and the rich,
choking fragrance of exotic plants took us by the throat. He
seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past banks of
shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes had remarkable
powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still
holding my hand in one of his, he opened a door, and I was
vaguely conscious that we had entered a large room in which a
cigar had been smoked not long before. He felt his way among the
furniture, opened another door, and closed it behind us. Putting
out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the wall, and I
understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it and Holmes
very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side. Something
rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I could
have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was
burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with
tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow,
and then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton’s
study, and a _portière_ at the farther side showed the entrance
to his bedroom.

It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the
door I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was
unnecessary, even if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side
of the fireplace was a heavy curtain which covered the bay window
we had seen from outside. On the other side was the door which
communicated with the veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a
turning-chair of shining red leather. Opposite was a large
bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In the corner,
between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall, green
safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs
upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he
crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting head
listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had
struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the
outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement, it was neither
locked nor bolted. I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his
masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was
evidently as surprised as I.

“I don’t like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear.
“I can’t quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Yes, stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the
inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the other
way, we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide
behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?”

I nodded, and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had
passed away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had
ever enjoyed when we were the defenders of the law instead of its
defiers. The high object of our mission, the consciousness that
it was unselfish and chivalrous, the villainous character of our
opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the adventure.
Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our dangers.
With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case of
instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific
accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I knew
that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I
understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this
green and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the
reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his
dress-coat—he had placed his overcoat on a chair—Holmes laid out
two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the
centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready
for any emergency, though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague
as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour,
Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool,
picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy
of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green
door swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper
packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out,
but it was as hard to read by the flickering fire, and he drew
out his little dark lantern, for it was too dangerous, with
Milverton in the next room, to switch on the electric light.
Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and then in an instant
he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed
his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window curtain,
motioning me to do the same.

It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had
alarmed his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within
the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull
murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps
rapidly approaching. They were in the passage outside the room.
They paused at the door. The door opened. There was a sharp snick
as the electric light was turned on. The door closed once more,
and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our nostrils.
Then the footsteps continued backward and forward, backward and
forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there was a creak from
a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock,
and I heard the rustle of papers.

So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From
the pressure of Holmes’s shoulder against mine, I knew that he
was sharing my observations. Right in front of us, and almost
within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It
was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his movements,
that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been
sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing
of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His broad,
grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in
the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black cigar
projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military
smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In
his hand he held a long, legal document which he was reading in
an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips
as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his
composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.

I felt Holmes’s hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring
shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers, and
that he was easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen
what was only too obvious from my position, that the door of the
safe was imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any
moment observe it. In my own mind I had determined that if I were
sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye,
I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over his head,
pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never
looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his hand,
and page after page was turned as he followed the argument of the
lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the document
and the cigar he will go to his room, but before he had reached
the end of either, there came a remarkable development, which
turned our thoughts into quite another channel.

Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch,
and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of
impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an appointment
at so strange an hour never occurred to me until a faint sound
reached my ears from the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his
papers and sat rigid in his chair. The sound was repeated, and
then there came a gentle tap at the door. Milverton rose and
opened it.

“Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”

So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the
nocturnal vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a
woman’s dress. I had closed the slit between the curtains as
Milverton’s face had turned in our direction, but now I ventured
very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat, the
cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner of
his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric
light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her
face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and
fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with
strong emotion.

“Well,” said Milverton, “you made me lose a good night’s rest, my
dear. I hope you’ll prove worth it. You couldn’t come any other
time—eh?”

The woman shook her head.

“Well, if you couldn’t you couldn’t. If the Countess is a hard
mistress, you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless
the girl, what are you shivering about? That’s right. Pull
yourself together. Now, let us get down to business.” He took a
notebook from the drawer of his desk. “You say that you have five
letters which compromise the Countess d’Albert. You want to sell
them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix
a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course. If they
are really good specimens—Great heavens, is it you?”

The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the
mantle from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face
which confronted Milverton—a face with a curved nose, strong,
dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight,
thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.

“It is I,” she said, “the woman whose life you have ruined.”

Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so
very obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such
extremities? I assure you I wouldn’t hurt a fly of my own accord,
but every man has his business, and what was I to do? I put the
price well within your means. You would not pay.”

“So you sent the letters to my husband, and he—the noblest
gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy
to lace—he broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that
last night, when I came through that door, I begged and prayed
you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as you are trying to
laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your lips from
twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here again, but it
was that night which taught me how I could meet you face to face,
and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?”

“Don’t imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his
feet. “I have only to raise my voice and I could call my servants
and have you arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural
anger. Leave the room at once as you came, and I will say no
more.”

The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same
deadly smile on her thin lips.

“You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You will
wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of
a poisonous thing. Take that, you hound—and that!—and that!—and
that!”

She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel
after barrel into Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of
his shirt front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the
table, coughing furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he
staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the
floor. “You’ve done me,” he cried, and lay still. The woman
looked at him intently, and ground her heel into his upturned
face. She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I
heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room,
and the avenger was gone.

No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his
fate, but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into
Milverton’s shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt
Holmes’s cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole
argument of that firm, restraining grip—that it was no affair of
ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we had our own
duties and our own objects, which were not to be lost sight of.
But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when Holmes, with
swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned the
key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices in the house
and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots had roused the
household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the
safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured
them all into the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe
was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon the outside of
the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter which had been
the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled with his
blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing
papers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, passed through
after me, and locked it on the outside. “This way, Watson,” said
he, “we can scale the garden wall in this direction.”

I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so
swiftly. Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The
front door was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The
whole garden was alive with people, and one fellow raised a
view-halloa as we emerged from the veranda and followed hard at
our heels. Holmes seemed to know the grounds perfectly, and he
threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small trees, I
close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting behind us.
It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang to
the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man
behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free and
scrambled over a grass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among
some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant, and
together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead
Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last
halted and listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us.
We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day
after the remarkable experience which I have recorded, when Mr.
Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was
ushered into our modest sitting-room.

“Good-morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “good-morning. May I ask if
you are very busy just now?”

“Not too busy to listen to you.”

“I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand,
you might care to assist us in a most remarkable case, which
occurred only last night at Hampstead.”

“Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”

“A murder—a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen
you are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour
if you would step down to Appledore Towers, and give us the
benefit of your advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our
eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for some time, and, between
ourselves, he was a bit of a villain. He is known to have held
papers which he used for blackmailing purposes. These papers have
all been burned by the murderers. No article of value was taken,
as it is probable that the criminals were men of good position,
whose sole object was to prevent social exposure.”

“Criminals?” said Holmes. “Plural?”

“Yes, there were two of them. They were as nearly as possible
captured red-handed. We have their footmarks, we have their
description, it’s ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow
was a bit too active, but the second was caught by the
under-gardener, and only got away after a struggle. He was a
middle-sized, strongly built man—square jaw, thick neck,
moustache, a mask over his eyes.”

“That’s rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes. “My, it might be a
description of Watson!”

“It’s true,” said the inspector, with amusement. “It might be a
description of Watson.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “The
fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him
one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there
are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which
therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no
use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the
criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this
case.”

Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had
witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most
thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant
eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to
recall something to his memory. We were in the middle of our
lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his feet. “By Jove, Watson,
I’ve got it!” he cried. “Take your hat! Come with me!” He hurried
at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until
we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here, on the left hand,
there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the
celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes’s eyes fixed
themselves upon one of them, and following his gaze I saw the
picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a high
diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that delicately
curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and
the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath as I
read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman
whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put
his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS

It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,
to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to
Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all
that was going on at the police headquarters. In return for the
news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to
listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the
detective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without any
active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from
his own vast knowledge and experience.

On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather
and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing
thoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes—nothing very particular.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Lestrade laughed.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there _is_
something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business, that
I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand, although
it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have
a taste for all that is out of the common. But, in my opinion, it
comes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.”

“Disease?” said I.

“Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn’t think
there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred
of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that
he could see.”

Holmes sank back in his chair.

“That’s no business of mine,” said he.

“Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commits
burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that
brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman.”

Holmes sat up again.

“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”

Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory
from its pages.

“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at
the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of
pictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had
left the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and
hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with
several other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered into
fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although several
passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of the
shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any means of
identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless
acts of hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was
reported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast
was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair
appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation.

“The second case, however, was more serious, and also more
singular. It occurred only last night.

“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse
Hudson’s shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner,
named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon the
south side of the Thames. His residence and principal
consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branch
surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away.
This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his
house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French
Emperor. Some little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two
duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the
French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his hall in
the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece of
the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came down
this morning he was astonished to find that his house had been
burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save
the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had
been dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its
splintered fragments were discovered.”

Holmes rubbed his hands.

“This is certainly very novel,” said he.

“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end
yet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and
you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found
that the window had been opened in the night and that the broken
pieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had
been smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case were there
any signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or
lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got
the facts.”

“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I
ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms were
the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse
Hudson’s shop?”

“They were taken from the same mould.”

“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks
them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering
how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in
London, it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a
promiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin upon three
specimens of the same bust.”

“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand,
this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of
London, and these three were the only ones which had been in his
shop for years. So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds
of statues in London, it is very probable that these three were
the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would
begin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?”

“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I
answered. “There is the condition which the modern French
psychologists have called the _idée fixe_, which may be trifling
in character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every other
way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who had
possibly received some hereditary family injury through the great
war, might conceivably form such an _idée fixe_ and under its
influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”

“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head,
“for no amount of _idée fixe_ would enable your interesting
monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated.”

“Well, how do _you_ explain it?”

“I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a
certain method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. For
example, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the
family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas
in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was
smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and
yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my
most classic cases have had the least promising commencement. You
will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty
family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the
parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford,
therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I
shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any
fresh development of so singular a chain of events.”

The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker
and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I
was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a
tap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He
read it aloud:

“Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.—LESTRADE.”

“What is it, then?” I asked.

“Don’t know—may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of
the story of the statues. In that case our friend the
image-breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London.
There’s coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the
door.”

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little
backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London
life. No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable,
and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the
railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes
whistled.

“By George! It’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will
hold the London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicated
in that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’s
this, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry.
Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well, there’s Lestrade at the
front window, and we shall soon know all about it.”

The official received us with a very grave face and showed us
into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated
elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and
down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house—Mr.
Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.

“It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You
seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps
you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a
very much graver turn.”

“What has it turned to, then?”

“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly
what has occurred?”

The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most
melancholy face.

“It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have
been collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece of
news has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I
can’t put two words together. If I had come in here as a
journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two columns
in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving away valuable copy
by telling my story over and over to a string of different
people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I’ve heard
your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll only explain this
queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the
story.”

Holmes sat down and listened.

“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I
bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up
cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street
Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night,
and I often write until the early morning. So it was to-day. I
was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the
house, about three o’clock, when I was convinced that I heard
some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,
and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about
five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell—the most
dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my
ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or
two. Then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I entered
this room I found the window wide open, and I at once observed
that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any burglar
should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was only
a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open
window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride.
This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and
opened the door. Stepping out into the dark, I nearly fell over a
dead man, who was lying there. I ran back for a light and there
was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole
place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up,
and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had
just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have
fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman
standing over me in the hall.”

“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall
see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up
to now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than
thirty. He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a
labourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood
beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or
whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was no
name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple,
some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here it
is.”

It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It
represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick
eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the
face, like the muzzle of a baboon.

“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful
study of this picture.

“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the
front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was
broken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you
come?”

“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the
carpet and the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or
was a most active man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no
mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window.
Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to
see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a
writing-table.

“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no
doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out
already with full details. It’s like my luck! You remember when
the stand fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in
the stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of it,
for I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll be too late with a
murder done on my own doorstep.”

As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
foolscap.

The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only
a few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon
this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such
frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay
scattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked up
several of them and examined them carefully. I was convinced,
from his intent face and his purposeful manner, that at last he
was upon a clue.

“Well?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet—and yet—well,
we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this
trifling bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strange
criminal, than a human life. That is one point. Then there is the
singular fact that he did not break it in the house, or
immediately outside the house, if to break it was his sole
object.”

“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He
hardly knew what he was doing.”

“Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention
very particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of
which the bust was destroyed.”

Lestrade looked about him.

“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be
disturbed in the garden.”

“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street
which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he
not break it there, since it is evident that every yard that he
carried it increased the risk of someone meeting him?”

“I give it up,” said Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

“He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there.
That was his reason.”

“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to
think of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red
lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”

“To remember it—to docket it. We may come on something later
which will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now,
Lestrade?”

“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that.
When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we
should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt
Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on
the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t you think so?”

“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should
approach the case.”

“What would you do then?”

“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that
you go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes
afterwards, and each will supplement the other.”

“Very good,” said Lestrade.

“If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace
Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and
that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with
Napoleonic delusions, was in his house last night. It will be
useful for his article.”

Lestrade stared.

“You don’t seriously believe that?”

Holmes smiled.

“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will
interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central
Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we
have a long and rather complex day’s work before us. I should be
glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at
Baker Street at six o’clock this evening. Until then I should
like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man’s pocket. It
is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance
upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken to-night,
if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then
good-bye and good luck!”

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where
we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had
been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding
would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a
newcomer, who could give us no information. Holmes’s face showed
his disappointment and annoyance.

“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,”
he said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr.
Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt
surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in
order to find if there is not something peculiar which may
account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse
Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any light
upon the problem.”

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s
establishment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and a
peppery manner.

“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates
and taxes for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and
break one’s goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his
two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot—that’s what I make
it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red
republicans—that’s what I call ’em. Who did I get the statues
from? I don’t see what that has to do with it. Well, if you
really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in Church
Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade, and
have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three—two and one
are three—two of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broad
daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I
don’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind of
Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He
could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The
fellow left me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since.
No, I don’t know where he came from nor where he went to. I had
nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two days
before the bust was smashed.”

“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,”
said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as
a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is
worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder &
Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts. I shall be
surprised if we don’t get some help down there.”

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable
London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London,
commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to
a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement
houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a
broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City merchants, we
found the sculpture works for which we searched. Outside was a
considerable yard full of monumental masonry. Inside was a large
room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding. The
manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear
answer to all Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showed
that hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of
Devine’s head of Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent
to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been half of a batch of
six, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, of
Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different
from any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause
why anyone should wish to destroy them—in fact, he laughed at the
idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer
would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from
each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of
Paris were joined together to make the complete bust. The work
was usually done by Italians, in the room we were in. When
finished, the busts were put on a table in the passage to dry,
and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us.

But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon
the manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted
over his blue Teutonic eyes.

“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well.
This has always been a respectable establishment, and the only
time that we have ever had the police in it was over this very
fellow. It was more than a year ago now. He knifed another
Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the
police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was his
name—his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a
man with such a face. But he was a good workman—one of the best.”

“What did he get?”

“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is
out now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a
cousin of his here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin—not a word, I
beg of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go
with it, the more important it seems to grow. When you referred
in your ledger to the sale of those casts I observed that the
date was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date when
Beppo was arrested?”

“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered.
“Yes,” he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was
paid last on May 20th.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon
your time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution
that he should say nothing as to our researches, we turned our
faces westward once more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a
hasty luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance
announced “Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the
contents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his
account into print after all. Two columns were occupied with a
highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident.
Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he
ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:

“It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of
opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most
experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, the well-known consulting expert, have each come to the
conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which have
ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from
deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration can cover
the facts.

“The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only
know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will
hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding
Brothers has to say on the matter.”

The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp
little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a
ready tongue.

“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers.
Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the
bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from
Gelder & Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I
daresay by consulting our sales book we could very easily tell
you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr. Harker you see,
and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale,
Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading.
No, I have never seen this face which you show me in the
photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir, for I’ve
seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes,
sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay
they might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There
is no particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well,
well, it’s a very strange business, and I hope that you will let
me know if anything comes of your inquiries.”

Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and
I could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which
affairs were taking. He made no remark, however, save that,
unless we hurried, we should be late for our appointment with
Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the detective
was already there, and we found him pacing up and down in a fever
of impatience. His look of importance showed that his day’s work
had not been in vain.

“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my
friend explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the
wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from
the beginning.”

“The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own
methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word
against them, but I think I have done a better day’s work than
you. I have identified the dead man.”

“You don’t say so?”

“And found a cause for the crime.”

“Splendid!”

“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and
the Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem
round his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he
was from the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught
sight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is
one of the greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with
the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society,
enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the affair
begins to clear up. The other fellow is probably an Italian also,
and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the rules in some
fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the photograph we
found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knife
the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house,
he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own
death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite
follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”

“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After
all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It
is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you
that I am gathering all the threads into my hands.”

“And the next stage?”

“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian
Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest
him on the charge of murder. Will you come with us?”

“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I
can’t say for certain, because it all depends—well, it all
depends upon a factor which is completely outside our control.
But I have great hopes—in fact, the betting is exactly two to
one—that if you will come with us to-night I shall be able to
help you to lay him by the heels.”

“In the Italian Quarter?”

“No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find
him. If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade,
I’ll promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and
no harm will be done by the delay. And now I think that a few
hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I do not propose to leave
before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back
before morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are
welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the
meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an
express messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is
important that it should go at once.”

Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old
daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When
at last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he
said nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches.
For my own part, I had followed step by step the methods by which
he had traced the various windings of this complex case, and,
though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I
understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal
to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of which, I
remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our journey
was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the
cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the
evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could
continue his scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when
Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with me. He had
himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which was his
favourite weapon.

A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a
spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was
directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road
fringed with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds.
In the light of a street lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the
gate-post of one of them. The occupants had evidently retired to
rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the hall door,
which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path. The
wooden fence which separated the grounds from the road threw a
dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was that we
crouched.

“I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may
thank our stars that it is not raining. I don’t think we can even
venture to smoke to pass the time. However, it’s a two to one
chance that we get something to pay us for our trouble.”

It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as
Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and
singular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn
us of his coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark
figure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path.
We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the door and
disappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a long
pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very gentle
creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The
noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was
making his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark
lantern inside the room. What he sought was evidently not there,
for again we saw the flash through another blind, and then
through another.

“Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs
out,” Lestrade whispered.

But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he came
out into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried
something white under his arm. He looked stealthily all round
him. The silence of the deserted street reassured him. Turning
his back upon us he laid down his burden, and the next instant
there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and
rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing that he
never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With the
bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later
Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs had
been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow
face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I
knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we had
secured.

But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his
attention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most
carefully examining that which the man had brought from the
house. It was a bust of Napoleon, like the one which we had seen
that morning, and it had been broken into similar fragments.
Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in no
way did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He
had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew up,
the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund
figure in shirt and trousers, presented himself.

“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.

“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the
note which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly
what you told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited
developments. Well, I’m very glad to see that you have got the
rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and have some
refreshment.”

However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters,
so within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all
four upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say,
but he glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once,
when my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a
hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the police-station to learn
that a search of his clothing revealed nothing save a few
shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of which bore
copious traces of recent blood.

“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all
these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that my
theory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I’m sure I am
exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way
in which you laid hands upon him. I don’t quite understand it all
yet.”

“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said
Holmes. “Besides, there are one or two details which are not
finished off, and it is one of those cases which are worth
working out to the very end. If you will come round once more to
my rooms at six o’clock to-morrow, I think I shall be able to
show you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning of
this business, which presents some features which make it
absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you
to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee
that you will enliven your pages by an account of the singular
adventure of the Napoleonic busts.”

When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much
information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was
Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-well
among the Italian colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and
had earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses and
had twice already been in jail—once for a petty theft, and once,
as we had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He
could talk English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the
busts were still unknown, and he refused to answer any questions
upon the subject, but the police had discovered that these same
busts might very well have been made by his own hands, since he
was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of Gelder
& Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew,
Holmes listened with polite attention, but I, who knew him so
well, could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I
detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath
that mask which he was wont to assume. At last he started in his
chair, and his eyes brightened. There had been a ring at the
bell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an
elderly red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in.
In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which
he placed upon the table.

“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”

My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I
suppose?” said he.

“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were
awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”

“Exactly.”

“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy
of Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for
the one which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”

“Certainly.”

“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not
imagine how you knew that I owned such a thing.”

“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is
very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had
sold you their last copy, and he gave me your address.”

“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”

“No, he did not.”

“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only
gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to
know that before I take ten pounds from you.

“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have
named that price, so I intend to stick to it.”

“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust
up with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his
bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen
of that bust which we had already seen more than once in
fragments.

Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note
upon the table.

“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence
of these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every
possible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a
methodical man, you see, and you never know what turn events
might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your
money, and I wish you a very good evening.”

When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes’s movements
were such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean
white cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he
placed his newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth.
Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a
sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke into
fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains.
Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one
splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in
a pudding.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black
pearl of the Borgias.”

Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a
spontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the
well-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang to
Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master
dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was at such
moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine,
and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same
singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with
disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its
depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now
existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a
connected chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the
Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was
lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of
Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You
will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the
London police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the
case, but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell
upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it was
proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to trace
any connection between them. The maid’s name was Lucretia
Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who
was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking
up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest
of Beppo, for some crime of violence—an event which took place in
the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts
were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events,
though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way
in which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in
his possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have
been Pietro’s confederate, he may have been the go-between of
Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the
correct solution.

“The main fact is that he _had_ the pearl, and at that moment,
when it was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made
for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only
a few minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize,
which would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six
plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them
was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a
small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a
few touches covered over the aperture once more. It was an
admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo
was condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his
six busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which
contained his treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even
shaking would tell him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was
probable that the pearl would adhere to it—as, in fact, it has
done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his search with
considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin who
works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had bought
the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and
in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.
Then, with the help of some Italian employee, he succeeded in
finding out where the other three busts had gone. The first was
at Harker’s. There he was dogged by his confederate, who held
Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him
in the scuffle which followed.”

“If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?”
I asked.

“As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him
from any third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after
the murder I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather
than delay his movements. He would fear that the police would
read his secret, and so he hastened on before they should get
ahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not found
the pearl in Harker’s bust. I had not even concluded for certain
that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that he was
looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other
houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp
overlooking it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three, the chances
were exactly as I told you—two to one against the pearl being
inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he
would go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of the
house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down, with
the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain
that it was the Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the
murdered man linked the one event with the other. There only
remained a single bust—the Reading one—and the pearl must be
there. I bought it in your presence from the owner—and there it
lies.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases,
Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike
one than that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No,
sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow,
there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest
constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.”

“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, it
seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold
and practical thinker once more. “Put the pearl in the safe,
Watson,” said he, “and get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton
forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes
your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two
as to its solution.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS

It was in the year ’95 that a combination of events, into which I
need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend
some weeks in one of our great university towns, and it was
during this time that the small but instructive adventure which I
am about to relate befell us. It will be obvious that any details
which would help the reader exactly to identify the college or
the criminal would be injudicious and offensive. So painful a
scandal may well be allowed to die out. With due discretion the
incident itself may, however, be described, since it serves to
illustrate some of those qualities for which my friend was
remarkable. I will endeavour, in my statement, to avoid such
terms as would serve to limit the events to any particular place,
or give a clue as to the people concerned.

We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a
library where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious
researches in early English charters—researches which led to
results so striking that they may be the subject of one of my
future narratives. Here it was that one evening we received a
visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor and lecturer
at the College of St. Luke’s. Mr. Soames was a tall, spare man,
of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always known him to
be restless in his manner, but on this particular occasion he was
in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it was clear
something very unusual had occurred.

“I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your
valuable time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke’s,
and really, but for the happy chance of your being in town, I
should have been at a loss what to do.”

“I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions,” my
friend answered. “I should much prefer that you called in the aid
of the police.”

“No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When
once the law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is
just one of those cases where, for the credit of the college, it
is most essential to avoid scandal. Your discretion is as
well-known as your powers, and you are the one man in the world
who can help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can.”

My friend’s temper had not improved since he had been deprived of
the congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his
scrapbooks, his chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an
uncomfortable man. He shrugged his shoulders in ungracious
acquiescence, while our visitor in hurried words and with much
excitable gesticulation poured forth his story.

“I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first
day of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of
the examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers
consists of a large passage of Greek translation which the
candidate has not seen. This passage is printed on the
examination paper, and it would naturally be an immense advantage
if the candidate could prepare it in advance. For this reason,
great care is taken to keep the paper secret.

“To-day, about three o’clock, the proofs of this paper arrived
from the printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of
Thucydides. I had to read it over carefully, as the text must be
absolutely correct. At four-thirty my task was not yet completed.
I had, however, promised to take tea in a friend’s rooms, so I
left the proof upon my desk. I was absent rather more than an
hour.

“You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double—a
green baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I
approached my outer door, I was amazed to see a key in it. For an
instant I imagined that I had left my own there, but on feeling
in my pocket I found that it was all right. The only duplicate
which existed, so far as I knew, was that which belonged to my
servant, Bannister—a man who has looked after my room for ten
years, and whose honesty is absolutely above suspicion. I found
that the key was indeed his, that he had entered my room to know
if I wanted tea, and that he had very carelessly left the key in
the door when he came out. His visit to my room must have been
within a very few minutes of my leaving it. His forgetfulness
about the key would have mattered little upon any other occasion,
but on this one day it has produced the most deplorable
consequences.

“The moment I looked at my table, I was aware that someone had
rummaged among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I
had left them all together. Now, I found that one of them was
lying on the floor, one was on the side table near the window,
and the third was where I had left it.”

Holmes stirred for the first time.

“The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third
where you left it,” said he.

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know
that?”

“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the
unpardonable liberty of examining my papers. He denied it,
however, with the utmost earnestness, and I am convinced that he
was speaking the truth. The alternative was that someone passing
had observed the key in the door, had known that I was out, and
had entered to look at the papers. A large sum of money is at
stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one, and an
unscrupulous man might very well run a risk in order to gain an
advantage over his fellows.

“Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly
fainted when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been
tampered with. I gave him a little brandy and left him collapsed
in a chair, while I made a most careful examination of the room.
I soon saw that the intruder had left other traces of his
presence besides the rumpled papers. On the table in the window
were several shreds from a pencil which had been sharpened. A
broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the rascal had
copied the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil, and had
been compelled to put a fresh point to it.”

“Excellent!” said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as
his attention became more engrossed by the case. “Fortune has
been your friend.”

“This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface
of red leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that
it was smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about
three inches long—not a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not
only this, but on the table I found a small ball of black dough
or clay, with specks of something which looks like sawdust in it.
I am convinced that these marks were left by the man who rifled
the papers. There were no footmarks and no other evidence as to
his identity. I was at my wits’ end, when suddenly the happy
thought occurred to me that you were in the town, and I came
straight round to put the matter into your hands. Do help me, Mr.
Holmes. You see my dilemma. Either I must find the man or else
the examination must be postponed until fresh papers are
prepared, and since this cannot be done without explanation,
there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a cloud not
only on the college, but on the university. Above all things, I
desire to settle the matter quietly and discreetly.”

“I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as
I can,” said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. “The
case is not entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you
in your room after the papers came to you?”

“Yes, young Daulat Ras, an Indian student, who lives on the same
stair, came in to ask me some particulars about the examination.”

“For which he was entered?”

“Yes.”

“And the papers were on your table?”

“To the best of my belief, they were rolled up.”

“But might be recognized as proofs?”

“Possibly.”

“No one else in your room?”

“No.”

“Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”

“No one save the printer.”

“Did this man Bannister know?”

“No, certainly not. No one knew.”

“Where is Bannister now?”

“He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair.
I was in such a hurry to come to you.”

“You left your door open?”

“I locked up the papers first.”

“Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames: that, unless the Indian
student recognized the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered
with them came upon them accidentally without knowing that they
were there.”

“So it seems to me.”

Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

“Well,” said he, “let us go round. Not one of your cases,
Watson—mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now,
Mr. Soames—at your disposal!”

The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed
window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college.
A Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground
floor was the tutor’s room. Above were three students, one on
each story. It was already twilight when we reached the scene of
our problem. Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the window.
Then he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe with his neck
craned, he looked into the room.

“He must have entered through the door. There is no opening
except the one pane,” said our learned guide.

“Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he
glanced at our companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be
learned here, we had best go inside.”

The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his
room. We stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination
of the carpet.

“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly
hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite
recovered. You left him in a chair, you say. Which chair?”

“By the window there.”

“I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have
finished with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of
course, what has happened is very clear. The man entered and took
the papers, sheet by sheet, from the central table. He carried
them over to the window table, because from there he could see if
you came across the courtyard, and so could effect an escape.”

“As a matter of fact, he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered
by the side door.”

“Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see
the three strips. No finger impressions—no! Well, he carried over
this one first, and he copied it. How long would it take him to
do that, using every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour,
not less. Then he tossed it down and seized the next. He was in
the midst of that when your return caused him to make a very
hurried retreat—_very_ hurried, since he had not time to replace
the papers which would tell you that he had been there. You were
not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as you entered the
outer door?”

“No, I can’t say I was.”

“Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had,
as you observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson.
The pencil was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size,
with a soft lead, the outer colour was dark blue, the maker’s
name was printed in silver lettering, and the piece remaining is
only about an inch and a half long. Look for such a pencil, Mr.
Soames, and you have got your man. When I add that he possesses a
large and very blunt knife, you have an additional aid.”

Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information.
“I can follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this
matter of the length——”

Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of
clear wood after them.

“You see?”

“No, I fear that even now——”

“Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others.
What could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware
that Johann Faber is the most common maker’s name. Is it not
clear that there is just as much of the pencil left as usually
follows the Johann?” He held the small table sideways to the
electric light. “I was hoping that if the paper on which he wrote
was thin, some trace of it might come through upon this polished
surface. No, I see nothing. I don’t think there is anything more
to be learned here. Now for the central table. This small pellet
is, I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke of. Roughly
pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say,
there appear to be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this is very
interesting. And the cut—a positive tear, I see. It began with a
thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am much indebted to
you for directing my attention to this case, Mr. Soames. Where
does that door lead to?”

“To my bedroom.”

“Have you been in it since your adventure?”

“No, I came straight away for you.”

“I should like to have a glance round. What a charming,
old-fashioned room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute, until
I have examined the floor. No, I see nothing. What about this
curtain? You hang your clothes behind it. If anyone were forced
to conceal himself in this room he must do it there, since the
bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No one there, I
suppose?”

As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity
and alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an
emergency. As a matter of fact, the drawn curtain disclosed
nothing but three or four suits of clothes hanging from a line of
pegs. Holmes turned away, and stooped suddenly to the floor.

“Halloa! What’s this?” said he.

It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like
the one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his
open palm in the glare of the electric light.

“Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well
as in your sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”

“What could he have wanted there?”

“I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way,
and so he had no warning until you were at the very door. What
could he do? He caught up everything which would betray him, and
he rushed into your bedroom to conceal himself.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that, all the
time I was talking to Bannister in this room, we had the man
prisoner if we had only known it?”

“So I read it.”

“Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know
whether you observed my bedroom window?”

“Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one
swinging on hinge, and large enough to admit a man.”

“Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to
be partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance
there, left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and finally,
finding the door open, have escaped that way.”

Holmes shook his head impatiently.

“Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that
there are three students who use this stair, and are in the habit
of passing your door?”

“Yes, there are.”

“And they are all in for this examination?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the
others?”

Soames hesitated.

“It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to
throw suspicion where there are no proofs.”

“Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”

“I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three
men who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist,
a fine scholar and athlete, plays in the Rugby team and the
cricket team for the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles
and the long jump. He is a fine, manly fellow. His father was the
notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf. My
scholar has been left very poor, but he is hard-working and
industrious. He will do well.

“The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a
quiet, inscrutable fellow; as most of those Indians are. He is
well up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is
steady and methodical.

“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow
when he chooses to work—one of the brightest intellects of the
university; but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He
was nearly expelled over a card scandal in his first year. He has
been idling all this term, and he must look forward with dread to
the examination.”

“Then it is he whom you suspect?”

“I dare not go so far as that. But, of the three, he is perhaps
the least unlikely.”

“Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
Bannister.”

He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow
of fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of
the quiet routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with
his nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.

“We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his
master.

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the
door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the
very day when there were these papers inside?”

“It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the
same thing at other times.”

“When did you enter the room?”

“It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames’ tea time.”

“How long did you stay?”

“When I saw that he was absent, I withdrew at once.”

“Did you look at these papers on the table?”

“No, sir—certainly not.”

“How came you to leave the key in the door?”

“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for
the key. Then I forgot.”

“Has the outer door a spring lock?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it was open all the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone in the room could get out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
disturbed?”

“Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years
that I have been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”

“So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”

“Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”

“That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder
near the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”

“I don’t know, sir, it didn’t matter to me where I sat.”

“I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was
looking very bad—quite ghastly.”

“You stayed here when your master left?”

“Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my
room.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don’t believe there is
any gentleman in this university who is capable of profiting by
such an action. No, sir, I’ll not believe it.”

“Thank you, that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You
have not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend
that anything is amiss?”

“No, sir—not a word.”

“You haven’t seen any of them?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the
quadrangle, if you please.”

Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering
gloom.

“Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking
up. “Halloa! What’s that? One of them seems restless enough.”

It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon
his blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

“I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is
it possible?”

“No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms
is quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for
visitors to go over them. Come along, and I will personally
conduct you.”

“No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist’s
door. A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and
made us welcome when he understood our errand. There were some
really curious pieces of mediæval domestic architecture within.
Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted on
drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one
from our host and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own.
The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the
Indian—a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance,
and was obviously glad when Holmes’s architectural studies had
come to an end. I could not see that in either case Holmes had
come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the third
did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would not open to
our knock, and nothing more substantial than a torrent of bad
language came from behind it. “I don’t care who you are. You can
go to blazes!” roared the angry voice. “Tomorrow’s the exam, and
I won’t be drawn by anyone.”

“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we
withdrew down the stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it
was I who was knocking, but none the less his conduct was very
uncourteous, and, indeed, under the circumstances rather
suspicious.”

Holmes’s response was a curious one.

“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than
the Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six
would be about it.”

“That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I
wish you good-night.”

Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good
gracious, Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in
this abrupt fashion! You don’t seem to realize the position.
To-morrow is the examination. I must take some definite action
to-night. I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of the
papers has been tampered with. The situation must be faced.”

“You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow
morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in
a position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile, you
change nothing—nothing at all.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”

“You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find
some way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay
with me, also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”

When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again
looked up at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The
others were invisible.

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came
out into the main street. “Quite a little parlour game—sort of
three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be
one of them. You take your choice. Which is yours?”

“The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst
record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he
be pacing his room all the time?”

“There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to
learn anything by heart.”

“He looked at us in a queer way.”

“So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when you
were preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was
of value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives—all
was satisfactory. But that fellow _does_ puzzle me.”

“Who?”

“Why, Bannister, the servant. What’s his game in the matter?”

“He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”

“So he did me. That’s the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
honest man—well, well, here’s a large stationer’s. We shall begin
our researches here.”

There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town,
and at each Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid high for a
duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it
was not a usual size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in
stock. My friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure,
but shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

“No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has
run to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can
build up a sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow,
it is nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at
seven-thirty. What with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your
irregularity at meals, I expect that you will get notice to quit,
and that I shall share your downfall—not, however, before we have
solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the careless servant,
and the three enterprising students.”

Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he
sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At
eight in the morning, he came into my room just as I finished my
toilet.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke’s.
Can you do without breakfast?”

“Certainly.”

“Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell
him something positive.”

“Have you anything positive to tell him?”

“I think so.”

“You have formed a conclusion?”

“Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery.”

“But what fresh evidence could you have got?”

“Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed
at the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours’ hard work
and covered at least five miles, with something to show for it.
Look at that!”

He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of
black, doughy clay.

“Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday.”

“And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever
No. 3 came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson?
Well, come along and put friend Soames out of his pain.”

The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable
agitation when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the
examination would commence, and he was still in the dilemma
between making the facts public and allowing the culprit to
compete for the valuable scholarship. He could hardly stand still
so great was his mental agitation, and he ran towards Holmes with
two eager hands outstretched.

“Thank heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it
up in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?”

“Yes, let it proceed, by all means.”

“But this rascal?”

“He shall not compete.”

“You know him?”

“I think so. If this matter is not to become public, we must give
ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small
private court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson
you here! I’ll take the armchair in the middle. I think that we
are now sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty
breast. Kindly ring the bell!”

Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear
at our judicial appearance.

“You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister,
will you please tell us the truth about yesterday’s incident?”

The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

“I have told you everything, sir.”

“Nothing to add?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat
down on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal
some object which would have shown who had been in the room?”

Bannister’s face was ghastly.

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit
that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since
the moment that Mr. Soames’s back was turned, you released the
man who was hiding in that bedroom.”

Bannister licked his dry lips.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Ah, that’s a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the
truth, but now I know that you have lied.”

The man’s face set in sullen defiance.

“There was no man, sir.”

“Come, come, Bannister!”

“No, sir, there was no one.”

“In that case, you can give us no further information. Would you
please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom
door. Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great
kindness to go up to the room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him
to step down into yours.”

An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the
student. He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile,
with a springy step and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue
eyes glanced at each of us, and finally rested with an expression
of blank dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner.

“Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are
all quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what
passes between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We
want to know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever
came to commit such an action as that of yesterday?”

The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look full of
horror and reproach at Bannister.

“No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word—never one word!”
cried the servant.

“No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that
after Bannister’s words your position is hopeless, and that your
only chance lies in a frank confession.”

For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees
beside the table, and burying his face in his hands, he had burst
into a storm of passionate sobbing.

“Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly, “it is human to err, and at
least no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps
it would be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what
occurred, and you can check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so?
Well, well, don’t trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I do
you no injustice.

“From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one,
not even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your
room, the case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The
printer one could, of course, dismiss. He could examine the
papers in his own office. The Indian I also thought nothing of.
If the proofs were in a roll, he could not possibly know what
they were. On the other hand, it seemed an unthinkable
coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room, and that by
chance on that very day the papers were on the table. I dismissed
that. The man who entered knew that the papers were there. How
did he know?

“When I approached your room, I examined the window. You amused
me by supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of
someone having in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these
opposite rooms, forced himself through it. Such an idea was
absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would need to be in order
to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central table. I am
six feet high, and I could do it with an effort. No one less than
that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason to think
that, if one of your three students was a man of unusual height,
he was the most worth watching of the three.

“I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the
suggestions of the side table. Of the centre table I could make
nothing, until in your description of Gilchrist you mentioned
that he was a long-distance jumper. Then the whole thing came to
me in an instant, and I only needed certain corroborative proofs,
which I speedily obtained.

“What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his
afternoon at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising
the jump. He returned carrying his jumping-shoes, which are
provided, as you are aware, with several sharp spikes. As he
passed your window he saw, by means of his great height, these
proofs upon your table, and conjectured what they were. No harm
would have been done had it not been that, as he passed your
door, he perceived the key which had been left by the
carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to
enter, and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a
dangerous exploit for he could always pretend that he had simply
looked in to ask a question.

“Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then
that he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table.
What was it you put on that chair near the window?”

“Gloves,” said the young man.

Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on
the chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them.
He thought the tutor must return by the main gate and that he
would see him. As we know, he came back by the side gate.
Suddenly he heard him at the very door. There was no possible
escape. He forgot his gloves but he caught up his shoes and
darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch on that
table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the
bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe
had been drawn in that direction, and that the culprit had taken
refuge there. The earth round the spike had been left on the
table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in the bedroom.
I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this morning,
saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-pit and
carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the fine tan
or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from
slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?”

The student had drawn himself erect.

“Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.

“Good heavens! have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.

“Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to
you early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was
before I knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You
will see that I have said, ‘I have determined not to go in for
the examination. I have been offered a commission in the
Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to South Africa at once.’”

“I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by
your unfair advantage,” said Soames. “But why did you change your
purpose?”

Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

“There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.

“Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you,
from what I have said, that only you could have let this young
man out, since you were left in the room, and must have locked
the door when you went out. As to his escaping by that window, it
was incredible. Can you not clear up the last point in this
mystery, and tell us the reasons for your action?”

“It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known, but, with all
your cleverness, it was impossible that you could know. Time was,
sir, when I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young
gentleman’s father. When he was ruined I came to the college as
servant, but I never forgot my old employer because he was down
in the world. I watched his son all I could for the sake of the
old days. Well, sir, when I came into this room yesterday, when
the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was Mr.
Gilchrist’s tan gloves a-lying in that chair. I knew those gloves
well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them, the
game was up. I flopped down into that chair, and nothing would
budge me until Mr. Soames he went for you. Then out came my poor
young master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and confessed it all
to me. Wasn’t it natural, sir, that I should save him, and wasn’t
it natural also that I should try to speak to him as his dead
father would have done, and make him understand that he could not
profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?”

“No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet.
“Well, Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up,
and our breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you,
sir, I trust that a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For
once you have fallen low. Let us see, in the future, how high you
can rise.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ

When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain
our work for the year 1894, I confess that it is very difficult
for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases
which are most interesting in themselves, and at the same time
most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my
friend was famous. As I turn over the pages, I see my notes upon
the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible death of
Crosby, the banker. Here also I find an account of the Addleton
tragedy, and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow.
The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this
period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the
Boulevard assassin—an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph
letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of the
Legion of Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on
the whole I am of opinion that none of them unites so many
singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place,
which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby
Smith, but also those subsequent developments which threw so
curious a light upon the causes of the crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November.
Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged
with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original
inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon
surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the
rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in
the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man’s handiwork on
every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be
conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no
more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional
lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement.
A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

“Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to turn out to-night,”
said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest.
“I’ve done enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the
eyes. So far as I can make out, it is nothing more exciting than
an Abbey’s accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth
century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What’s this?”

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a
horse’s hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against
the curb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

“What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

“Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
cravats and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to
fight the weather. Wait a bit, though! There’s the cab off again!
There’s hope yet. He’d have kept it if he had wanted us to come.
Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous
folk have been long in bed.”

When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor, I
had no difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley
Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had
several times shown a very practical interest.

“Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.

“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from above. “I hope
you have no designs upon us such a night as this.”

The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his
shining waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes knocked
a blaze out of the logs in the grate.

“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he.
“Here’s a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot
water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a night like this.
It must be something important which has brought you out in such
a gale.”

“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had a bustling afternoon, I
promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the
latest editions?”

“I’ve seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day.”

“Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you
have not missed anything. I haven’t let the grass grow under my
feet. It’s down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from
the railway line. I was wired for at 3:15, reached Yoxley Old
Place at 5, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing Cross
by the last train, and straight to you by cab.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your
case?”

“It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as
I can see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled,
and yet at first it seemed so simple that one couldn’t go wrong.
There’s no motive, Mr. Holmes. That’s what bothers me—I can’t put
my hand on a motive. Here’s a man dead—there’s no denying
that—but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone
should wish him harm.”

Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

“Let us hear about it,” said he.

“I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I
want now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I
can make it out, is like this. Some years ago this country house,
Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave the name
of Professor Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the
time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a stick or
being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a Bath chair.
He was well liked by the few neighbours who called upon him, and
he has the reputation down there of being a very learned man. His
household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker,
and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with him since
his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character.
The professor is writing a learned book, and he found it
necessary, about a year ago, to engage a secretary. The first two
that he tried were not successes, but the third, Mr. Willoughby
Smith, a very young man straight from the university, seems to
have been just what his employer wanted. His work consisted in
writing all the morning to the professor’s dictation, and he
usually spent the evening in hunting up references and passages
which bore upon the next day’s work. This Willoughby Smith has
nothing against him, either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young
man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the
first he was a decent, quiet, hard-working fellow, with no weak
spot in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death
this morning in the professor’s study under circumstances which
can point only to murder.”

The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew
closer to the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point by
point developed his singular narrative.

“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don’t suppose
you could find a household more self-contained or freer from
outside influences. Whole weeks would pass, and not one of them
go past the garden gate. The professor was buried in his work and
existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the
neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did. The two
women had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer, the
gardener, who wheels the Bath chair, is an army pensioner—an old
Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live in the
house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the
garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the
grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the
garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road.
It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone
from walking in.

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the
only person who can say anything positive about the matter. It
was in the forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged
at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs front
bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed, for when the weather
is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper was busied
with some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had
been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room, but the
maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend
to the study immediately below her. She did not see him, but she
says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread. She
did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there
was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse
scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either
from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy
thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The
maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her
courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was shut and she
opened it. Inside, young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon
the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she tried to
raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of
his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound,
which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which
the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It
was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on
old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff
blade. It was part of the fittings of the professor’s own desk.

“At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but
on pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened
his eyes for an instant. ‘The professor,’ he murmured—‘it was
she.’ The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact
words. He tried desperately to say something else, and he held
his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead.

“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene,
but she was just too late to catch the young man’s dying words.
Leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the professor’s room.
He was sitting up in bed, horribly agitated, for he had heard
enough to convince him that something terrible had occurred. Mrs.
Marker is prepared to swear that the professor was still in his
night-clothes, and indeed it was impossible for him to dress
without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve
o’clock. The professor declares that he heard the distant cry,
but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation of the
young man’s last words, ‘The professor—it was she,’ but imagines
that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that
Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no
reason for the crime. His first action was to send Mortimer, the
gardener, for the local police. A little later the chief
constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there, and
strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths
leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your
theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was really
nothing wanting.”

“Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat
bitter smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of a job did
you make of it?”

“I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan,
which will give you a general idea of the position of the
professor’s study and the various points of the case. It will
help you in following my investigation.”

He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid
it across Holmes’s knee. I rose and, standing behind Holmes,
studied it over his shoulder.

Professor's-Study

“It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points
which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later
for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin
entered the house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the
garden path and the back door, from which there is direct access
to the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly
complicated. The escape must have also been made along that line,
for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked by Susan
as she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to the
professor’s bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to
the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain, and would
certainly show any footmarks.

“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and
expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There
could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the
grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in
order to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in the
nature of a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down,
and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the
murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had been
there that morning, and the rain had only begun during the
night.”

“One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”

“To the road.”

“How long is it?”

“A hundred yards or so.”

“At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could
surely pick up the tracks?”

“Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”

“Well, on the road itself?”

“No, it was all trodden into mire.”

“Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they
coming or going?”

“It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”

“A large foot or a small?”

“You could not distinguish.”

Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

“It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,”
said he. “It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest.
Well, well, it can’t be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after
you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?”

“I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that
someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next
examined the corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had
taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the study
itself. It is a scantily furnished room. The main article is a
large writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of
a double column of drawers, with a central small cupboard between
them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it
seems, were always open, and nothing of value was kept in them.
There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there
were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the professor
assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no
robbery has been committed.

“I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the
bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart.
The stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind
forward, so that it is almost impossible that it could have been
self-inflicted.”

“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.

“Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some
feet away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of
course, there are the man’s own dying words. And, finally, there
was this very important piece of evidence which was found clasped
in the dead man’s right hand.”

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He
unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken
ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it. “Willoughby
Smith had excellent sight,” he added. “There can be no question
that this was snatched from the face or the person of the
assassin.”

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined them
with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose,
endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared
up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full
light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at
the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he
tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

“That’s the best I can do for you,” said he. “It may prove to be
of some use.”

The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either
side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression,
and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she
has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last
few months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength, and as
opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficulty in
tracing her.”

Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have
been reflected upon my features. “Surely my deductions are
simplicity itself,” said he. “It would be difficult to name any
articles which afford a finer field for inference than a pair of
glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these. That they
belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and also, of
course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her being a
person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive,
handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that
anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other
respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your
nose, showing that the lady’s nose was very broad at the base.
This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there is
a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from being
dogmatic or from insisting upon this point in my description. My
own face is a narrow one, and yet I find that I cannot get my
eyes into the centre, nor near the centre, of these glasses.
Therefore, the lady’s eyes are set very near to the sides of the
nose. You will perceive, Watson, that the glasses are concave and
of unusual strength. A lady whose vision has been so extremely
contracted all her life is sure to have the physical
characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the forehead,
the eyelids, and the shoulders.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of your arguments. I confess,
however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the
double visit to the optician.”

Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

“You will perceive,” he said, “that the clips are lined with tiny
bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these
is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is
new. Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should
judge that the older of them has not been there more than a few
months. They exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went
back to the same establishment for the second.”

“By George, it’s marvellous!” cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
admiration. “To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and
never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the
London opticians.”

“Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell
us about the case?”

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
now—probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger
seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We have
heard of none. What beats me is the utter want of all object in
the crime. Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest.”

“Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you
want us to come out to-morrow?”

“If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There’s a train from
Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be
at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine.”

“Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of
great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well,
it’s nearly one, and we had best get a few hours’ sleep. I
daresay you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the
fire. I’ll light my spirit lamp, and give you a cup of coffee
before we start.”

The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter
morning when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter
sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long,
sullen reaches of the river, which I shall ever associate with
our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our
career. After a long and weary journey, we alighted at a small
station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was being put into
a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast, and so
we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley
Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.

“Well, Wilson, any news?”

“No, sir—nothing.”

“No reports of any stranger seen?”

“No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
either came or went yesterday.”

“Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?”

“Yes, sir: there is no one that we cannot account for.”

“Well, it’s only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay
there or take a train without being observed. This is the garden
path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I’ll pledge my word there was
no mark on it yesterday.”

“On which side were the marks on the grass?”

“This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and
the flower-bed. I can’t see the traces now, but they were clear
to me then.”

“Yes, yes: someone has passed along,” said Holmes, stooping over
the grass border. “Our lady must have picked her steps carefully,
must she not, since on the one side she would leave a track on
the path, and on the other an even clearer one on the soft bed?”

“Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.”

I saw an intent look pass over Holmes’s face.

“You say that she must have come back this way?”

“Yes, sir, there is no other.”

“On this strip of grass?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hum! It was a very remarkable performance—very remarkable. Well,
I think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This
garden door is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor
had nothing to do but to walk in. The idea of murder was not in
her mind, or she would have provided herself with some sort of
weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the
writing-table. She advanced along this corridor, leaving no
traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in this
study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging.”

“Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long
before—about a quarter of an hour, she says.”

“Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and what
does she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not
for anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her
taking, it would surely have been locked up. No, it was for
something in that wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch
upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why did you not
tell me of this, Hopkins?”

The mark which he was examining began upon the brass-work on the
right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four
inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

“I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you’ll always find scratches round
a keyhole.”

“This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it
is cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface.
Look at it through my lens. There’s the varnish, too, like earth
on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?”

A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

“Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice this scratch?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these
shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?”

“The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”

“Is it a simple key?”

“No, sir, it is a Chubb’s key.”

“Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and
either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged,
young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw
the key, she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and
she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this
knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The
blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or
without the object for which she has come. Is Susan, the maid,
there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the
time that you heard the cry, Susan?”

“No, sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I’d have
seen anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, or I
would have heard it.”

“That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way
she came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the
professor’s room. There is no exit that way?”

“No, sir.”

“We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor.
Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed.
The professor’s corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.”

“Well, sir, what of that?”

“Don’t you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well. I don’t
insist upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be
suggestive. Come with me and introduce me.”

We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that
which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps
ending in a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the
professor’s bedroom.

It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes,
which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the
corners, or were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The
bed was in the centre of the room, and in it, propped up with
pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more
remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt, aquiline face which
was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes, which lurked in
deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His hair and beard
were white, save that the latter was curiously stained with
yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of
white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco
smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived that it was
also stained with yellow nicotine.

“A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking in well-chosen English,
with a curious little mincing accent. “Pray take a cigarette. And
you, sir? I can recommend them, for I have them especially
prepared by Ionides, of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a
time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange for a fresh
supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad, but an old man has
few pleasures. Tobacco and my work—that is all that is left to
me.”

Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting little darting
glances all over the room.

“Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man
exclaimed. “Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have
foreseen such a terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I
assure you that, after a few months’ training, he was an
admirable assistant. What do you think of the matter, Mr.
Holmes?”

“I have not yet made up my mind.”

“I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where
all is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself
such a blow is paralysing. I seem to have lost the faculty of
thought. But you are a man of action—you are a man of affairs. It
is part of the everyday routine of your life. You can preserve
your balance in every emergency. We are fortunate, indeed, in
having you at our side.”

Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with
extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host’s
liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.

“Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my
_magnum opus_—the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is
my analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of
Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very
foundation of revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do
not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it, now that my
assistant has been taken from me. Dear me! Mr. Holmes, why, you
are even a quicker smoker than I am myself.”

Holmes smiled.

“I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the
box—his fourth—and lighting it from the stub of that which he had
finished. “I will not trouble you with any lengthy
cross-examination, Professor Coram, since I gather that you were
in bed at the time of the crime, and could know nothing about it.
I would only ask this: What do you imagine that this poor fellow
meant by his last words: ‘The professor—it was she’?”

The professor shook his head.

“Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible
stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured
some incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into
this meaningless message.”

“I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”

“Possibly an accident, possibly—I only breathe it among
ourselves—a suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles—some
affair of the heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is a
more probable supposition than murder.”

“But the eyeglasses?”

“Ah! I am only a student—a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend,
that love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take
another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them
so. A fan, a glove, glasses—who knows what article may be carried
as a token or treasured when a man puts an end to his life? This
gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass, but, after all, it is
easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the knife, it might
well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as he fell. It is
possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that
Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand.”

Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he
continued to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and
consuming cigarette after cigarette.

“Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that
cupboard in the bureau?”

“Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my
poor wife, diplomas of universities which have done me honour.
Here is the key. You can look for yourself.”

Holmes picked up the key, and looked at it for an instant, then
he handed it back.

“No, I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should
prefer to go quietly down to your garden, and turn the whole
matter over in my head. There is something to be said for the
theory of suicide which you have put forward. We must apologize
for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise that
we won’t disturb you until after lunch. At two o’clock we will
come again, and report to you anything which may have happened in
the interval.”

Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the
garden path for some time in silence.

“Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.

“It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is
possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show
me.”

“My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth——”

“Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there’s no harm
done. Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back
upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the
good Mrs. Marker! Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive
conversation with her.”

I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a
peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily
established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which
he had named, he had captured the housekeeper’s goodwill and was
chatting with her as if he had known her for years.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I’ve seen that
room of a morning—well, sir, you’d have thought it was a London
fog. Poor young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad
as the professor. His health—well, I don’t know that it’s better
nor worse for the smoking.”

“Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, sir.”

“I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?”

“Well, he is variable. I’ll say that for him.”

“I’ll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won’t face his
lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”

“Well, you’re out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a
remarkable big breakfast this morning. I don’t know when I’ve
known him make a better one, and he’s ordered a good dish of
cutlets for his lunch. I’m surprised myself, for since I came
into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on
the floor, I couldn’t bear to look at food. Well, it takes all
sorts to make a world, and the professor hasn’t let it take his
appetite away.”

We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had
gone down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange
woman who had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the
previous morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to
have deserted him. I had never known him handle a case in such a
half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that
he had found the children, and that they had undoubtedly seen a
woman exactly corresponding with Holmes’s description, and
wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed to rouse any sign
of keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who waited
upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed
Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he
had only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I
could not myself see the bearing of this incident, but I clearly
perceived that Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme
which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he sprang from his
chair and glanced at his watch. “Two o’clock, gentlemen,” said
he. “We must go up and have it out with our friend, the
professor.”

The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty
dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his
housekeeper had credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as
he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The
eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed
and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved
the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him
towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same
moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a
minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving stray
cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again, I observed
Holmes’s eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with colour.
Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.

“Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”

Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer
quivered over the gaunt features of the old professor.

“Indeed! In the garden?”

“No, here.”

“Here! When?”

“This instant.”

“You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to
tell you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such
a fashion.”

“I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor
Coram, and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are, or
what exact part you play in this strange business, I am not yet
able to say. In a few minutes I shall probably hear it from your
own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is past for your
benefit, so that you may know the information which I still
require.

“A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention
of possessing herself of certain documents which were in your
bureau. She had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of
examining yours, and I do not find that slight discolouration
which the scratch made upon the varnish would have produced. You
were not an accessory, therefore, and she came, so far as I can
read the evidence, without your knowledge to rob you.”

The professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most
interesting and instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add?
Surely, having traced this lady so far, you can also say what has
become of her.”

“I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by
your secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This
catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I
am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so
grievous an injury. An assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified
by what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the scene of
the tragedy. Unfortunately for her, she had lost her glasses in
the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she was
really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she
imagined to be that by which she had come—both were lined with
cocoanut matting—and it was only when it was too late that she
understood that she had taken the wrong passage, and that her
retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She could not
go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go on. She
went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found
herself in your room.”

The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at Holmes.
Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features.
Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into
insincere laughter.

“All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little
flaw in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I
never left it during the day.”

“I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”

“And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be
aware that a woman had entered my room?”

“I never said so. You _were_ aware of it. You spoke with her. You
recognized her. You aided her to escape.”

Again the professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen
to his feet, and his eyes glowed like embers.

“You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her
to escape? Where is she now?”

“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in
the corner of the room.

I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed
over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same
instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a
hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. “You are right!” she
cried, in a strange foreign voice. “You are right! I am here.”

She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had
come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was
streaked with grime, and at the best she could never have been
handsome, for she had the exact physical characteristics which
Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin.
What with her natural blindness, and what with the change from
dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking about her to see
where and who we were. And yet, in spite of all these
disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman’s
bearing—a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head,
which compelled something of respect and admiration.

Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as
his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an
over-mastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay
back in his chair with a twitching face, and stared at her with
brooding eyes.

“Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I
could hear everything, and I know that you have learned the
truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But
you are right—you who say it was an accident. I did not even know
that it was a knife which I held in my hand, for in my despair I
snatched anything from the table and struck at him to make him
let me go. It is the truth that I tell.”

“Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear
that you are far from well.”

She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the
bed; then she resumed.

“I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you
to know the whole truth. I am this man’s wife. He is not an
Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”

For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he
cried. “God bless you!”

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why
should you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours,
Sergius?” said she. “It has done harm to many and good to
none—not even to yourself. However, it is not for me to cause the
frail thread to be snapped before God’s time. I have enough
already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this cursed
house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.

“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man’s wife. He was fifty
and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city
of Russia, a university—I will not name the place.”

“God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.

“We were reformers—revolutionists—Nihilists, you understand. He
and I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police
officer was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and
in order to save his own life and to earn a great reward, my
husband betrayed his own wife and his companions. Yes, we were
all arrested upon his confession. Some of us found our way to the
gallows, and some to Siberia. I was among these last, but my term
was not for life. My husband came to England with his ill-gotten
gains and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing well that if the
Brotherhood knew where he was not a week would pass before
justice would be done.”

The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
cigarette. “I am in your hands, Anna,” said he. “You were always
good to me.”

“I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she.
“Among our comrades of the Order, there was one who was the
friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving—all that my
husband was not. He hated violence. We were all guilty—if that is
guilt—but he was not. He wrote forever dissuading us from such a
course. These letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in
which, from day to day, I had entered both my feelings towards
him and the view which each of us had taken. My husband found and
kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to
swear away the young man’s life. In this he failed, but Alexis
was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he
works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you
villain!—now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a man whose name
you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a slave, and
yet I have your life in my hands, and I let you go.”

“You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing
at his cigarette.

She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to
get the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian
government, would procure my friend’s release. I knew that my
husband had come to England. After months of searching I
discovered where he was. I knew that he still had the diary, for
when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once, reproaching
me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was sure that,
with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me of his
own free-will. I must get it for myself. With this object I
engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my
husband’s house as a secretary—it was your second secretary,
Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that papers
were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key.
He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the
house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always
empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took
my courage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for
myself. I succeeded; but at what a cost!

“I had just taken the paper; and was locking the cupboard, when
the young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He
had met me on the road, and I had asked him to tell me where
Professor Coram lived, not knowing that he was in his employ.”

“Exactly! Exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back, and
told his employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last
breath, he tried to send a message that it was she—the she whom
he had just discussed with him.”

“You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice,
and her face contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen I
rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in
my husband’s room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if
he did so, his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the law, I
could give him to the Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to
live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to accomplish my
purpose. He knew that I would do what I said—that his own fate
was involved in mine. For that reason, and for no other, he
shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place—a relic of
old days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own
room, and so was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed
that when the police left the house I should slip away by night
and come back no more. But in some way you have read our plans.”
She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet. “These are
my last words,” said she; “here is the packet which will save
Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice.
Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now, I have
done my duty, and——”

“Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
wrenched a small phial from her hand.

“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took
the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am
going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”

“A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one,”
Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from
the outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of
the dying man having seized these, I am not sure that we could
ever have reached our solution. It was clear to me, from the
strength of the glasses, that the wearer must have been very
blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked me to
believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without
once making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember, that
it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an
impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a
second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to consider
seriously the hypothesis that she had remained within the house.
On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it became
clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and,
in that case, it was evident that she must have entered the
professor’s room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for
whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined the room
narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet
seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a
trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As you
are aware, such devices are common in old libraries. I observed
that books were piled on the floor at all other points, but that
one bookcase was left clear. This, then, might be the door. I
could see no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun
colour, which lends itself very well to examination. I therefore
smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I
dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected
bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I
then went downstairs, and I ascertained, in your presence,
Watson, without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that
Professor Coram’s consumption of food had increased—as one would
expect when he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to
the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained
a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite
clearly, from the traces upon the cigarette ash, that the
prisoner had in our absence come out from her retreat. Well,
Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on
having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You are
going to headquarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will
drive together to the Russian Embassy.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER

We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker
Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which reached
us on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight years ago,
and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was
addressed to him, and ran thus:

Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter
missing, indispensable to-morrow. OVERTON.

“Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six,” said Holmes,
reading it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably
excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.
Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time I have looked
through _The Times_, and then we shall know all about it. Even
the most insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant
days.”

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to
dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
companion’s brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous
to leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had
gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened
once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under
ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial
stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but
sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one and the
waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn
look upon Holmes’s ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set
and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton
whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic message
to break that dangerous calm which brought more peril to my
friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender,
and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge,
announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of
solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad
shoulders, and looked from one of us to the other with a comely
face which was haggard with anxiety.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

My companion bowed.

“I’ve been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector
Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case,
so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of the
regular police.”

“Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”

“It’s awful, Mr. Holmes—simply awful I wonder my hair isn’t grey.
Godfrey Staunton—you’ve heard of him, of course? He’s simply the
hinge that the whole team turns on. I’d rather spare two from the
pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it’s
passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there’s no one to touch him,
and then, he’s got the head, and can hold us all together. What
am I to do? That’s what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There’s Moorhouse,
first reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges
right in on to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touchline.
He’s a fine place-kick, it’s true, but then he has no judgment,
and he can’t sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford
fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he
couldn’t drop from the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who
can’t either punt or drop isn’t worth a place for pace alone. No,
Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find Godfrey
Staunton.”

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness,
every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand
upon the speaker’s knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes
stretched out his hand and took down letter “S” of his
commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of
varied information.

“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he,
“and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey
Staunton is a new name to me.”

It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I
suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you
don’t know Cyril Overton either?”

Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

“Great Scott!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for
England against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ’Varsity all this
year. But that’s nothing! I didn’t think there was a soul in
England who didn’t know Godfrey Staunton, the crack
three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals.
Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where _have_ you lived?”

Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naïve astonishment.

“You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton—a sweeter and
healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which
is the best and soundest thing in England. However, your
unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world of
fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. So now,
my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly and
quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire
that I should help you.”

Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look of the man who is
more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by
degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit
from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

“It’s this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of
the Rugger team of Cambridge ’Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my
best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up, and
we settled at Bentley’s private hotel. At ten o’clock I went
round and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I
believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team
fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He
seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the
matter. He said he was all right—just a touch of headache. I bade
him good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter tells
me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for
Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to his
room. Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been
pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch
me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled
himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few words to
the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off
together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost
running down the street in the direction of the Strand. This
morning Godfrey’s room was empty, his bed had never been slept
in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
before. He had gone off at a moment’s notice with this stranger,
and no word has come from him since. I don’t believe he will ever
come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow,
and he wouldn’t have stopped his training and let in his skipper
if it were not for some cause that was too strong for him. No: I
feel as if he were gone for good, and we should never see him
again.”

Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this
singular narrative.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him
there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”

“Could he have got back to Cambridge?”

“Yes, there is a late train—quarter-past eleven.”

“But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?”

“No, he has not been seen.”

“What did you do next?”

“I wired to Lord Mount-James.”

“Why to Lord Mount-James?”

“Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
relative—his uncle, I believe.”

“Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James
is one of the richest men in England.”

“So I’ve heard Godfrey say.”

“And your friend was closely related?”

“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty—cram full
of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his
knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he
is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”

“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”

“No.”

“What motive could your friend have in going to Lord
Mount-James?”

“Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was
to do with money it is possible that he would make for his
nearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I have
heard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was
not fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it.”

“Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to
his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the
visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the
agitation that was caused by his coming.”

Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can make nothing
of it,” said he.

“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look
into the matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you
to make your preparations for your match without reference to
this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an
overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion, and
the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step round
together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any fresh
light upon the matter.”

Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey
Staunton’s abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter
had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman,
neither was he a workingman. He was simply what the porter
described as a “medium-looking chap,” a man of fifty, beard
grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be
agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he had
held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note into his
pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in the hall.
They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter had only
distinguished the one word “time.” Then they had hurried off in
the manner described. It was just half-past ten by the hall
clock.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton’s bed.
“You are the day porter, are you not?”

“Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven.”

“The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”

“No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else.”

“Were you on duty all day yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”

“Yes, sir, one telegram.”

“Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”

“About six.”

“Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”

“Here in his room.”

“Were you present when he opened it?”

“Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer.”

“Well, was there?”

“Yes, sir, he wrote an answer.”

“Did you take it?”

“No, he took it himself.”

“But he wrote it in your presence.”

“Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back
turned at that table. When he had written it, he said: ‘All
right, porter, I will take this myself.’”

“What did he write it with?”

“A pen, sir.”

“Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”

“Yes, sir, it was the top one.”

Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window
and carefully examined that which was uppermost.

“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them
down again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt
frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes
through—a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage.
However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to
perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can
hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”

He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us
the following hieroglyphic:

hieroglyphic

Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.

“That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and the
reverse will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over,
and we read:

the reverse

“So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at
least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
remains—‘Stand by us for God’s sake!’—proves that this young man
saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which
someone else could protect him. ‘_Us_,’ mark you! Another person
was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man,
who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the
connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And what
is the third source from which each of them sought for help
against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to
that.”

“We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I
suggested.

“Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had
already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your
notice that, counterfoil of another man’s message, there may be
some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you.
There is so much red tape in these matters. However, I have no
doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be
attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton,
to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”

There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which
Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and
darting, penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By
the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow—nothing
amiss with him?”

“Sound as a bell.”

“Have you ever known him ill?”

“Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped
his knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

“Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he
may have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will put
one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear
upon our future inquiry.”

“One moment—one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked
up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the
doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed
top-hat and a loose white necktie—the whole effect being that of
a very rustic parson or of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in spite of
his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp
crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which commanded
attention.

“Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
gentleman’s papers?” he asked.

“I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
disappearance.”

“Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”

“This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend, was referred to me by
Scotland Yard.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am Cyril Overton.”

“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord
Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would
bring me. So you have instructed a detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him,
will be prepared to do that.”

“But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”

“In that case, no doubt his family——”

“Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don’t look
to me for a penny—not a penny! You understand that, Mr.
Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I
tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it
is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not
propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which you
are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be
anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly to
account for what you do with them.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask, in the
meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for
this young man’s disappearance?”

“No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look
after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I
entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”

“I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don’t quite
understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor
man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for
anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth has
gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a
gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from
him some information as to your house, your habits, and your
treasure.”

The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.

“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy!
What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine
lad—a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle
away. I’ll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In
the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no
stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to money, well, so
far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can always look to me.”

Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give
us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the
private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated
telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to
find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord
Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.

There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel.
We halted outside it.

“It’s worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a
warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not
reached that stage yet. I don’t suppose they remember faces in so
busy a place. Let us venture it.”

“I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to
the young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake
about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I
very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the
end. Could you tell me if this was so?”

The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

“What o’clock was it?” she asked.

“A little after six.”

“Whom was it to?”

Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last
words in it were ‘For God’s sake,’” he whispered, confidentially;
“I am very anxious at getting no answer.”

The young woman separated one of the forms.

“This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon
the counter.

“Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said
Holmes. “Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure!
Good-morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind.”
He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the
street once more.

“Well?” I asked.

“We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different
schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could
hardly hope to succeed the very first time.”

“And what have you gained?”

“A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab.
“King’s Cross Station,” said he.

“We have a journey, then?”

“Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the
indications seem to me to point in that direction.”

“Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray’s Inn Road, “have you
any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don’t
think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives
are more obscure. Surely you don’t really imagine that he may be
kidnapped in order to give information against his wealthy
uncle?”

“I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a
very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the
one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant
old person.”

“It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?”

“I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and
suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
important match, and should involve the only man whose presence
seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course, be
a coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from
betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the
public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone’s while
to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a
race-horse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one
is that this young man really is the heir of a great property,
however modest his means may at present be, and it is not
impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be
concocted.”

“These theories take no account of the telegram.”

“Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid
thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our
attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the
purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to
Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure,
but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it.”

It was already dark when we reached the old university city.
Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to
the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had
stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were
shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the
consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his
table.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession
that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am
aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school
of the university, but a thinker of European reputation in more
than one branch of science. Yet even without knowing his
brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere
glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes
under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert
mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I read Dr.
Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend’s card in his hand, and he
looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.

“I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of
your profession—one of which I by no means approve.”

“In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

“So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member
of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official
machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling
is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets of
private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are
better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men
who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment, for
example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing
with you.”

“No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more
important than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we
are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we
are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of
private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case
is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look upon
me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the
regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr.
Godfrey Staunton.”

“What about him?”

“You know him, do you not?”

“He is an intimate friend of mine.”

“You are aware that he has disappeared?”

“Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged
features of the doctor.

“He left his hotel last night—he has not been heard of.”

“No doubt he will return.”

“To-morrow is the ’Varsity football match.”

“I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man’s
fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The
football match does not come within my horizon at all.”

“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr.
Staunton’s fate. Do you know where he is?”

“Certainly not.”

“You have not seen him since yesterday?”

“No, I have not.”

“Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you ever know him ill?”

“Never.”

Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor’s eyes. “Then
perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen
guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie
Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers
upon his desk.”

The doctor flushed with anger.

“I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. “If you prefer a public
explanation, it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have
already told you that I can hush up that which others will be
bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into
your complete confidence.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

“Certainly not.”

“Dear me, dear me—the postoffice again!” Holmes sighed, wearily.
“A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by
Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening—a telegram
which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance—and yet
you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go
down to the office here and register a complaint.”

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark
face was crimson with fury.

“I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You
can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to
have anything to do either with him or with his agents. No,
sir—not another word!” He rang the bell furiously. “John, show
these gentlemen out!” A pompous butler ushered us severely to the
door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out
laughing.

“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
character,” said he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turns his
talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the
illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are,
stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we
cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just
opposite Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to our needs. If
you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for
the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”

These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy
proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the
inn until nearly nine o’clock. He was pale and dejected, stained
with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper
was ready upon the table, and when his needs were satisfied and
his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic and wholly
philosophic view which was natural to him when his affairs were
going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and
glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys, under the
glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor’s door.

“It’s been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past
six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or
twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”

“No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”

“But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a
lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general
practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then,
does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly
irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”

“His coachman——”

“My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate
depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude
enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of
my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were
strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question.
All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard
of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor’s habits and
of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his
words, the carriage came round to the door.”

“Could you not follow it?”

“Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea
did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle
shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and
was able to get started before the carriage was quite out of
sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet
distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights until we
were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country road,
when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage
stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had
also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that he
feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did
not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been
more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once rode past
the carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for a few
miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the
carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it
became evident that it had turned down one of several side roads
which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the
carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of
course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect these
journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only
inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that
everything which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest
to us, but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon
anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears
more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made
the matter clear.”

“We can follow him to-morrow.”

“Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not
familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend
itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over
to-night is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the
man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly showed
to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London
developments at this address, and in the meantime we can only
concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the
obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon the
counterfoil of Staunton’s urgent message. He knows where the
young man is—to that I’ll swear, and if he knows, then it must be
our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it
must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as
you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in
that condition.”

And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes
passed across to me with a smile.

SIR [it ran],—I can assure you that you are wasting your time in
dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a
window at the back of my brougham, and if you desire a
twenty-mile ride which will lead you to the spot from which you
started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you
that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton,
and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that
gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to your
employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge
will certainly be wasted.

Yours faithfully,
LESLIE ARMSTRONG.

“An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,” said Holmes.
“Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know
before I leave him.”

“His carriage is at his door now,” said I. “There he is stepping
into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose
I try my luck upon the bicycle?”

“No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural
acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy
doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some
independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must leave
you to your own devices, as the appearance of _two_ inquiring
strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip than
I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you in
this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more favourable
report to you before evening.”

Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He
came back at night weary and unsuccessful.

“I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor’s general
direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that
side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other
local news agencies. I have covered some ground. Chesterton,
Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been explored, and
have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance of a
brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in such
Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once more. Is there a
telegram for me?”

“Yes, I opened it. Here it is:

“Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in
answer to a question from me. I’ll just send round a note to Mr.
Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.
By the way, is there any news of the match?”

“Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its
last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last
sentences of the description say:

“‘The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the
unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton,
whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack of
combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in
attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy
and hard-working pack.’”

“Then our friend Overton’s forebodings have been justified,” said
Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and
football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night,
Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.”

I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for
he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I
associated that instrument with the single weakness of his
nature, and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his
hand. He laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the
table.

“No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not
upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather
prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this
syringe I base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small
scouting expedition, and everything is favourable. Eat a good
breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong’s
trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food
until I run him to his burrow.”

“In that case,” said I, “we had best carry our breakfast with us,
for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door.”

“Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where
I cannot follow him. When you have finished, come downstairs with
me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent
specialist in the work that lies before us.”

When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where
he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

“Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey is the pride
of the local draghounds—no very great flier, as his build will
show, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not
be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of
middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of
fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come
along, and show what you can do.” He led him across to the
doctor’s door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then
with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an
hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country
road.

“What have you done, Holmes?” I asked.

“A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I
walked into the doctor’s yard this morning, and shot my syringe
full of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow
aniseed from here to John o’Groat’s, and our friend, Armstrong,
would have to drive through the Cam before he would shake Pompey
off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This is how he gave me the
slip the other night.”

The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a
grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another
broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the
direction of the town, which we had just quitted. The road took a
sweep to the south of the town, and continued in the opposite
direction to that in which we started.

“This _détour_ has been entirely for our benefit, then?” said
Holmes. “No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers led to
nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it is
worth, and one would like to know the reason for such elaborate
deception. This should be the village of Trumpington to the right
of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming round the
corner. Quick, Watson—quick, or we are done!”

He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant
Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the
hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr.
Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his
hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my companion’s
graver face that he also had seen.

“I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,” said he. “It
cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the
cottage in the field!”

There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our
journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate,
where the marks of the brougham’s wheels were still to be seen. A
footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to
the hedge, and we hastened onward. My friend knocked at the
little rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yet
the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our ears—a
kind of drone of misery and despair which was indescribably
melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced back at
the road which he had just traversed. A brougham was coming down
it, and there could be no mistaking those grey horses.

“By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried Holmes. “That settles
it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes.”

He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall. The droning
sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep
wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up, and I
followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door, and we both
stood appalled at the sight before us.

A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her
calm pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward
from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed,
half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was
a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was
he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until Holmes’s
hand was on his shoulder.

“Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?”

“Yes, yes, I am—but you are too late. She is dead.”

The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that
we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance.
Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation and
to explain the alarm which had been caused to his friends by his
sudden disappearance when there was a step upon the stairs, and
there was the heavy, stern, questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at
the door.

“So, gentlemen,” said he, “you have attained your end and have
certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your
intrusion. I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can
assure you that if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct
would not pass with impunity.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at
cross-purposes,” said my friend, with dignity. “If you could step
downstairs with us, we may each be able to give some light to the
other upon this miserable affair.”

A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the
sitting-room below.

“Well, sir?” said he.

“I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not
employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this
matter are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it
is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter
ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there is nothing
criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals than
to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach of
the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my
discretion and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the
papers.”

Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the
hand.

“You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged you. I thank
heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in
this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make
your acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the situation is
very easily explained. A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in
London for a time and became passionately attached to his
landlady’s daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she was
beautiful and as intelligent as she was good. No man need be
ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed
old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his
marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the
lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did
all I could to help him to keep things straight. We did our very
best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such a
whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard it.
Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has
up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one save to me
and to one excellent servant, who has at present gone for
assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a terrible blow
in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption
of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with
grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he
could not get out of it without explanations which would expose
his secret. I tried to cheer him up by wire, and he sent me one
in reply, imploring me to do all I could. This was the telegram
which you appear in some inexplicable way to have seen. I did not
tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew that he could do
no good here, but I sent the truth to the girl’s father, and he
very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey. The result was
that he came straight away in a state bordering on frenzy, and
has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her bed,
until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is
all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your
discretion and that of your friend.”

Holmes grasped the doctor’s hand.

“Come, Watson,” said he, and we passed from that house of grief
into the pale sunlight of the winter day.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE

It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of
the winter of ’97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my
shoulder. It was Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his
eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was
amiss.

“Come, Watson, come!” he cried. “The game is afoot. Not a word!
Into your clothes and come!”

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the
silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first
faint winter’s dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly
see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us,
blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes
nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the
same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken
our fast.

It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and
taken our places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently
thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his
pocket, and read aloud:

Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent, 3:30 A.M.
MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:

I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what
promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in
your line. Except for releasing the lady I will see that
everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not
to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace
there.

Yours faithfully,
STANLEY HOPKINS.

“Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his
summons has been entirely justified,” said Holmes. “I fancy that
every one of his cases has found its way into your collection,
and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection,
which atones for much which I deplore in your narratives. Your
fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of a
story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what might
have been an instructive and even classical series of
demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and
delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may
excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”

“Why do you not write them yourself?” I said, with some
bitterness.

“I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know,
fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the
composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of
detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a
case of murder.”

“You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“I should say so. Hopkins’s writing shows considerable agitation,
and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been
violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. A mere
suicide would not have caused him to send for me. As to the
release of the lady, it would appear that she has been locked in
her room during the tragedy. We are moving in high life, Watson,
crackling paper, ‘E.B.’ monogram, coat-of-arms, picturesque
address. I think that friend Hopkins will live up to his
reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. The
crime was committed before twelve last night.”

“How can you possibly tell?”

“By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time. The
local police had to be called in, they had to communicate with
Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send
for me. All that makes a fair night’s work. Well, here we are at
Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest.”

A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought
us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old
lodge-keeper, whose haggard face bore the reflection of some
great disaster. The avenue ran through a noble park, between
lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house,
pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The central part
was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the large
windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one
wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful
figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins
confronted us in the open doorway.

“I’m very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, Dr.
Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not
have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself, she
has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not
much left for us to do. You remember that Lewisham gang of
burglars?”

“What, the three Randalls?”

“Exactly; the father and two sons. It’s their work. I have not a
doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were
seen and described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so
near, but it is they, beyond all doubt. It’s a hanging matter
this time.”

“Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker.”

“Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.”

“Exactly—one of the richest men in Kent—Lady Brackenstall is in
the morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful
experience. She seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think
you had best see her and hear her account of the facts. Then we
will examine the dining-room together.”

Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so
graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a
face. She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no
doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such
colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and
haggard. Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for over
one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a
tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with vinegar and
water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her quick,
observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expression
of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her
courage had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was
enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a
black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her.

“I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said,
wearily. “Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it
necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they
been in the dining-room yet?”

“I thought they had better hear your ladyship’s story first.”

“I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to
me to think of him still lying there.” She shuddered and buried
her face in her hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back
from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation.

“You have other injuries, madam! What is this?” Two vivid red
spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily
covered it.

“It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business
to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you
all I can.

“I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married
about a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to
conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that
all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to attempt
to deny it. Perhaps the fault may be partly mine. I was brought
up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia,
and this English life, with its proprieties and its primness, is
not congenial to me. But the main reason lies in the one fact,
which is notorious to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was
a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an hour is
unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive and
high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a
sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is
binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a
curse upon the land—God will not let such wickedness endure.” For
an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing
from under the terrible mark upon her brow. Then the strong,
soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down on to the
cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate sobbing. At
last she continued:

“I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that
in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This
central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen
behind and our bedroom above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my
room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who
are in the farther wing. This must have been well-known to the
robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.

“Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had
already gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had
remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed her
services. I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a
book. Then I walked round to see that all was right before I went
upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I have
explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be trusted. I went into
the kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the gun-room, the
billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As
I approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I
suddenly felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was
open. I flung the curtain aside and found myself face to face
with a broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped into
the room. The window is a long French one, which really forms a
door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit in my
hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two others,
who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the fellow
was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then
by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a
savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the
ground. I must have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when
I came to myself, I found that they had torn down the bell-rope,
and had secured me tightly to the oaken chair which stands at the
head of the dining-table. I was so firmly bound that I could not
move, and a handkerchief round my mouth prevented me from
uttering a sound. It was at this instant that my unfortunate
husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some suspicious
sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found. He was
dressed in nightshirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn
cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the burglars, but another—it was
an elderly man—stooped, picked the poker out of the grate and
struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell with a groan and
never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only
have been for a very few minutes during which I was insensible.
When I opened my eyes I found that they had collected the silver
from the sideboard, and they had drawn a bottle of wine which
stood there. Each of them had a glass in his hand. I have already
told you, have I not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the
others young, hairless lads. They might have been a father with
his two sons. They talked together in whispers. Then they came
over and made sure that I was securely bound. Finally they
withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a quarter
of an hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams
brought the maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon
alarmed, and we sent for the local police, who instantly
communicated with London. That is really all that I can tell you,
gentlemen, and I trust that it will not be necessary for me to go
over so painful a story again.”

“Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.

“I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall’s
patience and time,” said Holmes. “Before I go into the
dining-room, I should like to hear your experience.” He looked at
the maid.

“I saw the men before ever they came into the house,” said she.
“As I sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight
down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the
time. It was more than an hour after that I heard my mistress
scream, and down I ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as she says,
and him on the floor, with his blood and brains over the room. It
was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied there, and her
very dress spotted with him, but she never wanted courage, did
Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall of Abbey
Grange hasn’t learned new ways. You’ve questioned her long
enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room,
just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.”

With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
mistress and led her from the room.

“She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins. “Nursed her
as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left
Australia, eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and
the kind of maid you don’t pick up nowadays. This way, Mr.
Holmes, if you please!”

The keen interest had passed out of Holmes’s expressive face, and
I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had
departed. There still remained an arrest to be effected, but what
were these commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands with
them? An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he has
been called in for a case of measles would experience something
of the annoyance which I read in my friend’s eyes. Yet the scene
in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was sufficiently strange
to arrest his attention and to recall his waning interest.

It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling,
oaken panelling, and a fine array of deer’s heads and ancient
weapons around the walls. At the further end from the door was
the high French window of which we had heard. Three smaller
windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold
winter sunshine. On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with a
massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace was a
heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the bottom. In and
out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord, which was
secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the
lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which
it had been secured still remained. These details only struck our
attention afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by
the terrible object which lay upon the tigerskin hearthrug in
front of the fire.

It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of
age. He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white
teeth grinning through his short, black beard. His two clenched
hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick
lay across them. His dark, handsome, aquiline features were
convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his
dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He had evidently
been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a
foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected from
his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room
bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck
him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by
the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the indescribable
wreck which it had wrought.

“He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall,” he remarked.

“Yes,” said Hopkins. “I have some record of the fellow, and he is
a rough customer.”

“You should have no difficulty in getting him.”

“Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and
there was some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we
know that the gang are here, I don’t see how they can escape. We
have the news at every seaport already, and a reward will be
offered before evening. What beats me is how they could have done
so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could describe them and
that we could not fail to recognize the description.”

“Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence Lady
Brackenstall as well.”

“They may not have realized,” I suggested, “that she had
recovered from her faint.”

“That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they would
not take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem
to have heard some queer stories about him.”

“He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend
when he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he
seldom really went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him
at such times, and he was capable of anything. From what I hear,
in spite of all his wealth and his title, he very nearly came our
way once or twice. There was a scandal about his drenching a dog
with petroleum and setting it on fire—her ladyship’s dog, to make
the matter worse—and that was only hushed up with difficulty.
Then he threw a decanter at that maid, Theresa Wright—there was
trouble about that. On the whole, and between ourselves, it will
be a brighter house without him. What are you looking at now?”

Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the
knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured.
Then he carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it
had snapped off when the burglar had dragged it down.

“When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have
rung loudly,” he remarked.

“No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of
the house.”

“How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull
at a bell-rope in that reckless fashion?”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I
have asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that
this fellow must have known the house and its habits. He must
have perfectly understood that the servants would all be in bed
at that comparatively early hour, and that no one could possibly
hear a bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore, he must have been in
close league with one of the servants. Surely that is evident.
But there are eight servants, and all of good character.”

“Other things being equal,” said Holmes, “one would suspect the
one at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would
involve treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems
devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when you have
Randall you will probably find no difficulty in securing his
accomplice. The lady’s story certainly seems to be corroborated,
if it needed corroboration, by every detail which we see before
us.” He walked to the French window and threw it open. “There are
no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and one would not
expect them. I see that these candles in the mantelpiece have
been lighted.”

“Yes, it was by their light and that of the lady’s bedroom
candle, that the burglars saw their way about.”

“And what did they take?”

“Well, they did not take much—only half a dozen articles of plate
off the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were
themselves so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did
not ransack the house, as they would otherwise have done.”

“No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I
understand.”

“To steady their nerves.”

“Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been
untouched, I suppose?”

“Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it.”

“Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?”

The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with
wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing. The
bottle stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a
long, deeply stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the
bottle showed that it was no common vintage which the murderers
had enjoyed.

A change had come over Holmes’s manner. He had lost his listless
expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his
keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

“How did they draw it?” he asked.

Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table
linen and a large corkscrew.

“Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?”

“No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the
bottle was opened.”

“Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was _not_ used. This
bottle was opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a
knife, and not more than an inch and a half long. If you will
examine the top of the cork, you will observe that the screw was
driven in three times before the cork was extracted. It has never
been transfixed. This long screw would have transfixed it and
drawn it up with a single pull. When you catch this fellow, you
will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his
possession.”

“Excellent!” said Hopkins.

“But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall
actually _saw_ the three men drinking, did she not?”

“Yes; she was clear about that.”

“Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet,
you must admit, that the three glasses are very remarkable,
Hopkins. What? You see nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it
pass. Perhaps, when a man has special knowledge and special
powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex
explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of course, it must be
a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning, Hopkins. I
don’t see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear to have
your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is
arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust
that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful
conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves
more profitably at home.”

During our return journey, I could see by Holmes’s face that he
was much puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now
and then, by an effort, he would throw off the impression, and
talk as if the matter were clear, but then his doubts would
settle down upon him again, and his knitted brows and abstracted
eyes would show that his thoughts had gone back once more to the
great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in which this midnight
tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse, just as
our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on to
the platform and pulled me out after him.

“Excuse me, my dear fellow,” said he, as we watched the rear
carriages of our train disappearing round a curve, “I am sorry to
make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life,
Watson, I simply _can’t_ leave that case in this condition. Every
instinct that I possess cries out against it. It’s wrong—it’s all
wrong—I’ll swear that it’s wrong. And yet the lady’s story was
complete, the maid’s corroboration was sufficient, the detail was
fairly exact. What have I to put up against that? Three
wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken things for
granted, if I had examined everything with the care which I
should have shown had we approached the case _de novo_ and had no
cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have found
something more definite to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down
on this bench, Watson, until a train for Chiselhurst arrives, and
allow me to lay the evidence before you, imploring you in the
first instance to dismiss from your mind the idea that anything
which the maid or her mistress may have said must necessarily be
true. The lady’s charming personality must not be permitted to
warp our judgment.

“Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in
cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a
considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of
them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would
naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which
imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact,
burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as a rule,
only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without
embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual
for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for
burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one
would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream, it is
unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are
sufficient to overpower one man, it is unusual for them to be
content with a limited plunder when there was much more within
their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual
for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these
unusuals strike you, Watson?”

“Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each
of them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of
all, as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the
chair.”

“Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident
that they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way
that she could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at
any rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain
element of improbability about the lady’s story? And now, on the
top of this, comes the incident of the wineglasses.”

“What about the wineglasses?”

“Can you see them in your mind’s eye?”

“I see them clearly.”

“We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you
as likely?”

“Why not? There was wine in each glass.”

“Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must have
noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”

“The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing.”

“Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable
that the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily
charged with it. There are two possible explanations, and only
two. One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle was
violently agitated, and so the third glass received the beeswing.
That does not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that I am
right.”

“What, then, do you suppose?”

“That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were
poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression
that three people had been here. In that way all the beeswing
would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced
that this is so. But if I have hit upon the true explanation of
this one small phenomenon, then in an instant the case rises from
the commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable, for it can only
mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have deliberately lied
to us, that not one word of their story is to be believed, that
they have some very strong reason for covering the real criminal,
and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any
help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and
here, Watson, is the Sydenham train.”

The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our
return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had
gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the
dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted himself
for two hours to one of those minute and laborious investigations
which form the solid basis on which his brilliant edifices of
deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an interested
student who observes the demonstration of his professor, I
followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the
curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope—each in turn was
minutely examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate
baronet had been removed, and all else remained as we had seen it
in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on
to the massive mantelpiece. Far above his head hung the few
inches of red cord which were still attached to the wire. For a
long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt to get
nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on the
wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end
of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself
which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he sprang down
with an ejaculation of satisfaction.

“It’s all right, Watson,” said he. “We have got our case—one of
the most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how
slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the
blunder of my lifetime! Now, I think that, with a few missing
links, my chain is almost complete.”

“You have got your men?”

“Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong
as a lion—witness the blow that bent that poker! Six foot three
in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers,
finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story
is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the
handiwork of a very remarkable individual. And yet, in that
bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have left us a
doubt.”

“Where was the clue?”

“Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would
you expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached
to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the top, as
this one has done?”

“Because it is frayed there?”

“Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was
cunning enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is
not frayed. You could not observe that from here, but if you were
on the mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off without
any mark of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what occurred.
The man needed the rope. He would not tear it down for fear of
giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang
up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his knee on
the bracket—you will see the impression in the dust—and so got
his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by
at least three inches—from which I infer that he is at least
three inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat
of the oaken chair! What is it?”

“Blood.”

“Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady’s story out of
court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done,
how comes that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair _after_
the death of her husband. I’ll wager that the black dress shows a
corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met our Waterloo,
Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in defeat and ends
in victory. I should like now to have a few words with the nurse,
Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if we are to get the
information which we want.”

She was an interesting person, this stern Australian
nurse—taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before
Holmes’s pleasant manner and frank acceptance of all that she
said thawed her into a corresponding amiability. She did not
attempt to conceal her hatred for her late employer.

“Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard
him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not
dare to speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that
he threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had but
left my bonny bird alone. He was forever ill-treating her, and
she too proud to complain. She will not even tell me all that he
has done to her. She never told me of those marks on her arm that
you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come from a
stab with a hatpin. The sly devil—God forgive me that I should
speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, if ever
one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him—only
eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen
years. She had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first
voyage—she had never been from home before. He won her with his
title and his money and his false London ways. If she made a
mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did. What month did
we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after we arrived. We
arrived in June, and it was July. They were married in January of
last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room again, and I have
no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too much of her,
for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will stand.”

Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked
brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began
once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress’s brow.

“I hope,” said the lady, “that you have not come to cross-examine
me again?”

“No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, “I will not cause
you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole
desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced that
you are a much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend and
trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“To tell me the truth.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“No, no, Lady Brackenstall—it is no use. You may have heard of
any little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the
fact that your story is an absolute fabrication.”

Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and
frightened eyes.

“You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do you mean to say
that my mistress has told a lie?”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“Have you nothing to tell me?”

“I have told you everything.”

“Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be
frank?”

For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then
some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

“I have told you all I know.”

Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he
said, and without another word we left the room and the house.
There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way.
It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the
convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then
passed on to the lodge gate. There he scribbled a short note for
Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper.

“It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do
something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,”
said he. “I will not quite take him into my confidence yet. I
think our next scene of operations must be the shipping office of
the Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end of Pall
Mall, if I remember right. There is a second line of steamers
which connect South Australia with England, but we will draw the
larger cover first.”

Holmes’s card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention,
and he was not long in acquiring all the information he needed.
In June of ’95, only one of their line had reached a home port.
It was the _Rock of Gibraltar_, their largest and best boat. A
reference to the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser, of
Adelaide, with her maid had made the voyage in her. The boat was
now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on her way to Australia.
Her officers were the same as in ’95, with one exception. The
first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain and was
to take charge of their new ship, the _Bass Rock_, sailing in two
days’ time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was
likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to
wait for him.

No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to
know more about his record and character.

His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet
to touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a
wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his ship—hot-headed,
excitable, but loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith
of the information with which Holmes left the office of the
Adelaide-Southampton company. Thence he drove to Scotland Yard,
but, instead of entering, he sat in his cab with his brows drawn
down, lost in profound thought. Finally he drove round to the
Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message, and then, at
last, we made for Baker Street once more.

“No, I couldn’t do it, Watson,” said he, as we reentered our
room. “Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would
save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more
real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done
by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather play
tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience. Let
us know a little more before we act.”

Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins.
Things were not going very well with him.

“I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do
sometimes think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how
on earth could you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom
of that pond?”

“I didn’t know it.”

“But you told me to examine it.”

“You got it, then?”

“Yes, I got it.”

“I am very glad if I have helped you.”

“But you haven’t helped me. You have made the affair far more
difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and
then throw it into the nearest pond?”

“It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going
on the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did
not want it—who merely took it for a blind, as it were—then they
would naturally be anxious to get rid of it.”

“But why should such an idea cross your mind?”

“Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the
French window, there was the pond with one tempting little hole
in the ice, right in front of their noses. Could there be a
better hiding-place?”

“Ah, a hiding-place—that is better!” cried Stanley Hopkins. “Yes,
yes, I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the
roads, they were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they
sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the coast
was clear. Excellent, Mr. Holmes—that is better than your idea of
a blind.”

“Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that
my own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have
ended in discovering the silver.”

“Yes, sir—yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad
setback.”

“A setback?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this
morning.”

“Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory
that they committed a murder in Kent last night.”

“It is fatal, Mr. Holmes—absolutely fatal. Still, there are other
gangs of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang
of which the police have never heard.”

“Quite so, it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to the
bottom of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?”

“I have given you one.”

“Which?”

“Well, I suggested a blind.”

“But why, Mr. Holmes, why?”

“Ah, that’s the question, of course. But I commend the idea to
your mind. You might possibly find that there was something in
it. You won’t stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know
how you get on.”

Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to
the matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet
to the cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his
watch.

“I expect developments, Watson.”

“When?”

“Now—within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather
badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?”

“I trust your judgment.”

“A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way:
what I know is unofficial, what he knows is official. I have the
right to private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all,
or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not
put him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my information
until my own mind is clear upon the matter.”

“But when will that be?”

“The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of
a remarkable little drama.”

There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to
admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He
was a very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a
skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy step,
which showed that the huge frame was as active as it was strong.
He closed the door behind him, and then he stood with clenched
hands and heaving breast, choking down some overmastering
emotion.

“Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?”

Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the
other of us with questioning eyes.

“I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard
that you had been down to the office. There was no getting away
from you. Let’s hear the worst. What are you going to do with me?
Arrest me? Speak out, man! You can’t sit there and play with me
like a cat with a mouse.”

“Give him a cigar,” said Holmes. “Bite on that, Captain Crocker,
and don’t let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit
here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common
criminal, you may be sure of that. Be frank with me and we may do
some good. Play tricks with me, and I’ll crush you.”

“What do you wish me to do?”

“To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey
Grange last night—a _true_ account, mind you, with nothing added
and nothing taken off. I know so much already that if you go one
inch off the straight, I’ll blow this police whistle from my
window and the affair goes out of my hands forever.”

The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his
great sunburned hand.

“I’ll chance it,” he cried. “I believe you are a man of your
word, and a white man, and I’ll tell you the whole story. But one
thing I will say first. So far as I am concerned, I regret
nothing and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be
proud of the job. Damn the beast, if he had as many lives as a
cat, he would owe them all to me! But it’s the lady, Mary—Mary
Fraser—for never will I call her by that accursed name. When I
think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life just
to bring one smile to her dear face, it’s that that turns my soul
into water. And yet—and yet—what less could I do? I’ll tell you
my story, gentlemen, and then I’ll ask you, as man to man, what
less could I do?

“I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect
that you know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was
first officer of the _Rock of Gibraltar_. From the first day I
met her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage I
loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the
darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship
because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never engaged
to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I
have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all
good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a
free woman, but I could never again be a free man.

“Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage. Well,
why shouldn’t she marry whom she liked? Title and money—who could
carry them better than she? She was born for all that is
beautiful and dainty. I didn’t grieve over her marriage. I was
not such a selfish hound as that. I just rejoiced that good luck
had come her way, and that she had not thrown herself away on a
penniless sailor. That’s how I loved Mary Fraser.

“Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was
promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait
for a couple of months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in
a country lane I met Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me
all about her, about him, about everything. I tell you,
gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken hound, that he
should dare to raise his hand to her, whose boots he was not
worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary herself—and
met her again. Then she would meet me no more. But the other day
I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage within a week,
and I determined that I would see her once before I left. Theresa
was always my friend, for she loved Mary and hated this villain
almost as much as I did. From her I learned the ways of the
house. Mary used to sit up reading in her own little room
downstairs. I crept round there last night and scratched at the
window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I
know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the
frosty night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front
window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me into the
dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips things that made my
blood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the
woman I loved. Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just
inside the window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when he
rushed like a madman into the room, called her the vilest name
that a man could use to a woman, and welted her across the face
with the stick he had in his hand. I had sprung for the poker,
and it was a fair fight between us. See here, on my arm, where
his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went through him
as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was sorry? Not
I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it was his
life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this
madman? That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what
would either of you gentlemen have done, if you had been in my
position?

“She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old
Theresa down from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on
the sideboard, and I opened it and poured a little between Mary’s
lips, for she was half dead with shock. Then I took a drop
myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, and it was her plot as much
as mine. We must make it appear that burglars had done the thing.
Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress, while I
swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed her in her
chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it look
natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar could
have got up there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates and
pots of silver, to carry out the idea of the robbery, and there I
left them, with orders to give the alarm when I had a quarter of
an hour’s start. I dropped the silver into the pond, and made off
for Sydenham, feeling that for once in my life I had done a real
good night’s work. And that’s the truth and the whole truth, Mr.
Holmes, if it costs me my neck.”

Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the room,
and shook our visitor by the hand.

“That’s what I think,” said he. “I know that every word is true,
for you have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but
an acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from
the bracket, and no one but a sailor could have made the knots
with which the cord was fastened to the chair. Only once had this
lady been brought into contact with sailors, and that was on her
voyage, and it was someone of her own class of life, since she
was trying hard to shield him, and so showing that she loved him.
You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon you when once
I had started upon the right trail.”

“I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge.”

“And the police haven’t, nor will they, to the best of my belief.
Now, look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious matter,
though I am willing to admit that you acted under the most
extreme provocation to which any man could be subjected. I am not
sure that in defence of your own life your action will not be
pronounced legitimate. However, that is for a British jury to
decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you that, if you
choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I will promise
you that no one will hinder you.”

“And then it will all come out?”

“Certainly it will come out.”

The sailor flushed with anger.

“What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of
law to understand that Mary would be held as accomplice. Do you
think I would leave her alone to face the music while I slunk
away? No, sir, let them do their worst upon me, but for heaven’s
sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way of keeping my poor Mary out of
the courts.”

Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

“I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it
is a great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have
given Hopkins an excellent hint and if he can’t avail himself of
it I can do no more. See here, Captain Crocker, we’ll do this in
due form of law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British
jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently fitted to
represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman of the jury, you
have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner guilty or not
guilty?”

“Not guilty, my lord,” said I.

“_Vox populi, vox Dei_. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So
long as the law does not find some other victim you are safe from
me. Come back to this lady in a year, and may her future and
yours justify us in the judgment which we have pronounced this
night!”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN

I had intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” to be the last
of those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I
should ever communicate to the public. This resolution of mine
was not due to any lack of material, since I have notes of many
hundreds of cases to which I have never alluded, nor was it
caused by any waning interest on the part of my readers in the
singular personality and unique methods of this remarkable man.
The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes has shown
to the continued publication of his experiences. So long as he
was in actual professional practice the records of his successes
were of some practical value to him, but since he has definitely
retired from London and betaken himself to study and bee-farming
on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him, and he
has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should
be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him
that I had given a promise that “The Adventure of the Second
Stain” should be published when the times were ripe, and pointing
out to him that it is only appropriate that this long series of
episodes should culminate in the most important international
case which he has ever been called upon to handle, that I at last
succeeded in obtaining his consent that a carefully guarded
account of the incident should at last be laid before the public.
If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in certain
details, the public will readily understand that there is an
excellent reason for my reticence.

It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be
nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two
visitors of European fame within the walls of our humble room in
Baker Street. The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and
dominant, was none other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger,
twice Premier of Britain. The other, dark, clear-cut, and
elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with every beauty
of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope,
Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in
the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered
settee, and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces
that it was business of the most pressing importance which had
brought them. The Premier’s thin, blue-veined hands were clasped
tightly over the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt,
ascetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The European
Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with the
seals of his watch-chain.

“When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight
o’clock this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It
was at his suggestion that we have both come to you.”

“Have you informed the police?”

“No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive
manner for which he was famous. “We have not done so, nor is it
possible that we should do so. To inform the police must, in the
long run, mean to inform the public. This is what we particularly
desire to avoid.”

“And why, sir?”

“Because the document in question is of such immense importance
that its publication might very easily—I might almost say
probably—lead to European complications of the utmost moment. It
is not too much to say that peace or war may hang upon the issue.
Unless its recovery can be attended with the utmost secrecy, then
it may as well not be recovered at all, for all that is aimed at
by those who have taken it is that its contents should be
generally known.”

“I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged
if you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this
document disappeared.”

“That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter—for
it was a letter from a foreign potentate—was received six days
ago. It was of such importance that I have never left it in my
safe, but have taken it across each evening to my house in
Whitehall Terrace, and kept it in my bedroom in a locked
despatch-box. It was there last night. Of that I am certain. I
actually opened the box while I was dressing for dinner and saw
the document inside. This morning it was gone. The despatch-box
had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all night. I am
a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to swear
that no one could have entered the room during the night. And yet
I repeat that the paper is gone.”

“What time did you dine?”

“Half-past seven.”

“How long was it before you went to bed?”

“My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was
half-past eleven before we went to our room.”

“Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?”

“No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid
in the morning, and my valet, or my wife’s maid, during the rest
of the day. They are both trusty servants who have been with us
for some time. Besides, neither of them could possibly have known
that there was anything more valuable than the ordinary
departmental papers in my despatch-box.”

“Who did know of the existence of that letter?”

“No one in the house.”

“Surely your wife knew?”

“No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper
this morning.”

The Premier nodded approvingly.

“I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,”
said he. “I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this
importance it would rise superior to the most intimate domestic
ties.”

The European Secretary bowed.

“You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have
never breathed one word to my wife upon this matter.”

“Could she have guessed?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed—nor could anyone have
guessed.”

“Have you lost any documents before?”

“No, sir.”

“Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this
letter?”

“Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but the
pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was
increased by the solemn warning which was given by the Prime
Minister. Good heavens, to think that within a few hours I should
myself have lost it!” His handsome face was distorted with a
spasm of despair, and his hands tore at his hair. For a moment we
caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive, ardent, keenly
sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was replaced, and the
gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members of the Cabinet
there are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who know
of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”

“But abroad?”

“I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote
it. I am well convinced that his Ministers—that the usual
official channels have not been employed.”

Holmes considered for some little time.

“Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document
is, and why its disappearance should have such momentous
consequences?”

The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier’s
shaggy eyebrows gathered in a frown.

“Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue
colour. There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion.
It is addressed in large, bold handwriting to——”

“I fear, sir,” said Holmes, “that, interesting and indeed
essential as these details are, my inquiries must go more to the
root of things. What _was_ the letter?”

“That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that
I cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the
aid of the powers which you are said to possess you can find such
an envelope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have
deserved well of your country, and earned any reward which it
lies in our power to bestow.”

Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

“You are two of the most busy men in the country,” said he, “and
in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I
regret exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any
continuation of this interview would be a waste of time.”

The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of
his deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. “I am not
accustomed, sir,” he began, but mastered his anger and resumed
his seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the
old statesman shrugged his shoulders.

“We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right,
and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give
you our entire confidence.”

“I agree with you,” said the younger statesman.

“Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that
of your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism
also, for I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the
country than that this affair should come out.”

“You may safely trust us.”

“The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has
been ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this
country. It has been written hurriedly and upon his own
responsibility entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers
know nothing of the matter. At the same time it is couched in so
unfortunate a manner, and certain phrases in it are of so
provocative a character, that its publication would undoubtedly
lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this country. There
would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that
within a week of the publication of that letter this country
would be involved in a great war.”

Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the
Premier.

“Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter—this letter which may
well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of
a hundred thousand men—which has become lost in this
unaccountable fashion.”

“Have you informed the sender?”

“Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched.”

“Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter.”

“No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed
manner. It would be a greater blow to him and to his country than
to us if this letter were to come out.”

“If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come
out? Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?”

“There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high
international politics. But if you consider the European
situation you will have no difficulty in perceiving the motive.
The whole of Europe is an armed camp. There is a double league
which makes a fair balance of military power. Great Britain holds
the scales. If Britain were driven into war with one confederacy,
it would assure the supremacy of the other confederacy, whether
they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?”

“Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this
potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a
breach between his country and ours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the
hands of an enemy?”

“To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably
speeding on its way thither at the present instant as fast as
steam can take it.”

Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned
aloud. The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

“It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you.
There is no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes,
you are in full possession of the facts. What course do you
recommend?”

Holmes shook his head mournfully.

“You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there
will be war?”

“I think it is very probable.”

“Then, sir, prepare for war.”

“That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.”

“Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken
after eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope
and his wife were both in the room from that hour until the loss
was found out. It was taken, then, yesterday evening between
seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour,
since whoever took it evidently knew that it was there and would
naturally secure it as early as possible. Now, sir, if a document
of this importance were taken at that hour, where can it be now?
No one has any reason to retain it. It has been passed rapidly on
to those who need it. What chance have we now to overtake or even
to trace it? It is beyond our reach.”

The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

“What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the
matter is indeed out of our hands.”

“Let us presume, for argument’s sake, that the document was taken
by the maid or by the valet——”

“They are both old and tried servants.”

“I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor,
that there is no entrance from without, and that from within no
one could go up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the
house who has taken it. To whom would the thief take it? To one
of several international spies and secret agents, whose names are
tolerably familiar to me. There are three who may be said to be
the heads of their profession. I will begin my research by going
round and finding if each of them is at his post. If one is
missing—especially if he has disappeared since last night—we will
have some indication as to where the document has gone.”

“Why should he be missing?” asked the European Secretary. “He
would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not.”

“I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their
relations with the Embassies are often strained.”

The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

“I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a
prize to headquarters with his own hands. I think that your
course of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot
neglect all our other duties on account of this one misfortune.
Should there be any fresh developments during the day we shall
communicate with you, and you will no doubt let us know the
results of your own inquiries.”

The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had
opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime
which had occurred in London the night before, when my friend
gave an exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down
upon the mantelpiece.

“Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. The
situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could
be sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it
has not yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question
of money with these fellows, and I have the British treasury
behind me. If it’s on the market I’ll buy it—if it means another
penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable that the fellow might
hold it back to see what bids come from this side before he tries
his luck on the other. There are only those three capable of
playing so bold a game—there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and
Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.”

I glanced at my morning paper.

“Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?”

“Yes.”

“You will not see him.”

“Why not?”

“He was murdered in his house last night.”

My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our
adventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized
how completely I had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and
then snatched the paper from my hands. This was the paragraph
which I had been engaged in reading when he rose from his chair:

MURDER IN WESTMINSTER

A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16,
Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
eighteenth century houses which lie between the river and the
Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of
Parliament. This small but select mansion has been inhabited for
some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well-known in society circles
both on account of his charming personality and because he has
the well-deserved reputation of being one of the best amateur
tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four
years of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an
elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former retires
early and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet was out for
the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o’clock
onward Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during
that time has not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve
Police-constable Barrett, passing along Godolphin Street observed
that the door of No. 16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no
answer. Perceiving a light in the front room, he advanced into
the passage and again knocked, but without reply. He then pushed
open the door and entered. The room was in a state of wild
disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side, and one
chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and
still grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the
house. He had been stabbed to the heart and must have died
instantly. The knife with which the crime had been committed was
a curved Indian dagger, plucked down from a trophy of Oriental
arms which adorned one of the walls. Robbery does not appear to
have been the motive of the crime, for there had been no attempt
to remove the valuable contents of the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas
was so well-known and popular that his violent and mysterious
fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a
widespread circle of friends.

“Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” asked Holmes, after a
long pause.

“It is an amazing coincidence.”

“A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death
during the very hours when we know that that drama was being
enacted. The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No
figures could express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events
are connected—_must_ be connected. It is for us to find the
connection.”

“But now the official police must know all.”

“Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
know—and shall know—nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only _we_ know
of both events, and can trace the relation between them. There is
one obvious point which would, in any case, have turned my
suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only
a few minutes’ walk from Whitehall Terrace. The other secret
agents whom I have named live in the extreme West End. It was
easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establish a
connection or receive a message from the European Secretary’s
household—a small thing, and yet where events are compressed into
a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?”

Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady’s card upon her salver.
Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to
me.

“Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step
up,” said he.

A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished
that morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most
lovely woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the
youngest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description
of it, and no contemplation of colourless photographs, had
prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful
colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that
autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the first
thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was
paled with emotion, the eyes were bright but it was the
brightness of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in
an effort after self-command. Terror—not beauty—was what sprang
first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an instant
in the open door.

“Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, madam, he has been here.”

“Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here.”
Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

“Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that
you will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that I
cannot make any unconditional promise.”

She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
window. It was a queenly presence—tall, graceful, and intensely
womanly. “Mr. Holmes,” she said—and her white-gloved hands
clasped and unclasped as she spoke—“I will speak frankly to you
in the hopes that it may induce you to speak frankly in return.
There is complete confidence between my husband and me on all
matters save one. That one is politics. On this his lips are
sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was a
most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know that a
paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my
husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it
is essential—essential, I say—that I should thoroughly understand
it. You are the only other person, save only these politicians,
who knows the true facts. I beg you then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me
exactly what has happened and what it will lead to. Tell me all,
Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client’s interests keep you
silent, for I assure you that his interests, if he would only see
it, would be best served by taking me into his complete
confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?”

“Madam, what you ask me is really impossible.”

She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

“You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit
to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has
only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional
secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it.
It is him whom you must ask.”

“I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without
your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great
service if you would enlighten me on one point.”

“What is it, madam?”

“Is my husband’s political career likely to suffer through this
incident?”

“Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
unfortunate effect.”

“Ah!” She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are
resolved.

“One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my
husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood
that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of
this document.”

“If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it.”

“Of what nature are they?”

“Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly
answer.”

“Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you,
Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on
your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I
desire, even against his will, to share my husband’s anxieties.
Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my visit.”

She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression
of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn
mouth. Then she was gone.

“Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with
a smile, when the dwindling _frou-frou_ of skirts had ended in
the slam of the front door. “What was the fair lady’s game? What
did she really want?”

“Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural.”

“Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson—her manner, her suppressed
excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions.
Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show
emotion.”

“She was certainly much moved.”

“Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us
that it was best for her husband that she should know all. What
did she mean by that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she
manœuvred to have the light at her back. She did not wish us to
read her expression.”

“Yes, she chose the one chair in the room.”

“And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember
the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No
powder on her nose—that proved to be the correct solution. How
can you build on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may
mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon
a hairpin or a curling tongs. Good-morning, Watson.”

“You are off?”

“Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the
solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an
inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake to
theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good
Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I’ll join you at lunch if
I am able.”

All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which
his friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out
and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin,
sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and
hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him. It was
evident to me that things were not going well with him or his
quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the
papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the
arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of
the deceased. The coroner’s jury brought in the obvious Wilful
Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive
was suggested. The room was full of articles of value, but none
had been taken. The dead man’s papers had not been tampered with.
They were carefully examined, and showed that he was a keen
student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a
remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer. He had been
on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several
countries. But nothing sensational was discovered among the
documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He
had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one
whom he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive.
His death was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.

As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of
despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could
be sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith
that night. The _alibi_ was complete. It is true that he started
home at an hour which should have brought him to Westminster
before the time when the crime was discovered, but his own
explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed probable
enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had actually
arrived at twelve o’clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the
unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his
master. Several of the dead man’s possessions—notably a small
case of razors—had been found in the valet’s boxes, but he
explained that they had been presents from the deceased, and the
housekeeper was able to corroborate the story. Mitton had been in
Lucas’s employment for three years. It was noticeable that Lucas
did not take Mitton on the Continent with him. Sometimes he
visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was left in
charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper, she
had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a
visitor he had himself admitted him.

So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could
follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own
counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him
into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close
touch with every development. Upon the fourth day there appeared
a long telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the whole
question.

A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police (said the
_Daily Telegraph_) which raises the veil which hung round the
tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence
last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers
will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in
his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but that
the case broke down on an _alibi_. Yesterday a lady, who has been
known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in the Rue
Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as
being insane. An examination showed she had indeed developed
mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On inquiry, the police
have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only returned from a
journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is evidence to
connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison of
photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and
Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the
deceased had for some reason lived a double life in London and
Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely
excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of
jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it
was in one of these that she committed the terrible crime which
has caused such a sensation in London. Her movements upon the
Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a
woman answering to her description attracted much attention at
Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her
appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or
that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of
her mind. At present she is unable to give any coherent account
of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the
reestablishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,
who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours upon
Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

“What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the account aloud
to him, while he finished his breakfast.

“My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and paced up
and down the room, “You are most long-suffering, but if I have
told you nothing in the last three days, it is because there is
nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris does not help us
much.”

“Surely it is final as regards the man’s death.”

“The man’s death is a mere incident—a trivial episode—in
comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document
and save a European catastrophe. Only one important thing has
happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has
happened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, and it
is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.
Now, if this letter were loose—no, it _can’t_ be loose—but if it
isn’t loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it held back?
That’s the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it,
indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the
night when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him?
If so, why is it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his
carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How
could I search for it without the French police having their
suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law
is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every man’s hand is
against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. Should I
bring it to a successful conclusion, it will certainly represent
the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the
front!” He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed
in. “Halloa! Lestrade seems to have observed something of
interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down
together to Westminster.”

It was my first visit to the scene of the crime—a high, dingy,
narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century
which gave it birth. Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at us
from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big
constable had opened the door and let us in. The room into which
we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but
no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain upon
the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in the centre
of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,
old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished.
Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of
which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a
sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the
pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste
which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

“Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes nodded.

“Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No
doubt it’s just as they say. She knocked at the door—surprise
visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight
compartments—he let her in, couldn’t keep her in the street. She
told him how she had traced him, reproached him. One thing led to
another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It
wasn’t all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all
swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried
to hold her off with it. We’ve got it all clear as if we had seen
it.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“And yet you have sent for me?”

“Ah, yes, that’s another matter—a mere trifle, but the sort of
thing you take an interest in—queer, you know, and what you might
call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact—can’t
have, on the face of it.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful
to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer
in charge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried
and the investigation over—so far as this room is concerned—we
thought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not
fastened down, only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it.
We found——”

“Yes? You found——”

Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.

“Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we
did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal
must have soaked through, must it not?”

“Undoubtedly it must.”

“Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on
the white woodwork to correspond.”

“No stain! But there must——”

“Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn’t.”

He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it
over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

“But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have left
a mark.”

Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous
expert.

“Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There _is_ a second stain,
but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As
he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there,
sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white
facing of the old-fashioned floor. “What do you make of that, Mr.
Holmes?”

“Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the
carpet has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it
was easily done.”

“The official police don’t need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them
that the carpet must have been turned round. That’s clear enough,
for the stains lie above each other—if you lay it over this way.
But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?”

I could see from Holmes’s rigid face that he was vibrating with
inward excitement.

“Look here, Lestrade,” said he, “has that constable in the
passage been in charge of the place all the time?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don’t do it before
us. We’ll wait here. You take him into the back room. You’ll be
more likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he
dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don’t
ask him if he has done it. Take it for granted. Tell him you
_know_ someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full
confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I
tell you!”

“By George, if he knows I’ll have it out of him!” cried Lestrade.
He darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying
voice sounded from the back room.

“Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All the
demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner
burst out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the
floor, and in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing
at each of the squares of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as
he dug his nails into the edge of it. It hinged back like the lid
of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath it. Holmes plunged
his eager hand into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl of
anger and disappointment. It was empty.

“Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!” The wooden lid was
replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
Lestrade’s voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes
leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient,
endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes, I can see that you are
bored to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all
right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your
most inexcusable conduct.”

The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

“I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure. The young woman came to the door
last evening—mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking.
It’s lonesome, when you’re on duty here all day.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“She wanted to see where the crime was done—had read about it in
the papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken
young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep.
When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the
floor, and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the back and got
some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I went round the
corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had
brought it back the young woman had recovered and was off—ashamed
of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me.”

“How about moving that drugget?”

“Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back.
You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with
nothing to keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards.”

“It’s a lesson to you that you can’t deceive me, Constable
MacPherson,” said Lestrade, with dignity. “No doubt you thought
that your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a
mere glance at that drugget was enough to convince me that
someone had been admitted to the room. It’s lucky for you, my
man, that nothing is missing, or you would find yourself in Queer
Street. I’m sorry to have called you down over such a petty
business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain
not corresponding with the first would interest you.”

“Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been
here once, constable?”

“Yes, sir, only once.”

“Who was she?”

“Don’t know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
typewriting and came to the wrong number—very pleasant, genteel
young woman, sir.”

“Tall? Handsome?”

“Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might
say she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very
handsome. ‘Oh, officer, do let me have a peep!’ says she. She had
pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought there was
no harm in letting her just put her head through the door.”

“How was she dressed?”

“Quiet, sir—a long mantle down to her feet.”

“What time was it?”

“It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the
lamps as I came back with the brandy.”

“Very good,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, I think that we have
more important work elsewhere.”

As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while
the repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes
turned on the step and held up something in his hand. The
constable stared intently.

“Good Lord, sir!” he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes
put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast
pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street.
“Excellent!” said he. “Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up
for the last act. You will be relieved to hear that there will be
no war, that the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no
setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet Sovereign
will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that the Prime
Minister will have no European complication to deal with, and
that with a little tact and management upon our part nobody will
be a penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly
incident.”

My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

“You have solved it!” I cried.

“Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as
ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we
cannot get the rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and
bring the matter to a head.”

When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was
for Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We
were shown into the morning-room.

“Mr. Holmes!” said the lady, and her face was pink with her
indignation. “This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your
part. I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a
secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding into
his affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and so
showing that there are business relations between us.”

“Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must
therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my
hands.”

The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an
instant from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed—she tottered—I
thought that she would faint. Then with a grand effort she
rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment and
indignation chased every other expression from her features.

“You—you insult me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter.”

She darted to the bell.

“The butler shall show you out.”

“Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts
to avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all
will be set right. If you will work with me I can arrange
everything. If you work against me I must expose you.”

She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon
his as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell,
but she had forborne to ring it.

“You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.
Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know
something. What is it that you know?”

“Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall.
I will not speak until you sit down. Thank you.”

“I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes.”

“One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo
Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious return
to the room last night, and of the manner in which you took the
letter from the hiding-place under the carpet.”

She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she
could speak.

“You are mad, Mr. Holmes—you are mad!” she cried, at last.

He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the
face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

“I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said
he. “The policeman has recognized it.”

She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

“Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be
adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends
when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my
advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance.”

Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.

“I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd
illusion.”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I
can see that it is all in vain.”

He rang the bell. The butler entered.

“Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”

“He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.”

Holmes glanced at his watch.

“Still a quarter of an hour,” said he. “Very good, I shall wait.”

The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda
was down on her knees at Holmes’s feet, her hands outstretched,
her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

“Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of
supplication. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell him! I love him so!
I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would
break his noble heart.”

Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful, madam, that you have come
to your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant
to lose. Where is the letter?”

She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a
long blue envelope.

“Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen it!”

“How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick, quick, we must
think of some way! Where is the despatch-box?”

“Still in his bedroom.”

“What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!” A moment
later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

“How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of
course you have. Open it!”

From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box
flew open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue
envelope deep down into the heart of them, between the leaves of
some other document. The box was shut, locked, and returned to
the bedroom.

“Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes. “We have still ten
minutes. I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you
will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of
this extraordinary affair.”

“Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried the lady. “Oh,
Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a
moment of sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her
husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted—how I have
been compelled to act—he would never forgive me. For his own
honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse
in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness, his happiness, our
very lives are at stake!”

“Quick, madam, the time grows short!”

“It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter
written before my marriage—a foolish letter, a letter of an
impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have
thought it criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence would
have been forever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had
thought that the whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard
from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands, and that
he would lay it before my husband. I implored his mercy. He said
that he would return my letter if I would bring him a certain
document which he described in my husband’s despatch-box. He had
some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He
assured me that no harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in
my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to do?”

“Take your husband into your confidence.”

“I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed
certain ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my
husband’s paper, still in a matter of politics I could not
understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust
they were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an
impression of his key. This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate. I
opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and conveyed it to
Godolphin Street.”

“What happened there, madam?”

“I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him
into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared
to be alone with the man. I remember that there was a woman
outside as I entered. Our business was soon done. He had my
letter on his desk, I handed him the document. He gave me the
letter. At this instant there was a sound at the door. There were
steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned back the drugget,
thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and covered it
over.

“What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a
vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman’s voice, which
screamed in French, ‘My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last
I have found you with her!’ There was a savage struggle. I saw
him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed
from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next
morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That night
I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the
future would bring.

“It was the next morning that I realized that I had only
exchanged one trouble for another. My husband’s anguish at the
loss of his paper went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself
from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling him
what I had done. But that again would mean a confession of the
past. I came to you that morning in order to understand the full
enormity of my offence. From the instant that I grasped it my
whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my
husband’s paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for
it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If
it had not been for her coming, I should not have known where his
hiding-place was. How was I to get into the room? For two days I
watched the place, but the door was never left open. Last night I
made a last attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you have
already learned. I brought the paper back with me, and thought of
destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it without
confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step upon
the stair!”

The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. “Any news,
Mr. Holmes, any news?” he cried.

“I have some hopes.”

“Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant. “The Prime Minister
is lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of
steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this
terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come
up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics. We
will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room.”

The Prime Minister’s manner was subdued, but I could see by the
gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he
shared the excitement of his young colleague.

“I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?”

“Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I have inquired at
every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no
danger to be apprehended.”

“But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on
such a volcano. We must have something definite.”

“I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I
think of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has
never left this house.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“If it had it would certainly have been public by now.”

“But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?”

“I am not convinced that anyone did take it.”

“Then how could it leave the despatch-box?”

“I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box.”

“Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance
that it left the box.”

“Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?”

“No. It was not necessary.”

“You may conceivably have overlooked it.”

“Impossible, I say.”

“But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to
happen. I presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have
got mixed with them.”

“It was on the top.”

“Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it.”

“No, no, I had everything out.”

“Surely it is easily decided, Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us
have the despatch-box brought in.”

The Secretary rang the bell.

“Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of
time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be
done. Thank you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the key
on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord
Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade,
note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note
from Lord Flowers——Good heavens! what is this? Lord Bellinger!
Lord Bellinger!”

The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

“Yes, it is it—and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate
you.”

“Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
inconceivable—impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a
sorcerer! How did you know it was there?”

“Because I knew it was nowhere else.”

“I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to the door. “Where is
my wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!” we
heard his voice on the stairs.

The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

“Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this than meets the eye.
How came the letter back in the box?”

Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those
wonderful eyes.

“We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he and, picking up
his hat, he turned to the door.

THE END