Ebook: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes By Doyle, Arthur Conan

Part 1 

A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA 

Chapter 1 

To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin
to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.



I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had

drifted us away
from each other. My own complete happiness, and the

home-centred interests
which rise up around the man who first finds himself

master of
his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my

attention, while
Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his

whole Bohemian
soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried

among his old
books, and alternating from week to week between

cocaine and ambition,
the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of

his own keen
nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the

study of crime, and
occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers

of observation
in following out those clues, and clearing up those

mysteries which had
been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From

time to time I
heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons

to Odessa in
the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of

the singular tragedy
of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of

the mission which


he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for

the reigning family
of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity,

however, which I
merely shared with all the readers of the daily press,

I knew little of my
former friend and companion.

One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was

returning
from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to

civil practice),
when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed

the well-remembered
door, which must always be associated in my mind with

my
wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in

Scarlet, I was seized
with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how

he was employing
his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly

lit, and,
even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass

twice in a dark silhouette
against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly,

eagerly, with
his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped

behind him. To me,
who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and

manner told their
own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of

his drug-created
dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem.

I rang the bell
and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been

in part my
own.

His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was

glad, I think,
to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly

eye, he waved
me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and

indicated a spirit
case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before

the fire and
looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.

"Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson,

that you have put
on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."

"Seven!" I answered.

"Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a

trifle more, I fancy,
Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not

tell me that you intended
to go into harness."

"Then, how do you know?"

"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have

been getting yourself
very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and

careless servant
girl?"

"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would

certainly have
been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is

true that I had a
country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful

mess, but as I
have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you deduce

it. As to Mary
Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her

notice, but there,
again, I fail to see how you work it out."


He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous

hands together.

"It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me

that on the inside of
your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it,

the leather is scored by
six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been

caused by someone
who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the

sole in order to
remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double

deduction that
you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a

particularly
malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey.

As to your practice,
if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of

iodoform, with a
black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right

forefinger, and a bulge on
the right side of his top-hat to show where he has

secreted his stethoscope,
I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be

an active
member of the medical profession."

I could not help laughing at the ease with which he

explained his process
of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I

remarked, "the
thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple

that I could easily
do it myself, though at each successive instance of

your reasoning I
am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I

believe that my eyes
are as good as yours."

"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and

throwing himself
down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not

observe. The distinction
is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the

steps which lead up
from the hall to this room."

"Frequently."

"How often?"

"Well, some hundreds of times."

"Then how many are there?"

"How many? I don't know."

"Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have

seen. That is just
my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps,

because I have
both seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are

interested in these
little problems, and since you are good enough to

chronicle one or two of
my trifling experiences, you may be interested in

this." He threw over a
sheet of thick, pink-tinted note-paper which had been

lying open upon
the table. "It came by the last post," said he. "Read

it aloud."

The note was undated, and without either signature or

address.

"There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to

eight o'clock," it said,
"a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter

of the very deepest
moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses

of Europe
have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted

with matters


which are of an importance which can hardly be

exaggerated. This account
of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your

chamber
then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your

visitor wear a mask."

"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you

imagine that it
means?"

"I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to

theorize before one has
data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit

theories, instead of theories
to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce

from it?"

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon

which it was
written.

"The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I

remarked, endeavouring
to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper could

not
be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly

strong and stiff."

"Peculiar—that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is

not an English
paper at all. Hold it up to the light."

I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," a "P,"

and a large "G"
with a small "t" woven into the texture of the paper.

"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.

"The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram,

rather."

"Not at all. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for

'Gesellschaft,' which is
the German for 'Company.' It is a customary contraction

like our 'Co.' 'P,'
of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the 'Eg.' Let

us glance at our
Continental Gazetteer." He took down a heavy brown

volume from his
shelves. "Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in

a German-speaking
country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. 'Remarkable

as being the
scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous

glass-factories
and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of

that?" His eyes
sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud

from his
cigarette.

"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.

"Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German.

Do you note
the peculiar construction of the sentence—'This account

of you we have
from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or Russian

could not have written
that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his

verbs. It only remains,
therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German

who writes
upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to

showing his face.
And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all

our doubts."

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs

and grating
wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at

the bell. Holmes
whistled.


"A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued,

glancing out of the
window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties.

A hundred and
fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this case,

Watson, if there is nothing
else."

"I think that I had better go, Holmes."

"Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost

without my Boswell.
And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity

to miss it."

"But your client—"

"Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he.

Here he
comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us

your best
attention."

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the

stairs and in
the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then

there was a
loud and authoritative tap.

"Come in!" said Holmes.

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six

feet six
inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a

Hercules. His dress was
rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked

upon as akin to
bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across

the sleeves and
fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue

cloak which was
thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured

silk and secured
at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single

flaming
beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and

which were
trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the

impression of
barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole

appearance. He
carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore

across the upper
part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a

black vizard
mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very

moment, for his hand
was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower

part of the face he appeared
to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging

lip, and a
long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to

the length of
obstinacy.

"You had my note?" he asked with a deep harsh voice and

a strongly
marked German accent. "I told you that I would call."

He looked from
one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to

address.

"Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and

colleague, Dr.
Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in

my cases. Whom
have I the honour to address?"

"You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian

nobleman.
I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man

of honour


and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the

most extreme importance.
If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you

alone."

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and

pushed me back
into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may

say before this gentleman
anything which you may say to me."

The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must

begin," said he,
"by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years;

at the end of that
time the matter will be of no importance. At present it

is not too much to
say that it is of such weight it may have an influence

upon European
history."

"I promise," said Holmes.

"And I."

"You will excuse this mask," continued our strange

visitor. "The august
person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to

you, and I
may confess at once that the title by which I have just

called myself is not
exactly my own."

"I was aware of it," said Holmes dryly.

"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every

precaution has to
be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense

scandal and seriously
compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To

speak
plainly, the matter implicates the great House of

Ormstein, hereditary
kings of Bohemia."

"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling

himself down
in his armchair and closing his eyes.

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the

languid, lounging
figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him

as the
most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in

Europe. Holmes
slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his

gigantic client.

"If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,"

he remarked, "I
should be better able to advise you."

The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the

room in
uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of

desperation, he tore the
mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You

are right," he
cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal

it?"

"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not

spoken before
I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich

Sigismond
von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and

hereditary King of
Bohemia."

"But you can understand," said our strange visitor,

sitting down once
more and passing his hand over his high white forehead,

"you can


understand that I am not accustomed to doing such

business in my own
person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not

confide it to an
agent without putting myself in his power. I have come

incognito from
Prague for the purpose of consulting you."

"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes

once more.

"The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago,

during a lengthy visit
to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known

adventuress,
Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you."

"Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured

Holmes without
opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a

system of docketing
all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it

was difficult to
name a subject or a person on which he could not at

once furnish information.
In this case I found her biography sandwiched in

between that of a
Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had

written a monograph
upon the deep-sea fishes.

"Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in

the year 1858.
Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial

Opera of
Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in

London—quite
so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled

with this young
person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now

desirous of
getting those letters back."

"Precisely so. But how—"

"Was there a secret marriage?"

"None."

"No legal papers or certificates?"

"None."

"Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young

person should produce
her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is

she to prove
their authenticity?"

"There is the writing."

"Pooh, pooh! Forgery."

"My private note-paper."

"Stolen."

"My own seal."

"Imitated."

"My photograph."

"Bought."

"We were both in the photograph."

"Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed

committed an
indiscretion."


"I was mad—insane."

"You have compromised yourself seriously."

"I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but

thirty now."

"It must be recovered."

"We have tried and failed."

"Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought."

"She will not sell."

"Stolen, then."

"Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay

ransacked
her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she

travelled. Twice she
has been waylaid. There has been no result."

"No sign of it?"

"Absolutely none."

Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem,"

said he.

"But a very serious one to me," returned the King

reproachfully.

"Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the
photograph?"

"To ruin me."

"But how?"

"I am about to be married."

"So I have heard."

"To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter

of the
King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles

of her family.
She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a

doubt as to my
conduct would bring the matter to an end."

"And Irene Adler?"

"Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do

it. I know
that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a

soul of steel. She
has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the

mind of the most
resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another

woman, there are
no lengths to which she would not go—none."

"You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"

"I am sure."

"And why?"

"Because she has said that she would send it on the day

when the betrothal
was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday."

"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes with a

yawn. "That is
very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of

importance to look into
just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in

London for the
present?"


"Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the

name of the
Count Von Kramm."

"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we

progress."

"Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety."

"Then, as to money?"

"You have carte blanche."

"Absolutely?"

"I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of

my kingdom to
have that photograph."

"And for present expenses?"

The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under

his cloak and
laid it on the table.

"There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven

hundred in notes,"
he said.

Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his

note-book and handed
it to him.

"And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."

Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said

he. "Was the photograph
a cabinet?"

"It was."

"Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we

shall soon have
some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he

added, as the
wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street.

"If you will be
good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three

o'clock I should like to
chat this little matter over with you."


Chapter 2 Chapter 2
At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but

Holmes had not yet
returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the

house shortly
after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down beside

the fire, however,
with the intention of awaiting him, however long he

might be. I was
already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though

it was surrounded
by none of the grim and strange features which were

associated with the
two crimes which I have already recorded, still, the

nature of the case
and the exalted station of his client gave it a

character of its own. Indeed,
apart from the nature of the investigation which my

friend had on hand,
there was something in his masterly grasp of a

situation, and his keen,
incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to

study his system of
work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which

he disentangled
the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to

his invariable
success that the very possibility of his failing had

ceased to enter into my
head.

It was close upon four before the door opened, and a

drunken-looking
groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed

face and disreputable
clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to

my friend's
amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look

three times before I
was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he

vanished into the bedroom,
whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and

respectable,
as of old. Putting his hands into his pockets, he

stretched out his legs in
front of the fire and laughed heartily for some

minutes.

"Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked and

laughed again until he
was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the

chair.

"What is it?"

"It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess

how I employed
my morning, or what I ended by doing."

"I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching

the habits, and
perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler."

"Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will

tell you, however. I
left the house a little after eight o'clock this

morning in the character of a


groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and

freemasonry
among horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know all

that there is to
know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa,

with a garden at the
back, but built out in front right up to the road, two

stories. Chubb lock
to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well

furnished, with
long windows almost to the floor, and those

preposterous English window
fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was

nothing remarkable,
save that the passage window could be reached from the

top
of the coach-house. I walked round it and examined it

closely from every
point of view, but without noting anything else of

interest.

"I then lounged down the street and found, as I

expected, that there
was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the

garden. I lent
the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and

received in exchange
twopence, a glass of half and half, two fills of shag

tobacco, and
as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler,

to say nothing
of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in

whom I was not in
the least interested, but whose biographies I was

compelled to listen to."

"And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.

"Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that

part. She is the
daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say

the Serpentine-
mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts,

drives out at five
every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner.

Seldom goes out at other
times, except when she sings. Has only one male

visitor, but a good
deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never

calls less than
once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey

Norton, of the Inner
Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant.

They had driven
him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew

all about
him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I

began to walk up and
down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my

plan of
campaign.

"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor

in the matter.
He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the

relation between
them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was

she his client, his
friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had

probably transferred the
photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less

likely. On the issue of
this question depended whether I should continue my

work at Briony
Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman's chambers

in the Temple.
It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my

inquiry. I fear that
I bore you with these details, but I have to let you

see my little difficulties,
if you are to understand the situation."


"I am following you closely," I answered.

"I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a

hansom cab drove
up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was

a remarkably
handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached— evidently

the man of
whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry,

shouted to the
cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened

the door with
the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.

"He was in the house about half an hour, and I could

catch glimpses of
him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and

down, talking excitedly,
and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing.

Presently he
emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he

stepped up to
the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and

looked at it earnestly,
'Drive like the devil,' he shouted, 'first to Gross &

Hankey's in Regent
Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the

Edgeware Road.
Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!'

"Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I

should not do
well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little

landau, the
coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie

under his ear,
while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of

the buckles. It hadn't
pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into

it. I only caught a
glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely

woman, with a face
that a man might die for.

"'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 'and half

a sovereign if
you reach it in twenty minutes.'

"This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just

balancing whether
I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind

her landau when a
cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at

such a shabby
fare, but I jumped in before he could object. 'The

Church of St. Monica,'
said I, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty

minutes.' It was
twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was

clear enough what
was in the wind.

"My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove

faster, but the others
were there before us. The cab and the landau with their

steaming horses
were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the

man and hurried into
the church. There was not a soul there save the two

whom I had followed
and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be

expostulating with
them. They were all three standing in a knot in front

of the altar. I
lounged up the side aisle like any other idler who has

dropped into a
church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the

altar faced round to
me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could

towards me.


"'Thank God,' he cried. 'You'll do. Come! Come!'

"'What then?' I asked.

"'Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won't be

legal.'

"I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew

where I was I
found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in

my ear, and
vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and

generally assisting in
the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to

Godfrey Norton, bachelor.
It was all done in an instant, and there was the

gentleman thanking me
on the one side and the lady on the other, while the

clergyman beamed
on me in front. It was the most preposterous position

in which I ever
found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it

that started me
laughing just now. It seems that there had been some

informality about
their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to

marry them
without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky

appearance saved the
bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in

search of a best
man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear

it on my watch-
chain in memory of the occasion."

"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I;

"and what then?"

"Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It

looked as if the
pair might take an immediate departure, and so

necessitate very prompt
and energetic measures on my part. At the church door,

however, they
separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to

her own house. 'I
shall drive out in the park at five as usual,' she said

as she left him. I
heard no more. They drove away in different directions,

and I went off to
make my own arrangements."

"Which are?"

"Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered,

ringing the bell. "I
have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to

be busier still this
evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your

co-operation."

"I shall be delighted."

"You don't mind breaking the law?"

"Not in the least."

"Nor running a chance of arrest?"

"Not in a good cause."

"Oh, the cause is excellent!"

"Then I am your man."

"I was sure that I might rely on you."

"But what is it you wish?"

"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make

it clear to you.
Now," he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare

that our landlady


had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I

have not much time. It
is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the

scene of action. Miss
Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at

seven. We must be at
Briony Lodge to meet her."

"And what then?"

"You must leave that to me. I have already arranged

what is to occur.
There is only one point on which I must insist. You

must not interfere,
come what may. You understand?"

"I am to be neutral?"

"To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some

small unpleasantness.
Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed

into the
house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room

window will
open. You are to station yourself close to that open

window."

"Yes."

"You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."

"Yes."

"And when I raise my hand—so—you will throw into the

room what I
give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise

the cry of fire. You
quite follow me?"

"Entirely."

"It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long

cigar-shaped roll
from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's

smoke-rocket, fitted with a
cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task

is confined to that.
When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by

quite a number of
people. You may then walk to the end of the street, and

I will rejoin you
in ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?"

"I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to

watch you, and at
the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the

cry of fire, and to wait
you at the corner of the street."

"Precisely."

"Then you may entirely rely on me."

"That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time

that I prepare for
the new role I have to play."

He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few

minutes in the
character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist

clergyman.
His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie,

his sympathetic
smile, and general look of peering and benevolent

curiosity were such as
Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It was not

merely that Holmes
changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his

very soul seemed
to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The

stage lost a fine actor,


even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became

a specialist in
crime.

It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street,

and it still wanted
ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in

Serpentine Avenue.
It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being

lighted as we paced
up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the

coming of its occupant.
The house was just such as I had pictured it from

Sherlock
Holmes' succinct description, but the locality appeared

to be less private
than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street in

a quiet neighbourhood,
it was remarkably animated. There was a group of

shabbily
dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a

scissors-grinder with
his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a

nurse-girl, and
several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and

down with
cigars in their mouths.

"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in

front of the
house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The

photograph becomes
a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she

would be as
averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our

client is to its
coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question

is, Where are we to
find the photograph?"

"Where, indeed?"

"It is most unlikely that she carries it about with

her. It is cabinet size.
Too large for easy concealment about a woman's dress.

She knows that
the King is capable of having her waylaid and searched.

Two attempts of
the sort have already been made. We may take it, then,

that she does not
carry it about with her."

"Where, then?"

"Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double

possibility. But I am
inclined to think neither. Women are naturally

secretive, and they like to
do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to

anyone else? She
could trust her own guardianship, but she could not

tell what indirect or
political influence might be brought to bear upon a

business man.
Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it

within a few days. It
must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be

in her own
house."

"But it has twice been burgled."

"Pshaw! They did not know how to look."

"But how will you look?"

"I will not look."

"What then?"


"I will get her to show me."

"But she will refuse."

"She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of

wheels. It is her carriage.
Now carry out my orders to the letter."

As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage

came round the
curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which

rattled up to the
door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the

loafing men at the
corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of

earning a copper,
but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed

up with the
same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was

increased by the
two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers,

and by the
scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other

side. A blow was
struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped

from her carriage,
was the centre of a little knot of flushed and

struggling men, who struck
savagely at each other with their fists and sticks.

Holmes dashed into the
crowd to protect the lady; but just as he reached her

he gave a cry and
dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely

down his face. At
his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one

direction and the loungers
in the other, while a number of better-dressed people,

who had
watched the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded

in to help the lady
and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I

will still call her, had
hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her

superb figure outlined
against the lights of the hall, looking back into the

street.

"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.

"He is dead," cried several voices.

"No, no, there's life in him!" shouted another. "But

he'll be gone before
you can get him to hospital."

"He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have

had the lady's
purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a

gang, and a rough
one, too. Ah, he's breathing now."

"He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in,

marm?"

"Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a

comfortable sofa.
This way, please!"

Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and

laid out in
the principal room, while I still observed the

proceedings from my post
by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds

had not been
drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the

couch. I do not
know whether he was seized with compunction at that

moment for the
part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more

heartily ashamed
of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful

creature against whom


I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with

which she waited
upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest

treachery to
Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had

intrusted to me. I
hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under

my ulster.
After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are

but preventing her
from injuring another.

Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion

like a man
who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw

open the window.
At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the

signal I tossed
my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!" The word

was no sooner out
of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well

dressed and
ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and servant-maids—joined in a

general shriek of
"Fire!" Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room

and out at the
open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and

a moment later
the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it

was a false alarm.
Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to

the corner of the
street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my

friend's arm in mine,
and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked

swiftly and in silence
for some few minutes until we had turned down one of

the quiet
streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road.

"You did it very nicely, Doctor," he remarked. "Nothing

could have
been better. It is all right."

"You have the photograph?"

"I know where it is."

"And how did you find out?"

"She showed me, as I told you she would."

"I am still in the dark."

"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing.

"The matter was
perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in

the street was an
accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening."

"I guessed as much."

"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red

paint in the
palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped

my hand to my
face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old

trick."

"That also I could fathom."

"Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in.

What else
could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the

very room
which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom,

and I was determined
to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for

air, they
were compelled to open the window, and you had your

chance."


"How did that help you?"

"It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her

house is on fire,
her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she

values most. It is a
perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than

once taken advantage
of it. In the case of the Darlington substitution

scandal it was of
use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A

married woman
grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her

jewel-box. Now it
was clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in

the house more
precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would

rush to secure it.
The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and

shouting were
enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded

beautifully. The photograph
is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the

right bell-pull.
She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of

it as she half-drew
it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she

replaced it, glanced
at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not

seen her since. I rose,
and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I

hesitated whether to
attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the

coachman had come
in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer

to wait. A little
over-precipitance may ruin all."

"And now?" I asked.

"Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with

the King to-morrow,
and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be

shown into the
sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable

that when she comes
she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be

a satisfaction to
his Majesty to regain it with his own hands."

"And when will you call?"

"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that

we shall have a
clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this

marriage may mean a
complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to

the King without
delay."

We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the

door. He was
searching his pockets for the key when someone passing

said:

"Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

There were several people on the pavement at the time,

but the greeting
appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had

hurried by.

"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring

down the dimly lit
street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have

been."


Chapter 3 Chapter 3
I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged

upon our toast
and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia

rushed into the
room.

"You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock

Holmes by either
shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

"Not yet."

"But you have hopes?"

"I have hopes."

"Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."

"We must have a cab."

"No, my brougham is waiting."

"Then that will simplify matters." We descended and

started off once
more for Briony Lodge.

"Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

"Married! When?"

"Yesterday."

"But to whom?"

"To an English lawyer named Norton."

"But she could not love him."

"I am in hopes that she does."

"And why in hopes?"

"Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future

annoyance. If
the lady loves her husband, she does not love your

Majesty. If she does
not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she

should interfere with
your Majesty's plan."

"It is true. And yet—Well! I wish she had been of my

own station!
What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a

moody silence,
which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine

Avenue.

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman

stood
upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as

we stepped from
the brougham.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.


"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at

her with a
questioning and rather startled gaze.

"Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to

call. She left this
morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing

Cross for the
Continent."

"What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with

chagrin and surprise.
"Do you mean that she has left England?"

"Never to return."

"And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is

lost."

"We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed

into the
drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The

furniture was
scattered about in every direction, with dismantled

shelves and open
drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them

before her flight.
Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small

sliding shutter, and,
plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a

letter. The photograph
was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress, the letter

was superscribed
to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for."

My friend tore
it open and we all three read it together. It was dated

at midnight of the
preceding night and ran in this way:

"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—You really did it very

well.
You took me in completely. Until after the alarm of

fire, I had not a suspicion.
But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I

began to
think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had

been told that if
the King employed an agent it would certainly be you.

And your address
had been given me. Yet, with all this, you made me

reveal what you
wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious, I found

it hard to think
evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know,

I have been
trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing

new to me. I often
take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent

John, the coachman,
to watch you, ran up stairs, got into my

walking-clothes, as I call them,
and came down just as you departed.

"Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure

that I was really
an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock

Holmes. Then I, rather
imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the

Temple to see
my husband.

"We both thought the best resource was flight, when

pursued by so
formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest

empty when you call
to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest

in peace. I love
and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do

what he will
without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged.

I keep it


only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon

which will always
secure me from any steps which he might take in the

future. I leave a
photograph which he might care to possess; and I

remain, dear Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,

"Very truly yours, "IRENE NORTON, née ADLER."

"What a woman—oh, what a woman!" cried the King of

Bohemia,
when we had all three read this epistle. "Did I not

tell you how quick and
resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable

queen? Is it
not a pity that she was not on my level?"

"From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to

be on a very
different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly.

"I am sorry that I
have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to

a more successful
conclusion."

"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King;

"nothing could be more
successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The

photograph is now as
safe as if it were in the fire."

"I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."

"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what

way I can reward
you. This ring—" He slipped an emerald snake ring from

his finger
and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

"Your Majesty has something which I should value even

more highly,"
said Holmes.

"You have but to name it."

"This photograph!"

The King stared at him in amazement.

"Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish

it."

"I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done

in the matter. I
have the honour to wish you a very good-morning." He

bowed, and,
turning away without observing the hand which the King

had stretched
out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect

the kingdom of
Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

were beaten by
a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the

cleverness of women,
but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he

speaks of Irene
Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is

always under the honourable
title of the woman.


Part 2
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE



I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one

day in the autumn
of last year and found him in deep conversation with a

very stout,
florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair.

With an apology for
my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes

pulled me abruptly
into the room and closed the door behind me.

"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my

dear Watson,"
he said cordially.

"I was afraid that you were engaged."

"So I am. Very much so."

"Then I can wait in the next room."

"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my

partner and helper
in many of my most successful cases, and I have no

doubt that he will
be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a

bob of greeting,
with a quick little questioning glance from his small

fat-encircled
eyes.

"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his

armchair and putting
his fingertips together, as was his custom when in

judicial moods. "I
know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all

that is bizarre and
outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday

life. You
have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which

has prompted
you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so,

somewhat to embellish
so many of my own little adventures."

"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest

to me," I
observed.

"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just

before we went
into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary

Sutherland, that
for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we

must go to life itself,
which is always far more daring than any effort of the

imagination."

"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

"You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round

to my view,
for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on

you until your reason
breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right.

Now, Mr.
Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me

this morning,
and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of

the most singular
which I have listened to for some time. You have heard

me remark that
the strangest and most unique things are very often

connected not with
the larger but with the smaller crimes, and

occasionally, indeed, where
there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has

been committed.
As far as I have heard it is impossible for me to say

whether the present

26


case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of

events is certainly
among the most singular that I have ever listened to.

Perhaps, Mr.
Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence

your narrative.
I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has

not heard
the opening part but also because the peculiar nature

of the story makes
me anxious to have every possible detail from your

lips. As a rule, when
I have heard some slight indication of the course of

events, I am able to
guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases

which occur to my
memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit

that the facts are, to
the best of my belief, unique."

The portly client puffed out his chest with an

appearance of some little
pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from

the inside pocket
of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement

column, with his
head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon

his knee, I took a
good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion

of my companion,
to read the indications which might be presented by his

dress or
appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection.

Our visitor bore
every mark of being an average commonplace British

tradesman, obese,
pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd's

check
trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned

in the front, and a
drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a

square pierced
bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed

top-hat and a
faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay

upon a chair beside
him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing

remarkable
about the man save his blazing red head, and the

expression of extreme
chagrin and discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and

he shook his
head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.

"Beyond the obvious
facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that

he takes
snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in

China, and that he has
done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can

deduce nothing else."

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his

forefinger upon the
paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all

that, Mr.
Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that

I did manual
labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's

carpenter."

"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a

size larger than
your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are

more
developed."


"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I

read that, especially
as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you

use an arc-andcompass
breastpin."

"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very

shiny for five
inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the

elbow where you
rest it upon the desk?"

"Well, but China?"

"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your

right wrist
could only have been done in China. I have made a small

study of tattoo
marks and have even contributed to the literature of

the subject. That
trick of staining the fishes' scales of a delicate pink

is quite peculiar to
China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging

from your watch-
chain, the matter becomes even more simple."

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said

he. "I thought
at first that you had done something clever, but I see

that there was nothing
in it, after all."

"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a

mistake in explaining.
'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my poor

little
reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I

am so candid. Can you
not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

"Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick

red finger planted
halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what

began it all. You just
read it for yourself, sir."

I took the paper from him and read as follows:

"TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of

the
late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S.

A., there is now
another vacancy open which entitles a member of the

League to a salary
of 4 pounds a week for purely nominal services. All

red-headed men
who are sound in body and mind and above the age of

twenty-one years,
are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven

o'clock, to Duncan
Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court,

Fleet Street."

"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I

had twice read
over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his

habit when in
high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track,

isn't it?" said he. "And now,
Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about

yourself, your
household, and the effect which this advertisement had

upon your fortunes.
You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and

the date."


"It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just

two months ago."

"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr.

Sherlock Holmes," said
Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small

pawnbroker's business
at Coburg Square, near the City. It's not a very large

affair, and of
late years it has not done more than just give me a

living. I used to be
able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one;

and I would have a
job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half

wages so as to learn
the business."

"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked

Sherlock Holmes.

"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a

youth, either. It's
hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter

assistant, Mr. Holmes;
and I know very well that he could better himself and

earn twice what I
am able to give him. But, after all, if he is

satisfied, why should I put
ideas in his head?"

"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an

employé who
comes under the full market price. It is not a common

experience among
employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant

is not as remarkable
as your advertisement."

"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never

was such a fellow
for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he

ought to be improving
his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a

rabbit into
its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main

fault, but on the whole
he's a good worker. There's no vice in him."

"He is still with you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of

simple cooking
and keeps the place clean—that's all I have in the

house, for I am a widower
and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir,

the three of us;
and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if

we do nothing
more.

"The first thing that put us out was that

advertisement. Spaulding, he
came down into the office just this day eight weeks,

with this very paper
in his hand, and he says:

"'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a

red-headed man.'

"'Why that?' I asks.

"'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League

of the Redheaded
Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who

gets it, and I
understand that there are more vacancies than there are

men, so that the
trustees are at their wits' end what to do with the

money. If my hair


would only change colour, here's a nice little crib all

ready for me to step
into.'

"'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes,

I am a very
stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead

of my having
to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting

my foot over the
door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what was

going on outside,
and I was always glad of a bit of news.

"'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed

Men?' he
asked with his eyes open.

"'Never.'

"'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself

for one of the
vacancies.'

"'And what are they worth?' I asked.

"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work

is slight, and it
need not interfere very much with one's other

occupations.'

"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up

my ears, for the
business has not been over-good for some years, and an

extra couple of
hundred would have been very handy.

"'Tell me all about it,' said I.

"'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you

can see for yourself
that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address

where you
should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out,

the League was
founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins,

who was very
peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he

had a great
sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it was

found that he
had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees,

with instructions
to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths

to men whose hair is
of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and

very little to do.'

"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed

men who would
apply.'

"'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You

see it is really
confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American

had started
from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the

old town a
good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your

applying if your
hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real

bright, blazing, fiery
red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would

just walk in; but
perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put

yourself out of the
way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.'

"Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for

yourselves, that my
hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed

to me that if there was


to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a

chance as any man
that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know

so much about it
that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered

him to put up the
shutters for the day and to come right away with me. He

was very willing
to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and

started off for the
address that was given us in the advertisement.

"I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr.

Holmes. From
north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade

of red in his hair
had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement.

Fleet Street was
choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked

like a coster's orange
barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in

the whole
country as were brought together by that single

advertisement. Every
shade of colour they were—straw, lemon, orange, brick,

Irish-setter, liver,
clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who

had the real
vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were

waiting, I would
have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not

hear of it. How he
did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled

and butted until he
got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps

which led to the office.
There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up

in hope,
and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well

as we could
and soon found ourselves in the office."

"Your experience has been a most entertaining one,"

remarked Holmes
as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a

huge pinch of
snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

"There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden

chairs and a
deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head

that was even redder
than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he

came up,
and then he always managed to find some fault in them

which would
disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be

such a very easy
matter, after all. However, when our turn came the

little man was much
more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he

closed the door
as we entered, so that he might have a private word

with us.

"'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he

is willing to fill a
vacancy in the League.'

"'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other

answered. 'He has every
requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything

so fine.' He took
a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed

at my hair until
I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward,

wrung my hand,
and congratulated me warmly on my success.


"'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You

will, however, I am
sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' With

that he seized
my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled

with the pain. 'There
is water in your eyes,' said he as he released me. 'I

perceive that all is as it
should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice

been deceived by
wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of

cobbler's wax which
would disgust you with human nature.' He stepped over

to the window
and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the

vacancy was filled.
A groan of disappointment came up from below, and the

folk all trooped
away in different directions until there was not a

red-head to be seen except
my own and that of the manager.

"'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am

myself one of the
pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor.

Are you a married
man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'

"I answered that I had not.

"His face fell immediately.

"'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious

indeed! I am sorry to
hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the

propagation and
spread of the red-heads as well as for their

maintenance. It is exceedingly
unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.'

"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought

that I was not to
have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over

for a few minutes he
said that it would be all right.

"'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection

might be fatal, but we
must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a

head of hair as yours.
When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?'

"'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business

already,' said I.

"'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent

Spaulding. 'I
should be able to look after that for you.'

"'What would be the hours?' I asked.

"'Ten to two.'

"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an

evening, Mr.
Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which

is just before
pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little

in the mornings.
Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and

that he would see
to anything that turned up.

"'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'

"'Is 4 pounds a week.'

"'And the work?'

"'Is purely nominal.'


"'What do you call purely nominal?'

"'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in

the building, the
whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole

position forever. The
will is very clear upon that point. You don't comply

with the conditions
if you budge from the office during that time.'

"'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of

leaving,' said I.

"'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither

sickness nor
business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you

lose your billet.'

"'And the work?'

"'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." There

is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink,

pens, and
blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair.

Will you be ready tomorrow?'


"'Certainly,' I answered.

"'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me

congratulate you once
more on the important position which you have been

fortunate enough
to gain.' He bowed me out of the room and I went home

with my assistant,
hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at

my own good
fortune.

"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by

evening I was in low
spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that

the whole affair must
be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object

might be I could not
imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone

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

anything so simple as
copying out the 'Encyclopaedia Britannica.' Vincent

Spaulding did what
he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned

myself out of the
whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to

have a look at it
anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a

quill-pen, and seven
sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope's

Court.

"Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as

right as possible.
The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross

was there to
see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon

the letter A, and then
he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to

see that all was
right with me. At two o'clock he bade me good-day,

complimented me
upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door

of the office
after me.

"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on

Saturday the manager
came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my

week's
work. It was the same next week, and the same the week

after. Every
morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left

at two. By degrees


Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a

morning, and then,
after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of

course, I never dared to
leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when

he might come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so

well, that I would
not risk the loss of it.

"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written

about Abbots
and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and

hoped with
diligence that I might get on to the B's before very

long. It cost me
something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a

shelf with my
writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to

an end."

"To an end?"

"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my

work as usual
at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with

a little square of
cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a

tack. Here it
is, and you can read for yourself."

He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of

a sheet of notepaper.
It read in this fashion:

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

IS

DISSOLVED.

October 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement

and the rueful
face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so

completely overtopped
every other consideration that we both burst out into a

roar of
laughter.

"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried

our client, flushing
up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can do

nothing better than
laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair

from which he
had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for

the world. It is most
refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse

my saying so,
something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps

did you take when
you found the card upon the door?"

"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then

I called at the offices
round, but none of them seemed to know anything about

it. Finally,
I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on

the ground-floor,
and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of

the Red-headed
League. He said that he had never heard of any such

body. Then I asked
him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name

was new to
him.


"'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'

"'What, the red-headed man?'

"'Yes.'

"'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a

solicitor and
was using my room as a temporary convenience until his

new premises
were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

"'Where could I find him?'

"'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address.

Yes, 17 King Edward
Street, near St. Paul's.'

"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that

address it was a manufactory
of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever

heard of either
Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the

advice of my assistant.
But he could not help me in any way. He could only say

that if I
waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite

good enough, Mr.
Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a

struggle, so, as I
had heard that you were good enough to give advice to

poor folk who
were in need of it, I came right away to you."

"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is

an exceedingly
remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it.

From what you have
told me I think that it is possible that graver issues

hang from it than
might at first sight appear."

"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have

lost four pound a
week."

"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked

Holmes, "I do not
see that you have any grievance against this

extraordinary league. On
the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some

30 pounds, to say
nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained

on every subject
which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing

by them."

"No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who

they are, and
what their object was in playing this prank—if it was a

prank—upon me.
It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost

them two and thirty
pounds."

"We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you.

And, first, one or
two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who

first called your
attention to the advertisement—how long had he been

with you?"

"About a month then."

"How did he come?"

"In answer to an advertisement."


"Was he the only applicant?"

"No, I had a dozen."

"Why did you pick him?"

"Because he was handy and would come cheap."

"At half-wages, in fact."

"Yes."

"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on

his face, though
he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid

upon his forehead."

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement.

"I thought as
much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears

are pierced for
earrings?"

"Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him

when he was a
lad."

"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He

is still with
you?"

"Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."

"And has your business been attended to in your

absence?"

"Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much

to do of a
morning."

"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you

an opinion
upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day

is Saturday, and I
hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

"Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left

us, "what do
you make of it all?"

"I make nothing of it," I answered frankly. "It is a

most mysterious
business."

"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is

the less mysterious
it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless

crimes which are
really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most

difficult to identify.
But I must be prompt over this matter."

"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three pipe

problem, and I beg
that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He

curled himself up in his
chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like

nose, and there he
sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe

thrusting out like the bill
of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that

he had dropped
asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly

sprang out of
his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his

mind and put
his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.


"Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this

afternoon," he remarked.
"What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare

you for a few
hours?"

"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very

absorbing."

"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the

City first,
and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that

there is a good
deal of German music on the programme, which is rather

more to my
taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and

I want to introspect.
Come along!"

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate;

and a short
walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the

singular story
which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky,

little, shabby-
genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied

brick houses looked
out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of

weedy grass and a
few clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight

against a smoke-
laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and

a brown board
with "JABEZ WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner

house, announced
the place where our red-headed client carried on his

business. Sherlock
Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side

and looked it all
over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered

lids. Then he
walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the

corner, still
looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to

the pawnbroker's,
and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with

his stick two
or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It

was instantly
opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow,

who asked him
to step in.

"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how

you would
go from here to the Strand."

"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant

promptly, closing the
door.

"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked

away. "He is, in
my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for

daring I am
not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have

known something of
him before."

"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for

a good deal in
this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that

you inquired your
way merely in order that you might see him."

"Not him."

"What then?"

"The knees of his trousers."


"And what did you see?"

"What I expected to see."

"Why did you beat the pavement?"

"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not

for talk. We are
spies in an enemy's country. We know something of

Saxe-Coburg
Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind

it."

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round

the corner
from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great

a contrast to it as
the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of

the main arteries
which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and

west. The roadway
was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing

in a
double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths

were black with
the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to

realise as we
looked at the line of fine shops and stately business

premises that they
really abutted on the other side upon the faded and

stagnant square
which we had just quitted.

"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and

glancing along
the line, "I should like just to remember the order of

the houses here. It is
a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London.

There is
Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop,

the Coburg
branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian

Restaurant, and
McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us

right on to the other
block. And now, Doctor, we've done our work, so it's

time we had some
play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to

violin-land, where
all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there

are no red-headed
clients to vex us with their conundrums."

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself

not only a very
capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit.

All the afternoon
he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect

happiness, gently
waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music,

while his gently smiling
face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those

of Holmes
the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,

ready-handed
criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his

singular character
the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his

extreme exactness and
astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the

reaction against the
poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally

predominated in
him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme

languor to devouring
energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly

formidable as
when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his

armchair amid his
improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it

was that the lust of


the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his

brilliant reasoning
power would rise to the level of intuition, until those

who were unacquainted
with his methods would look askance at him as on a man
whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I

saw him that afternoon
so enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall I felt

that an evil
time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself

to hunt
down.

"You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as

we
emerged.

"Yes, it would be as well."

"And I have some business to do which will take some

hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every

reason to believe
that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being

Saturday rather
complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night."

"At what time?"

"Ten will be early enough."

"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

"Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some

little danger, so
kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved

his hand,
turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among

the crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours,

but I was always
oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my

dealings with Sherlock
Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen

what he
had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he

saw clearly not
only what had happened but what was about to happen,

while to me the
whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I

drove home to my
house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the

extraordinary story of
the red-headed copier of the "Encyclopaedia" down to

the visit to Saxe-
Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had

parted from
me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should

I go armed?
Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the

hint from
Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant

was a formidable
man—a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle

it out, but
gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until

night should bring an
explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and

made my
way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to

Baker Street. Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the

passage I heard


the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I

found Holmes in
animated conversation with two men, one of whom I

recognised as Peter
Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a

long, thin, sad-faced
man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable

frock-coat.

"Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up

his pea-jacket
and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.

"Watson, I think you
know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you

to Mr. Merry-
weather, who is to be our companion in to-night's

adventure."

"We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said

Jones in his
consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man

for starting a
chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the

running down."

"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our

chase," observed
Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes,

sir," said the
police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods,

which are, if he won't
mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and

fantastic, but he has
the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much

to say that once or
twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the

Agra treasure, he
has been more nearly correct than the official force."

"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said

the stranger with deference.
"Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the

first Saturday
night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my

rubber."

"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that

you will play for a
higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and

that the play will
be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake

will be some
30,000 pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the man

upon whom you
wish to lay your hands."

"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger.

He's a young
man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his

profession, and I
would rather have my bracelets on him than on any

criminal in London.
He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His

grandfather was a royal
duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His

brain is as cunning
as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at

every turn, we
never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a

crib in Scotland
one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in

Cornwall the
next. I've been on his track for years and have never

set eyes on him yet."

"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you

to-night. I've
had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay,

and I agree with you
that he is at the head of his profession. It is past

ten, however, and quite


time that we started. If you two will take the first

hansom, Watson and I
will follow in the second."

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the

long drive
and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had

heard in the afternoon.
We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit

streets until
we emerged into Farrington Street.

"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This

fellow Merry-
weather is a bank director, and personally interested

in the matter. I
thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is

not a bad fellow,
though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has

one positive virtue.
He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a

lobster if he gets his
claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting

for us."

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which

we had
found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were

dismissed, and, following
the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a

narrow passage
and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within

there was
a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron

gate. This also was
opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps,

which terminated
at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to

light a lantern,
and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling

passage, and so,
after opening a third door, into a huge vault or

cellar, which was piled
all round with crates and massive boxes.

"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes

remarked as he
held up the lantern and gazed about him.

"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his

stick upon the
flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds

quite hollow!" he
remarked, looking up in surprise.

"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said

Holmes severely.
"You have already imperilled the whole success of our

expedition. Might
I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon

one of those
boxes, and not to interfere?"

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a

crate, with a
very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes

fell upon his knees
upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying

lens, began to examine
minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds

sufficed to
satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put

his glass in his pocket.

"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for

they can hardly
take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in

bed. Then they will
not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work

the longer time they
will have for their escape. We are at present,

Doctor—as no doubt you


have divined—in the cellar of the City branch of one of

the principal
London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of

directors, and he
will explain to you that there are reasons why the more

daring criminals
of London should take a considerable interest in this

cellar at present."

"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We

have had several
warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

"Your French gold?"

"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our

resources
and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the

Bank of
France. It has become known that we have never had

occasion to unpack
the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar.

The crate upon which I
sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of

lead foil. Our reserve
of bullion is much larger at present than is usually

kept in a single
branch office, and the directors have had misgivings

upon the subject."

"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And

now it is
time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that

within an hour matters
will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather,

we must
put the screen over that dark lantern."

"And sit in the dark?"

"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my

pocket, and I
thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might

have your rubber
after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have

gone so far that we
cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all,

we must choose our
positions. These are daring men, and though we shall

take them at a disadvantage,
they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall
stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves

behind those.
Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly.

If they fire, Watson,
have no compunction about shooting them down."

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the

wooden case behind
which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the

front of his lantern
and left us in pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness

as I have never
before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to

assure us that the
light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment's

notice. To me, with
my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was

something depressing
and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank

air of
the vault.

"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is

back through
the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have

done what I
asked you, Jones?"

"I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the

front door."


"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be

silent and
wait."

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards

it was but
an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the

night must have almost
gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were

weary
and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my

nerves were worked
up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was

so acute that I
could not only hear the gentle breathing of my

companions, but I could
distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky

Jones from the
thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my

position I could look
over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly

my eyes caught the
glint of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone

pavement. Then it
lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then,

without any
warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand

appeared, a white,
almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of

the little area of
light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing

fingers, protruded
out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as

it appeared,
and all was dark again save the single lurid spark

which marked
a chink between the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a

rending, tearing
sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon

its side and
left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the

light of a lantern.
Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face,

which looked
keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side

of the aperture,
drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one

knee rested upon the
edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the

hole and was hauling
after him a companion, lithe and small like himself,

with a pale face and
a shock of very red hair.

"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel

and the bags? Great
Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder

by the collar.
The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of

rending cloth
as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon

the barrel of a revolver,
but Holmes' hunting crop came down on the man's wrist,

and the
pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You

have no chance at
all."

"So I see," the other answered with the utmost

coolness. "I fancy that
my pal is all right, though I see you have got his

coat-tails."


"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said

Holmes.

"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very

completely. I must
compliment you."

"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was

very new
and effective."

"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones.

"He's quicker at
climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I

fix the derbies."

"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy

hands," remarked
our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his

wrists. "You may not be
aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the

goodness, also,
when you address me always to say 'sir' and 'please.'"

"All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger.

"Well, would you
please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to

carry your Highness
to the police-station?"

"That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a

sweeping bow to
the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody

of the detective.

"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we

followed them
from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank

you or repay
you. There is no doubt that you have detected and

defeated in the most
complete manner one of the most determined attempts at

bank robbery
that have ever come within my experience."

"I have had one or two little scores of my own to

settle with Mr. John
Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense

over this matter,
which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond

that I am amply repaid
by having had an experience which is in many ways

unique, and by
hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed

League."

"You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of

the morning as
we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street,

"it was perfectly
obvious from the first that the only possible object of

this rather fantastic
business of the advertisement of the League, and the

copying of the
'Encyclopaedia,' must be to get this not over-bright

pawnbroker out of
the way for a number of hours every day. It was a

curious way of managing
it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a

better. The method
was no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the

colour of his
accomplice's hair. The 4 pounds a week was a lure which

must draw
him, and what was it to them, who were playing for

thousands? They
put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary

office, the other
rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together

they manage to secure
his absence every morning in the week. From the time

that I heard of the


assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to

me that he had

some strong motive for securing the situation."

"But how could you guess what the motive was?"

"Had there been women in the house, I should have

suspected a mere
vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the

question. The man's business
was a small one, and there was nothing in his house

which could
account for such elaborate preparations, and such an

expenditure as they
were at. It must, then, be something out of the house.

What could it be? I
thought of the assistant's fondness for photography,

and his trick of vanishing
into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this

tangled clue.
Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant

and found that I
had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring

criminals in London.
He was doing something in the cellar—something which

took many
hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once

more? I could
think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to

some other
building.

"So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of

action. I surprised
you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was

ascertaining
whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It

was not in front.
Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant

answered it. We have
had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon

each other before.
I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I

wished to see. You
must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and

stained they
were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only

remaining point
was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the

corner, saw the
City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's

premises, and felt that I
had solved my problem. When you drove home after the

concert I called
upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank

directors, with
the result that you have seen."

"And how could you tell that they would make their

attempt tonight?"
I asked.

"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a

sign that they
cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence—in

other words, that
they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential

that they should
use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion

might be removed.
Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as

it would give
them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I

expected them to
come to-night."

"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in

unfeigned admiration.
"It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."


"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas!

I already feel
it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long

effort to escape from
the commonplaces of existence. These little problems

help me to do so."

"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all,

it is of some little
use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien—l'oeuvre c'est

tout,' as Gustave
Flaubert wrote to George Sand."


Part 3
A CASE OF IDENTITY



"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on

either side of the
fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is

infinitely stranger than anything
which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare

to conceive
the things which are really mere commonplaces of

existence. If we
could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over

this great city,
gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer

things which are going
on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the

cross-purposes, the wonderful
chains of events, working through generations, and

leading to the
most outré results, it would make all fiction with its

conventionalities
and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The

cases which come
to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and

vulgar enough. We
have in our police reports realism pushed to its

extreme limits, and yet
the result is, it must be confessed, neither

fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used in

producing a realistic
effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the

police report, where
more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of

the magistrate than
upon the details, which to an observer contain the

vital essence of the
whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so

unnatural as the
commonplace."

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand

your thinking
so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial

adviser and helper to
everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three

continents, you
are brought in contact with all that is strange and

bizarre. But here"—I
picked up the morning paper from the ground—"let us put

it to a practical
test. Here is the first heading upon which I come. 'A

husband's
cruelty to his wife.' There is half a column of print,

but I know without
reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me.

There is, of course, the
other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise,

the sympathetic
sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent

nothing more
crude."

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your

argument," said
Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it.

"This is the Dundas
separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in

clearing up
some small points in connection with it. The husband

was a teetotaler,
there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of

was that he
had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by

taking out his
false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you

will allow, is not an
action likely to occur to the imagination of the

average story-teller. Take


a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have

scored over you in
your example."

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great

amethyst in the
centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast

to his homely ways
and simple life that I could not help commenting upon

it.

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for

some weeks. It is a
little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for

my assistance in
the case of the Irene Adler papers."

"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable

brilliant which
sparkled upon his finger.

"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the

matter in
which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot

confide it even to
you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two

of my little
problems."

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with

interest.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature

of interest.
They are important, you understand, without being

interesting. Indeed, I
have found that it is usually in unimportant matters

that there is a field
for the observation, and for the quick analysis of

cause and effect which
gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes

are apt to be the
simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as

a rule, is the
motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate

matter which has
been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing

which presents any
features of interest. It is possible, however, that I

may have something
better before very many minutes are over, for this is

one of my clients, or
I am much mistaken."

He had risen from his chair and was standing between

the parted
blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London

street. Looking
over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite

there stood a
large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a

large curling
red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in

a coquettish
Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under

this great
panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion

at our windows,
while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her

fingers fidgeted
with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of

the swimmer
who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and

we heard the
sharp clang of the bell.

"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes,

throwing his cigarette
into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always

means an affaire
de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that

the matter is


not too delicate for communication. And yet even here

we may discriminate.
When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no
longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken

bell wire. Here we
may take it that there is a love matter, but that the

maiden is not so much
angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in

person to resolve
our doubts."

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in

buttons
entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the

lady herself
loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed

merchant-man behind
a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with

the easy
courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having

closed the door and
bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the

minute and yet
abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.

"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight

it is a little trying
to do so much typewriting?"

"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where

the letters are
without looking." Then, suddenly realising the full

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

astonishment upon
her broad, good-humoured face. "You've heard about me,

Mr. Holmes,"
she cried, "else how could you know all that?"

"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business

to know
things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what

others overlook. If not,
why should you come to consult me?"

"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs.

Etherege, whose
husband you found so easy when the police and everyone

had given him
up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as

much for me. I'm
not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own

right, besides the
little that I make by the machine, and I would give it

all to know what
has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?"

asked Sherlock
Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to

the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous

face of Miss
Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house,"

she said, "for it
made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.

Windibank—that is,
my father—took it all. He would not go to the police,

and he would not
go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and

kept on saying that
there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on

with my things
and came right away to you."

"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely,

since the name is
different."


"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it

sounds funny, too, for
he is only five years and two months older than

myself."

"And your mother is alive?"

"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best

pleased, Mr. Holmes,
when she married again so soon after father's death,

and a man who was
nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a

plumber in the
Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business

behind him, which
mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when

Mr. Windibank
came he made her sell the business, for he was very

superior, being
a traveller in wines. They got 4700 pounds for the

goodwill and interest,
which wasn't near as much as father could have got if

he had been
alive."

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under

this rambling
and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he

had listened with
the greatest concentration of attention.

"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out

of the business?"

"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by

my uncle Ned in
Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4 1/2 per

cent. Two thousand
five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only

touch the
interest."

"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since

you draw so
large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn

into the bargain,
you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in

every way. I believe
that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an

income of about 60
pounds."

"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but

you understand
that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a

burden to them, and so
they have the use of the money just while I am staying

with them. Of
course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank

draws my interest
every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find

that I can do pretty
well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me

twopence a sheet, and
I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day."

"You have made your position very clear to me," said

Holmes. "This is
my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as

freely as before
myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection

with Mr. Hosmer
Angel."

A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she

picked nervously at
the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the

gasfitters' ball," she said.
"They used to send father tickets when he was alive,

and then afterwards
they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr.

Windibank did not


wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He

would get quite
mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school

treat. But this time I
was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he

to prevent? He
said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all

father's friends were to
be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear,

when I had my
purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of

the drawer. At
last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France

upon the business
of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy,

who used
to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer

Angel."

"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came

back from
France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the

ball."

"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I

remember, and
shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use

denying anything to a
woman, for she would have her way."

"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I

understand, a gentleman
called Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day

to ask if we had
got home all safe, and after that we met him—that is to

say, Mr. Holmes,
I met him twice for walks, but after that father came

back again, and Mr.
Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more."

"No?"

"Well, you know father didn't like anything of the

sort. He wouldn't
have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to

say that a woman
should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as

I used to say to
mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and

I had not got
mine yet."

"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt

to see
you?"

"Well, father was going off to France again in a week,

and Hosmer
wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to

see each other until
he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he

used to write
every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so

there was no need for
father to know."

"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first

walk that we
took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an office in

Leadenhall
Street—and—"

"What office?"

"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."

"Where did he live, then?"


"He slept on the premises."

"And you don't know his address?"

"No—except that it was Leadenhall Street."

"Where did you address your letters, then?"

"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till

called for. He said
that if they were sent to the office he would be

chaffed by all the other
clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered

to typewrite them,
like he did his, but he wouldn't have that, for he said

that when I wrote
them they seemed to come from me, but when they were

typewritten he
always felt that the machine had come between us. That

will just show
you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little

things that he
would think of."

"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long

been an axiom of
mine that the little things are infinitely the most

important. Can you remember
any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather

walk with me
in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that

he hated to be conspicuous.
Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice

was
gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he

was young, he
told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a

hesitating, whispering
fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very

neat and
plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he

wore tinted
glasses against the glare."

"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your

stepfather, returned
to France?"

"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed

that we
should marry before father came back. He was in

dreadful earnest and
made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that

whatever
happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he

was quite right
to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his

passion. Mother was all
in his favour from the first and was even fonder of him

than I was. Then,
when they talked of marrying within the week, I began

to ask about father;
but they both said never to mind about father, but just

to tell him afterwards,
and mother said she would make it all right with him. I

didn't
quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I

should ask his leave,
as he was only a few years older than me; but I didn't

want to do anything
on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the

company has
its French offices, but the letter came back to me on

the very morning of
the wedding."

"It missed him, then?"


"Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it

arrived."

"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged,

then, for the
Friday. Was it to be in church?"

"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St.

Saviour's, near King's
Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the

St. Pancras Hotel.
Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two

of us he put us
both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler,

which happened to
be the only other cab in the street. We got to the

church first, and when
the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step

out, but he never
did, and when the cabman got down from the box and

looked there was
no one there! The cabman said that he could not imagine

what had become
of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes.

That was last
Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard

anything since then
to throw any light upon what became of him."

"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully

treated," said
Holmes.

"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so.

Why, all the
morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I

was to be true;
and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to

separate us, I
was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and

that he would
claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange

talk for a wedding-
morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to

it."

"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then,

that some unforeseen
catastrophe has occurred to him?"

"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or

else he would not
have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw

happened."

"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"

"None."

"One more question. How did your mother take the

matter?"

"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of

the matter
again."

"And your father? Did you tell him?"

"Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something

had happened,
and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said,

what interest could
anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church,

and then leaving
me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had

married me and
got my money settled on him, there might be some

reason, but Hosmer
was very independent about money and never would look

at a shilling
of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why

could he not
write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I

can't sleep a wink at


night." She pulled a little handkerchief out of her

muff and began to sob
heavily into it.

"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes,

rising, "and I have
no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let

the weight of the
matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell

upon it further.
Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your

memory,
as he has done from your life."

"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

"I fear not."

"Then what has happened to him?"

"You will leave that question in my hands. I should

like an accurate
description of him and any letters of his which you can

spare."

"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle,"

said she. "Here is
the slip and here are four letters from him."

"Thank you. And your address?"

"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where

is your
father's place of business?"

"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret

importers of
Fenchurch Street."

"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly.

You will
leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I

have given you.
Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not

allow it to affect
your life."

"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I

shall be true to
Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face,

there was
something noble in the simple faith of our visitor

which compelled our
respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the

table and went her
way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be

summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his

fingertips still
pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of

him, and his gaze directed
upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack

the old
and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor,

and, having lit it, he
leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue

cloud-wreaths spinning up
from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.

"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed.

"I found her
more interesting than her little problem, which, by the

way, is rather a
trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult

my index, in Andover
in '77, and there was something of the sort at The

Hague last year.


Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two

details which were
new to me. But the maiden herself was most

instructive."

"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was

quite invisible
to me," I remarked.

"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know

where to
look, and so you missed all that was important. I can

never bring you to
realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness

of thumb-nails, or
the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now,

what did you
gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it."

"Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw

hat, with a
feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with

black beads sewn
upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments.

Her dress was brown,
rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple

plush at the neck
and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn

through at the right
forefinger. Her boots I didn't observe. She had small

round, hanging
gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly

well-to-do in a vulgar,
comfortable, easy-going way."

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and

chuckled.

"'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along

wonderfully. You have
really done very well indeed. It is true that you have

missed everything
of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and

you have a quick
eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my

boy, but concentrate
yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a

woman's sleeve.
In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of

the trouser. As you
observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which

is a most useful
material for showing traces. The double line a little

above the wrist,
where the typewritist presses against the table, was

beautifully defined.
The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar

mark, but only
on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from

the thumb, instead of
being right across the broadest part, as this was. I

then glanced at her
face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either

side of her nose, I
ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting,

which seemed to
surprise her."

"It surprised me."

"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised

and interested
on glancing down to observe that, though the boots

which she was wearing
were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones;

the one having
a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain

one. One was
buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and

the other at the
first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young

lady, otherwise


neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots,

half-
buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came

away in a hurry."

"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I

always was, by my
friend's incisive reasoning.

"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note

before leaving home
but after being fully dressed. You observed that her

right glove was torn
at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that

both glove and finger
were stained with violet ink. She had written in a

hurry and dipped
her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or

the mark would not
remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing,

though rather elementary,
but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind

reading
me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

I held the little printed slip to the light.

"Missing," it said, "on the morning of the fourteenth,

a gentleman
named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height;

strongly built,
sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the

centre, bushy, black
side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight

infirmity of speech.
Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced

with silk, black
waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed

trousers, with
brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to have

been employed in
an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing—"

"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he

continued, glancing
over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no

clue in them to
Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is

one remarkable
point, however, which will no doubt strike you."

"They are typewritten," I remarked.

"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look

at the neat little
'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see,

but no superscription
except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The

point
about the signature is very suggestive —in fact, we may

call it
conclusive."

"Of what?"

"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how

strongly it bears
upon the case?"

"I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished

to be able to deny
his signature if an action for breach of promise were

instituted."

"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two

letters, which
should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City,

the other is to the
young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him

whether he could
meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening. It is

just as well that we


should do business with the male relatives. And now,

Doctor, we can do
nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we

may put our little
problem upon the shelf for the interim."

I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's

subtle powers of
reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I

felt that he must
have some solid grounds for the assured and easy

demeanour with
which he treated the singular mystery which he had been

called upon to
fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case

of the King of Bohemia
and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked

back to the
weird business of the Sign of Four, and the

extraordinary circumstances
connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it

would be a strange
tangle indeed which he could not unravel.

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe,

with the conviction
that when I came again on the next evening I would find

that he held in
his hands all the clues which would lead up to the

identity of the disappearing
bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.

A professional case of great gravity was engaging my

own attention at
the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the

bedside of the sufferer.
It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found

myself free and
was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker

Street, half afraid
that I might be too late to assist at the dénouement of

the little mystery. I
found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with

his long, thin
form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A

formidable array of
bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell

of hydrochloric
acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical

work which was
so dear to him.

"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.

"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."

"No, no, the mystery!" I cried.

"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been

working upon. There
was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said

yesterday, some
of the details are of interest. The only drawback is

that there is no law, I
fear, that can touch the scoundrel."

"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting

Miss
Sutherland?"

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had

not yet
opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy

footfall in the passage
and a tap at the door.

"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,"

said Holmes. "He
has written to me to say that he would be here at six.

Come in!"


The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow,

some thirty
years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a

bland, insinuating
manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating

grey eyes. He
shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his

shiny top-hat upon the
sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the

nearest chair.

"Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I

think that this
typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an

appointment with
me for six o'clock?"

"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I

am not quite my own
master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has

troubled you
about this little matter, for I think it is far better

not to wash linen of the
sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she

came, but she is a
very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have

noticed, and she is not
easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a

point. Of course, I
did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with

the official police,
but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like

this noised
abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could

you possibly find
this Hosmer Angel?"

"On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have every

reason to believe
that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."

Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his

gloves. "I am delighted
to hear it," he said.

"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a

typewriter has really
quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting.

Unless they are
quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some

letters get more
worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now,

you remark in
this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case

there is some little
slurring over of the 'e,' and a slight defect in the

tail of the 'r.' There are
fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more

obvious."

"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the

office, and no
doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered,

glancing keenly at
Holmes with his bright little eyes.

"And now I will show you what is really a very

interesting study, Mr.
Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing

another little monograph
some of these days on the typewriter and its relation

to crime. It is
a subject to which I have devoted some little

attention. I have here four
letters which purport to come from the missing man.

They are all typewritten.
In each case, not only are the 'e's' slurred and the

'r's' tailless, but
you will observe, if you care to use my magnifying

lens, that the fourteen
other characteristics to which I have alluded are there

as well."


Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his

hat. "I cannot
waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr.

Holmes," he said. "If you
can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you

have done it."

"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the

key in the
door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"

"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to

his lips and
glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

"Oh, it won't do—really it won't," said Holmes suavely.

"There is no
possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite

too transparent, and
it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was

impossible for
me to solve so simple a question. That's right! Sit

down and let us talk it
over."

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face

and a glitter of
moisture on his brow. "It—it's not actionable," he

stammered.

"I am very much afraid that it is not. But between

ourselves, Windibank,
it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a

petty way as
ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the

course of events, and
you will contradict me if I go wrong."

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk

upon his
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck

his feet up on the
corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his

hands in his pockets,
began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to

us.

"The man married a woman very much older than himself

for her
money," said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money

of the daughter as
long as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum,

for people in
their position, and the loss of it would have made a

serious difference. It
was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of

a good, amiable
disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her

ways, so that it
was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and

her little income,
she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her

marriage
would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so

what does her
stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious

course of keeping her at
home and forbidding her to seek the company of people

of her own age.
But soon he found that that would not answer forever.

She became restive,
insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her

positive intention
of going to a certain ball. What does her clever

stepfather do then?
He conceives an idea more creditable to his head than

to his heart. With
the connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised

himself, covered
those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face

with a moustache
and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice

into an insinuating


whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's

short sight, he appears
as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by

making love
himself."

"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We

never thought
that she would have been so carried away."

"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady

was very decidedly
carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that

her stepfather
was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an

instant
entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's

attentions, and
the effect was increased by the loudly expressed

admiration of her mother.
Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that

the matter
should be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect

were to be produced.
There were meetings, and an engagement, which would

finally
secure the girl's affections from turning towards

anyone else. But the deception
could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys

to France
were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to

bring the business
to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave

a permanent impression
upon the young lady's mind and prevent her from looking
upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence

those vows of fidelity
exacted upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions

to a possibility
of something happening on the very morning of the

wedding. James
Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to

Hosmer Angel,
and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to

come, at any rate, she
would not listen to another man. As far as the church

door he brought
her, and then, as he could go no farther, he

conveniently vanished away
by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a

four-wheeler and out at
the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr.

Windibank!"

Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance

while Holmes
had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a

cold sneer upon
his pale face.

"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he,

"but if you are so
very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it

is you who are
breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing

actionable from
the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you

lay yourself open
to an action for assault and illegal constraint."

"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes,

unlocking and
throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who

deserved punishment
more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he

ought to lay
a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he continued,

flushing up at the
sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it is

not part of my duties


to my client, but here's a hunting crop handy, and I

think I shall just treat
myself to—" He took two swift steps to the whip, but

before he could
grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the

stairs, the heavy hall
door banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James

Windibank
running at the top of his speed down the road.

"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes,

laughing, as he
threw himself down into his chair once more. "That

fellow will rise from
crime to crime until he does something very bad, and

ends on a gallows.
The case has, in some respects, been not entirely

devoid of interest."

"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your

reasoning," I remarked.

"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that

this Mr. Hosmer Angel
must have some strong object for his curious conduct,

and it was
equally clear that the only man who really profited by

the incident, as far
as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that

the two men were
never together, but that the one always appeared when

the other was
away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and

the curious
voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the

bushy whiskers. My
suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in

typewriting his
signature, which, of course, inferred that his

handwriting was so familiar
to her that she would recognise even the smallest

sample of it. You see
all these isolated facts, together with many minor

ones, all pointed in the
same direction."

"And how did you verify them?"

"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get

corroboration. I knew
the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the

printed description.
I eliminated everything from it which could be the

result of a disguise—
the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to

the firm, with
a request that they would inform me whether it answered

to the description
of any of their travellers. I had already noticed the

peculiarities of
the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his

business address
asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his

reply was typewritten
and revealed the same trivial but characteristic

defects. The same
post brought me a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of

Fenchurch
Street, to say that the description tallied in every

respect with that of
their employé, James Windibank. Voilà tout!"

"And Miss Sutherland?"

"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may

remember the old Persian
saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger

cub, and
danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a

woman.' There is as
much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge

of the world."


Part 4
THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY



We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I,

when the maid
brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and

ran in this way:

"Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been

wired for from
the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley

tragedy. Shall
be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery

perfect. Leave Paddington
by the 11:15."

"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across

at me. "Will you
go?"

"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long

list at present."

"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have

been looking
a little pale lately. I think that the change would do

you good, and you
are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes'

cases."

"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I

gained through one
of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack

at once, for I have
only half an hour."

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least

had the effect
of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants

were few and
simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a

cab with my valise,
rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes

was pacing up
and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even

gaunter and
taller by his long grey travelling-cloak and

close-fitting cloth cap.

"It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said

he. "It makes a
considerable difference to me, having someone with me

on whom I can
thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless

or else biassed. If
you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the

tickets."

We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense

litter of papers
which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he

rummaged and
read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation,

until we were past
Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a

gigantic ball and tossed
them up onto the rack.

"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.

"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."

"The London press has not had very full accounts. I

have just been
looking through all the recent papers in order to

master the particulars. It
seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple

cases which are so
extremely difficult."

"That sounds a little paradoxical."

"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost

invariably a clue. The
more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more

difficult it is to


bring it home. In this case, however, they have

established a very serious

case against the son of the murdered man."

"It is a murder, then?"

"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing

for granted until I
have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I

will explain the state
of things to you, as far as I have been able to

understand it, in a very few
words.

"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far

from Ross, in Herefordshire.
The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr.

John Turner,
who made his money in Australia and returned some years

ago to the
old country. One of the farms which he held, that of

Hatherley, was let to
Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian.

The men had
known each other in the colonies, so that it was not

unnatural that when
they came to settle down they should do so as near each

other as possible.
Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy

became his
tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of

perfect equality, as
they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a

lad of eighteen,
and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but

neither of them
had wives living. They appear to have avoided the

society of the neighbouring
English families and to have led retired lives, though

both the
McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen

at the race-meetings
of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a man

and a
girl. Turner had a considerable household, some

half-dozen at the least.
That is as much as I have been able to gather about the

families. Now for
the facts.

"On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left

his house at Hatherley
about three in the afternoon and walked down to the

Boscombe
Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out

of the stream
which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out

with his
serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the

man that he
must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to

keep at three.
From that appointment he never came back alive.

"From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe Pool is a

quarter of a
mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this

ground. One was
an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the

other was William
Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner.

Both these witnesses
depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The

game-keeper
adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.

McCarthy pass he had
seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way

with a gun under
his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was

actually in sight at the


time, and the son was following him. He thought no more

of the matter
until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had

occurred.

"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when

William Crowder,
the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool

is thickly
wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds

round the edge. A
girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter

of the lodge-keeper
of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods

picking flowers.
She states that while she was there she saw, at the

border of the wood
and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and

that they appeared
to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy

the elder using
very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter

raise up his hand
as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by

their violence that she
ran away and told her mother when she reached home that

she had left
the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and

that she was
afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly

said the words when
young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say

that he had
found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the

help of the lodge-
keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or

his hat, and his
right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with

fresh blood. On
following him they found the dead body stretched out

upon the grass
beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by

repeated blows of some
heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might

very well have
been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which

was found lying on
the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these

circumstances the
young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of

'wilful murder' having
been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on

Wednesday
brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have

referred the case to the
next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as

they came out before
the coroner and the police-court."

"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I

remarked. "If ever circumstantial
evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here."

"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,"

answered Holmes
thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to

one thing, but if you
shift your own point of view a little, you may find it

pointing in an
equally uncompromising manner to something entirely

different. It must
be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly

grave against the
young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed

the culprit. There are
several people in the neighbourhood, however, and among

them Miss
Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who

believe in his
innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may

recollect in


connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the

case in his interest.
Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case

to me, and hence it
is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward

at fifty miles an
hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at

home."

"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious

that you will find
little credit to be gained out of this case."

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,"

he answered,
laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some

other obvious facts
which may have been by no means obvious to Mr.

Lestrade. You know
me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that

I shall either confirm
or destroy his theory by means which he is quite

incapable of employing,
or even of understanding. To take the first example to

hand, I
very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window

is upon the
right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr.

Lestrade would have
noted even so self-evident a thing as that."

"How on earth—"

"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military

neatness which
characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this

season you
shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less

and less complete as
we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes

positively slovenly
as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very

clear that that side
is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine

a man of your
habits looking at himself in an equal light and being

satisfied with such a
result. I only quote this as a trivial example of

observation and inference.
Therein lies my métier, and it is just possible that it

may be of some service
in the investigation which lies before us. There are

one or two minor
points which were brought out in the inquest, and which

are worth
considering."

"What are they?"

"It appears that his arrest did not take place at once,

but after the return
to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary

informing him
that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not

surprised to hear it,
and that it was no more than his deserts. This

observation of his had the
natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which

might have remained
in the minds of the coroner's jury."

"It was a confession," I ejaculated.

"No, for it was followed by a protestation of

innocence."

"Coming on the top of such a damning series of events,

it was at least a
most suspicious remark."


"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest

rift which I can at
present see in the clouds. However innocent he might

be, he could not be
such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the

circumstances were very
black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own

arrest, or
feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it

as highly suspicious,
because such surprise or anger would not be natural

under the circumstances,
and yet might appear to be the best policy to a

scheming
man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as

either an innocent
man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint

and firmness. As
to his remark about his deserts, it was also not

unnatural if you consider
that he stood beside the dead body of his father, and

that there is no
doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his

filial duty as to
bandy words with him, and even, according to the little

girl whose evidence
is so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him.

The self-reproach
and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear

to me to
be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty

one."

I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far

slighter evidence,"
I remarked.

"So they have. And many men have been wrongfully

hanged."

"What is the young man's own account of the matter?"

"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his

supporters, though there
are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You

will find it here,
and may read it for yourself."

He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local

Herefordshire paper,
and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the

paragraph in
which the unfortunate young man had given his own

statement of what
had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of

the carriage and
read it very carefully. It ran in this way:

"Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was

then called
and gave evidence as follows: 'I had been away from

home for three
days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the

morning of last
Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the

time of my arrival,
and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over

to Ross
with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I

heard the wheels of
his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I

saw him get out
and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not

aware in which direction
he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in

the direction of
the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the

rabbit warren
which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William

Crowder, the
game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but he

is mistaken in


thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea

that he was in
front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I

heard a cry of
"Cooee!" which was a usual signal between my father and

myself. I then
hurried forward, and found him standing by the pool. He

appeared to be
much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly

what I was
doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high

words and almost
to blows, for my father was a man of a very violent

temper. Seeing that
his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and

returned towards
Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards,

however, when I
heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to

run back again. I
found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head

terribly injured.
I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost

instantly
expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then

made my
way to Mr. Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the

nearest, to ask for
assistance. I saw no one near my father when I

returned, and I have no
idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular

man, being
somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he

had, as far as I
know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the

matter.'

"The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you

before he
died?

"Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only

catch some allusion
to a rat.

"The Coroner: What did you understand by that?

"Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that

he was
delirious.

"The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and

your father
had this final quarrel?

"Witness: I should prefer not to answer.

"The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.

"Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I

can assure you that
it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which

followed.

"The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need

not point out to
you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your

case considerably in
any future proceedings which may arise.

"Witness: I must still refuse.

"The Coroner: I understand that the cry of 'Cooee' was

a common signal
between you and your father?

"Witness: It was.

"The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it

before he saw you,
and before he even knew that you had returned from

Bristol?


"Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.

"A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your

suspicions
when you returned on hearing the cry and found your

father fatally
injured?

"Witness: Nothing definite.

"The Coroner: What do you mean?

"Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed

out into the open,
that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet

I have a vague impression
that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to

the left
of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour,

a coat of some
sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I

looked round for
it, but it was gone.

"'Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for

help?'

"'Yes, it was gone.'

"'You cannot say what it was?'

"'No, I had a feeling something was there.'

"'How far from the body?'

"'A dozen yards or so.'

"'And how far from the edge of the wood?'

"'About the same.'

"'Then if it was removed it was while you were within a

dozen yards
of it?'

"'Yes, but with my back towards it.'

"This concluded the examination of the witness."

"I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the

coroner in his
concluding remarks was rather severe upon young

McCarthy. He calls
attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about

his father having
signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal

to give details of
his conversation with his father, and his singular

account of his father's
dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much

against the son."

Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself

out upon the
cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at

some pains," said
he, "to single out the very strongest points in the

young man's favour.
Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for

having too much
imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not

invent a cause of
quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury;

too much, if he
evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so

outré as a dying
reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing

cloth. No, sir, I shall
approach this case from the point of view that what

this young man says
is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will

lead us. And now


here is my pocket Petrarch, and not another word shall

I say of this case
until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at

Swindon, and I see that
we shall be there in twenty minutes."

It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after

passing through the
beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming

Severn, found
ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A

lean, ferret-like
man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon

the platform. In
spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings

which he wore in
deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no

difficulty in recognising
Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the

Hereford Arms
where a room had already been engaged for us.

"I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat

over a cup of tea. "I
knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be

happy until you
had been on the scene of the crime."

"It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes

answered. "It is
entirely a question of barometric pressure."

Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he

said.

"How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not

a cloud in the
sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need

smoking, and the sofa
is very much superior to the usual country hotel

abomination. I do not
think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage

to-night."

Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt,

already formed
your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The

case is as plain as a
pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it

becomes. Still, of
course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very

positive one, too. She has
heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I

repeatedly told her
that there was nothing which you could do which I had

not already
done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the

door."

He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room

one of the
most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my

life. Her violet
eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her

cheeks, all thought of
her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement

and concern.

"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one

to the other
of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition,

fastening upon my
companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I have

driven down to tell
you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and

I want you to start
upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself

doubt upon that
point. We have known each other since we were little

children, and I
know his faults as no one else does; but he is too

tender-hearted to hurt a
fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows

him."


"I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock

Holmes. "You
may rely upon my doing all that I can."

"But you have read the evidence. You have formed some

conclusion?
Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not

yourself think
that he is innocent?"

"I think that it is very probable."

"There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and

looking defiantly
at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my

colleague has
been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he

said.

"But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James

never did it. And
about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the

reason why he would
not speak about it to the coroner was because I was

concerned in it."

"In what way?" asked Holmes.

"It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his

father had many
disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious

that there
should be a marriage between us. James and I have

always loved each
other as brother and sister; but of course he is young

and has seen very
little of life yet, and—and—well, he naturally did not

wish to do anything
like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am

sure, was one of
them."

"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of

such a union?"

"No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy

was in favour
of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face

as Holmes shot
one of his keen, questioning glances at her.

"Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see

your father if I
call to-morrow?"

"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."

"The doctor?"

"Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been

strong for years
back, but this has broken him down completely. He has

taken to his bed,
and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his

nervous system is
shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had

known dad in
the old days in Victoria."

"Ha! In Victoria! That is important."

"Yes, at the mines."

"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand,

Mr. Turner made
his money."

"Yes, certainly."

"Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material

assistance to me."


"You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No

doubt you will
go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr.

Holmes, do tell him that
I know him to be innocent."

"I will, Miss Turner."

"I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses

me so if I leave
him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking."

She hurried
from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we

heard the
wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.

"I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with

dignity after a few
minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which

you are bound
to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I

call it cruel."

"I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,"

said Holmes.
"Have you an order to see him in prison?"

"Yes, but only for you and me."

"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out.

We have still
time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"

"Ample."

"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find

it very slow, but I
shall only be away a couple of hours."

I walked down to the station with them, and then

wandered through
the streets of the little town, finally returning to

the hotel, where I lay
upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a

yellow-backed novel. The
puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when

compared to the deep
mystery through which we were groping, and I found my

attention
wander so continually from the action to the fact, that

I at last flung it
across the room and gave myself up entirely to a

consideration of the
events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young

man's story were
absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what

absolutely unforeseen and
extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the

time when he
parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back

by his
screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something

terrible and deadly.
What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries

reveal something
to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for

the weekly county
paper, which contained a verbatim account of the

inquest. In the
surgeon's deposition it was stated that the posterior

third of the left parietal
bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been

shattered by a
heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon

my own head.
Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind.

That was to
some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen

quarrelling he was
face to face with his father. Still, it did not go for

very much, for the older


man might have turned his back before the blow fell.

Still, it might be
worth while to call Holmes' attention to it. Then there

was the peculiar
dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It

could not be delirium.
A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become

delirious.
No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how

he met his fate.
But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to

find some possible
explanation. And then the incident of the grey cloth

seen by young
McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must have

dropped some part
of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight,

and must have had
the hardihood to return and to carry it away at the

instant when the son
was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces

off. What a tissue of
mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was! I

did not wonder at
Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith in

Sherlock Holmes' insight
that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact

seemed to
strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy's

innocence.

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came

back alone, for
Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he

sat down. "It is of
importance that it should not rain before we are able

to go over the
ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very

best and keenest
for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it

when fagged by a
long journey. I have seen young McCarthy."

"And what did you learn from him?"

"Nothing."

"Could he throw no light?"

"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that

he knew who had
done it and was screening him or her, but I am

convinced now that he is
as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very

quick-witted youth, though
comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart."

"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is

indeed a fact that he
was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady

as this Miss
Turner."

"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow

is madly, insanely,
in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was

only a
lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been

away five years at a
boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into

the clutches of a barmaid
in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one

knows a word
of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it

must be to him to
be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very

eyes to do, but
what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer

frenzy of this


sort which made him throw his hands up into the air

when his father, at
their last interview, was goading him on to propose to

Miss Turner. On
the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself,

and his father,
who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have

thrown him over
utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid

wife that he had
spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father

did not know where he
was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has

come out of evil,
however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that

he is in serious
trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over

utterly and has
written to him to say that she has a husband already in

the Bermuda
Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them.

I think that that bit
of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has

suffered."

"But if he is innocent, who has done it?"

"Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly

to two points.
One is that the murdered man had an appointment with

someone at the
pool, and that the someone could not have been his son,

for his son was
away, and he did not know when he would return. The

second is that
the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he

knew that his son
had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which

the case depends.
And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you

please, and we shall
leave all minor matters until to-morrow."

There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the

morning broke
bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called

for us with the carriage,
and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe

Pool.

"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade

observed. "It is said that
Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is

despaired of."

"An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.

"About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered

by his life abroad,
and he has been in failing health for some time. This

business has had a
very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of

McCarthy's, and, I
may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned

that he gave him
Hatherley Farm rent free."

"Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

"Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him.

Everybody
about here speaks of his kindness to him."

"Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular

that this McCarthy,
who appears to have had little of his own, and to have

been under such
obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying

his son to Turner's
daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate,

and that in such a
very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a

proposal and all


else would follow? It is the more strange, since we

know that Turner
himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as

much. Do you
not deduce something from that?"

"We have got to the deductions and the inferences,"

said Lestrade,
winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts,

Holmes, without
flying away after theories and fancies."

"You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it

very hard to
tackle the facts."

"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find

it difficult to
get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.

"And that is—"

"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy

junior and that
all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said

Holmes, laughing.
"But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley

Farm upon the
left."

"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread,

comfortable-looking building,
two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches

of lichen upon the
grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless

chimneys, however,
gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this

horror still lay heavy
upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at

Holmes' request,
showed us the boots which her master wore at the time

of his death, and
also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he

had then had. Having
measured these very carefully from seven or eight

different points,
Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from which

we all followed
the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon

such a scent
as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and

logician of Baker
Street would have failed to recognise him. His face

flushed and
darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black

lines, while his
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter.

His face was bent
downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and

the veins
stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His

nostrils seemed to
dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his

mind was so absolutely
concentrated upon the matter before him that a question

or remark
fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only

provoked a quick, impatient
snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way

along the
track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of

the woods to
the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is

all that district,
and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path

and amid the


short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes

Holmes would
hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a

little detour
into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the

detective indifferent
and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the

interest
which sprang from the conviction that every one of his

actions was directed
towards a definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of

water some fifty
yards across, is situated at the boundary between the

Hatherley Farm
and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above

the woods which
lined it upon the farther side we could see the red,

jutting pinnacles
which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling.

On the Hatherley
side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there

was a narrow
belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the

edge of the trees
and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us

the exact spot at
which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist

was the ground,
that I could plainly see the traces which had been left

by the fall of the
stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager

face and peering
eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the

trampled grass.
He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and

then turned
upon my companion.

"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be

some weapon or
other trace. But how on earth—"

"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours

with its inward
twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and

there it vanishes
among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been

had I been here
before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed

all over it. Here is
where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they

have covered all
tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here

are three separate
tracks of the same feet." He drew out a lens and lay

down upon his waterproof
to have a better view, talking all the time rather to

himself than
to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was

walking, and once
he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and

the heels hardly
visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw

his father on the
ground. Then here are the father's feet as he paced up

and down. What is
this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son

stood listening. And
this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes!

Square, too, quite unusual
boots! They come, they go, they come again—of course

that was
for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up

and down,
sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we

were well within


the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great

beech, the largest
tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the

farther side of
this and lay down once more upon his face with a little

cry of satisfaction.
For a long time he remained there, turning over the

leaves and
dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust

into an envelope
and examining with his lens not only the ground but

even the bark of the
tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying

among the moss,
and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then

he followed a
pathway through the wood until he came to the highroad,

where all
traces were lost.

"It has been a case of considerable interest," he

remarked, returning to
his natural manner. "I fancy that this grey house on

the right must be the
lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with

Moran, and perhaps
write a little note. Having done that, we may drive

back to our luncheon.
You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you

presently."

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and

drove back
into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone

which he had picked
up in the wood.

"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding

it out. "The
murder was done with it."

"I see no marks."

"There are none."

"How do you know, then?"

"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there

a few days.
There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken.

It corresponds
with the injuries. There is no sign of any other

weapon."

"And the murderer?"

"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg,

wears thick-soled
shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars,

uses a cigar-holder,
and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are

several other indications,
but these may be enough to aid us in our search."

Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a

sceptic," he said.
"Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a

hard-headed British
jury."

"Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your

own method,
and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon,

and shall probably
return to London by the evening train."

"And leave your case unfinished?"

"No, finished."

"But the mystery?"


"It is solved."

"Who was the criminal, then?"

"The gentleman I describe."

"But who is he?"

"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is

not such a populous
neighbourhood."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical

man," he said, "and
I really cannot undertake to go about the country

looking for a left-
handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the

laughing-stock
of Scotland Yard."

"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the

chance. Here are
your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before

I leave."

Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our

hotel, where we
found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and

buried in thought
with a pained expression upon his face, as one who

finds himself in a
perplexing position.

"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared

"just sit down
in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I

don't know quite what
to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar

and let me expound."

"Pray do so."

"Well, now, in considering this case there are two

points about young
McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly,

although they impressed
me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact

that his
father should, according to his account, cry 'Cooee!'

before seeing him.
The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He

mumbled several
words, you understand, but that was all that caught the

son's ear. Now
from this double point our research must commence, and

we will begin
it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely

true."

"What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the

son. The son, as
far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that

he was within
earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the

attention of whoever it was
that he had the appointment with. But 'Cooee' is a

distinctly Australian
cry, and one which is used between Australians. There

is a strong presumption
that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at

Boscombe
Pool was someone who had been in Australia."

"What of the rat, then?"

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and

flattened it
out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of

Victoria," he said. "I


wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand

over part of the map.

"What do you read?"

"ARAT," I read.

"And now?" He raised his hand.

"BALLARAT."

"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of

which his son
only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to

utter the name of his
murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."

"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the

field down considerably.
The possession of a grey garment was a third point

which,
granting the son's statement to be correct, was a

certainty. We have come
now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of

an Australian
from Ballarat with a grey cloak."

"Certainly."

"And one who was at home in the district, for the pool

can only be approached
by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could

hardly
wander."

"Quite so."

"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination

of the
ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to

that imbecile
Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."

"But how did you gain them?"

"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation

of trifles."

"His height I know that you might roughly judge from

the length of
his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their

traces."

"Yes, they were peculiar boots."

"But his lameness?"

"The impression of his right foot was always less

distinct than his left.
He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped—he

was lame."

"But his left-handedness."

"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury

as recorded by
the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from

immediately behind,
and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be

unless it
were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that

tree during the interview
between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I

found
the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of

tobacco ashes enables
me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you

know, devoted some
attention to this, and written a little monograph on

the ashes of 140 different
varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having

found the


ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among

the moss
where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the

variety which are
rolled in Rotterdam."

"And the cigar-holder?"

"I could see that the end had not been in his mouth.

Therefore he used
a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but

the cut was not a
clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."

"Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man

from which
he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human

life as truly as
if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see

the direction in
which all this points. The culprit is—"

"Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the

door of our
sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive

figure. His slow,
limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of

decrepitude,
and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his

enormous limbs
showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of

body and of character.
His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding,

drooping eyebrows
combined to give an air of dignity and power to his

appearance,
but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and

the corners of his
nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear

to me at a glance
that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic

disease.

"Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You

had my note?"

"Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you

wished to see
me here to avoid scandal."

"I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."

"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at

my companion
with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question

was already
answered.

"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the

words. "It is so.
I know all about McCarthy."

The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!"

he cried. "But I
would not have let the young man come to harm. I give

you my word
that I would have spoken out if it went against him at

the Assizes."

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.

"I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear

girl. It would
break her heart—it will break her heart when she hears

that I am
arrested."

"It may not come to that," said Holmes.

"What?"


"I am no official agent. I understand that it was your

daughter who required
my presence here, and I am acting in her interests.

Young
McCarthy must be got off, however."

"I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had

diabetes for years.
My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a

month. Yet I would
rather die under my own roof than in a gaol."

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in

his hand and a
bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth,"

he said. "I shall jot
down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can

witness it. Then I
could produce your confession at the last extremity to

save young
McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless

it is absolutely
needed."

"It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question

whether I shall live to
the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should

wish to spare Alice the
shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it

has been a long
time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.

"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a

devil incarnate.
I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of

such a man as he. His
grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has

blasted my life. I'll
tell you first how I came to be in his power.

"It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a

young chap then, hot-
blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at

anything; I got among
bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my

claim, took to the
bush, and in a word became what you would call over

here a highway
robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free

life of it, sticking up
a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on

the road to the
diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went

under, and our
party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat

Gang.

"One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to

Melbourne, and
we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six

troopers and six of
us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of

their saddles at the
first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however,

before we got the
swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver,

who was this very
man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him

then, but I spared
him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my

face, as though to
remember every feature. We got away with the gold,

became wealthy
men, and made our way over to England without being

suspected. There
I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down

to a quiet and
respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced

to be in the market,
and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to

make up for the


way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and

though my wife died
young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she

was just a baby
her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as

nothing else had
ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and did

my best to make
up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid

his grip upon
me.

"I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met

him in Regent
Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his

foot.

"'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm;

'we'll be as good
as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son,

and you can have
the keeping of us. If you don't—it's a fine,

law-abiding country is England,
and there's always a policeman within hail.'

"Well, down they came to the west country, there was no

shaking
them off, and there they have lived rent free on my

best land ever since.
There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness;

turn where I would,
there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It

grew worse as Alice
grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her

knowing my past than
of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and

whatever it was I
gave him without question, land, money, houses, until

at last he asked a
thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.

"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl,

and as I was
known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to

him that his lad
should step into the whole property. But there I was

firm. I would not
have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had

any dislike to the
lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I

stood firm.
McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We

were to meet at
the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.

"When I went down there I found him talking with his

son, so I
smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should

be alone. But as
I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in

me seemed to come
uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter

with as little
regard for what she might think as if she were a slut

from off the streets.
It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held

most dear should be in
the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the

bond? I was
already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of

mind and fairly
strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But

my memory and
my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence

that foul tongue. I did
it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have

sinned, I have led a
life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl

should be entangled in
the same meshes which held me was more than I could

suffer. I struck

83


him down with no more compunction than if he had been

some foul and
venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had

gained the cover
of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch

the cloak which I
had dropped in my flight. That is the true story,

gentlemen, of all that
occurred."

"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as

the old man
signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray

that we may
never be exposed to such a temptation."

"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"

"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself

aware that you will
soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court

than the Assizes. I
will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned

I shall be
forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by

mortal eye; and your
secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe

with us."

"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own

deathbeds,
when they come, will be the easier for the thought of

the peace which
you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all

his giant frame, he
stumbled slowly from the room.

"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why

does fate play
such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of

such a case as this
that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There,

but for the grace of
God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'"

James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the

strength of a
number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes

and submitted
to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven

months after
our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every

prospect that the
son and daughter may come to live happily together in

ignorance of the
black cloud which rests upon their past.


Part 5
THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS



When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock

Holmes cases
between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many

which present
strange and interesting features that it is no easy

matter to know which
to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have

already gained publicity
through the papers, and others have not offered a field

for those
peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high

a degree, and
which it is the object of these papers to illustrate.

Some, too, have baffled
his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives,

beginnings without an
ending, while others have been but partially cleared

up, and have their
explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise

than on that
absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There

is, however, one
of these last which was so remarkable in its details

and so startling in its
results that I am tempted to give some account of it in

spite of the fact
that there are points in connection with it which never

have been, and
probably never will be, entirely cleared up.

The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases

of greater or less
interest, of which I retain the records. Among my

headings under this
one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of

the Paradol
Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a

luxurious club
in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the

facts connected with
the loss of the British barque "Sophy Anderson", of the

singular adventures
of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and

finally of the Camberwell
poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered,

Sherlock
Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man's watch, to

prove that it
had been wound up two hours before, and that therefore

the deceased
had gone to bed within that time—a deduction which was

of the greatest
importance in clearing up the case. All these I may

sketch out at some future
date, but none of them present such singular features

as the strange
train of circumstances which I have now taken up my pen

to describe.

It was in the latter days of September, and the

equinoctial gales had set
in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had

screamed and the rain
had beaten against the windows, so that even here in

the heart of great,
hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for

the instant
from the routine of life and to recognise the presence

of those great elemental
forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his

civilisation,
like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the

storm grew
higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a

child in the
chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the

fireplace cross-
indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was

deep in one of
Clark Russell's fine sea-stories until the howl of the

gale from without


seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the

rain to lengthen out
into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a

visit to her
mother's, and for a few days I was a dweller once more

in my old quarters
at Baker Street.

"Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was

surely the bell.
Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours,

perhaps?"

"Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not

encourage
visitors."

"A client, then?"

"If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring

a man out on such
a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is

more likely to be some
crony of the landlady's."

Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however,

for there came
a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He

stretched out his long
arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the

vacant chair
upon which a newcomer must sit.

"Come in!" said he.

The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at

the
outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something

of refinement
and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella

which he held in his
hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the

fierce weather through
which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the

glare of the
lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his

eyes heavy, like
those of a man who is weighed down with some great

anxiety.

"I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden

pince-nez to his
eyes. "I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I

have brought some
traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber."

"Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes. "They

may rest here
on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up

from the
south-west, I see."

"Yes, from Horsham."

"That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe

caps is quite
distinctive."

"I have come for advice."

"That is easily got."

"And help."

"That is not always so easy."

"I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major

Prendergast
how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."

"Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating

at cards."


"He said that you could solve anything."

"He said too much."

"That you are never beaten."

"I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and

once by a
woman."

"But what is that compared with the number of your

successes?"

"It is true that I have been generally successful."

"Then you may be so with me."

"I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and

favour me with
some details as to your case."

"It is no ordinary one."

"None of those which come to me are. I am the last

court of appeal."

"And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your

experience, you have ever
listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of

events than those
which have happened in my own family."

"You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us

the essential
facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards

question you as to
those details which seem to me to be most important."

The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet

feet out towards
the blaze.

"My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own

affairs have, as
far as I can understand, little to do with this awful

business. It is a hereditary
matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I

must go back to
the commencement of the affair.

"You must know that my grandfather had two sons—my

uncle Elias
and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at

Coventry, which
he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling.

He was a patentee
of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met

with such success
that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a

handsome
competence.

"My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a

young man and
became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to

have done very
well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's

army, and afterwards
under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee

laid down his
arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he

remained for three
or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to

Europe and took a
small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a

very considerable
fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them

was his aversion to
the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy

in extending the
franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and

quick-tempered,


very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most

retiring disposition.
During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt

if ever he set
foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three

fields round his
house, and there he would take his exercise, though

very often for weeks
on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great

deal of brandy
and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society

and did not want
any friends, not even his own brother.

"He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for

at the time when
he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This

would be in the
year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in

England. He begged
my father to let me live with him and he was very kind

to me in his way.
When he was sober he used to be fond of playing

backgammon and
draughts with me, and he would make me his

representative both with
the servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the

time that I was sixteen
I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys

and could go
where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not

disturb him in his
privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for

he had a single
room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was

invariably locked,
and which he would never permit either me or anyone

else to enter.
With a boy's curiosity I have peeped through the

keyhole, but I was never
able to see more than such a collection of old trunks

and bundles as
would be expected in such a room.

"One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with a foreign

stamp lay
upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was

not a common thing
for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid

in ready money, and
he had no friends of any sort. 'From India!' said he as

he took it up,
'Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?' Opening it

hurriedly, out
there jumped five little dried orange pips, which

pattered down upon his
plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was

struck from my lips at
the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes

were protruding, his skin
the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope

which he still held in
his trembling hand, 'K. K. K.!' he shrieked, and then,

'My God, my God,
my sins have overtaken me!'

"'What is it, uncle?' I cried.

"'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired

to his room, leaving
me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and

saw scrawled
in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the

letter K three
times repeated. There was nothing else save the five

dried pips. What
could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left

the breakfast-table,
and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with

an old rusty


key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one

hand, and a small
brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.

"'They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them

still,' said he
with an oath. 'Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my

room to-day, and
send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.'

"I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was

asked to step
up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in

the grate there was
a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper,

while the brass box
stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box

I noticed, with a
start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which

I had read in the
morning upon the envelope.

"'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my

will. I leave my estate,
with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to

my brother,
your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you.

If you can enjoy it
in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take

my advice, my boy,
and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to

give you such a two-
edged thing, but I can't say what turn things are going

to take. Kindly
sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.'

"I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it

away with him.
The singular incident made, as you may think, the

deepest impression
upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way

in my mind
without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could

not shake off the
vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the

sensation grew
less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to

disturb the usual
routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle,

however. He drank
more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort

of society. Most of
his time he would spend in his room, with the door

locked upon the inside,
but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken

frenzy and
would burst out of the house and tear about the garden

with a revolver
in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no

man, and that he was
not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or

devil. When these
hot fits were over, however, he would rush tumultuously

in at the door
and lock and bar it behind him, like a man who can

brazen it out no
longer against the terror which lies at the roots of

his soul. At such times
I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with

moisture, as though
it were new raised from a basin.

"Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and

not to abuse
your patience, there came a night when he made one of

those drunken
sallies from which he never came back. We found him,

when we went to
search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed

pool, which lay


at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any

violence, and the water
was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard

to his known
eccentricity, brought in a verdict of 'suicide.' But I,

who knew how he
winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to

persuade myself
that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter

passed,
however, and my father entered into possession of the

estate, and of
some 14,000 pounds, which lay to his credit at the

bank."

"One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I

foresee, one
of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened.

Let me have the
date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and

the date of his supposed
suicide."

"The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was

seven weeks
later, upon the night of May 2nd."

"Thank you. Pray proceed."

"When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at

my request,
made a careful examination of the attic, which had been

always locked
up. We found the brass box there, although its contents

had been destroyed.
On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the

initials of

K. K. K. repeated upon it, and 'Letters, memoranda,

receipts, and a register'
written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the

nature of the
papers which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw.

For the rest,
there was nothing of much importance in the attic save

a great many
scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle's

life in America.
Some of them were of the war time and showed that he

had done his
duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier.

Others were of a
date during the reconstruction of the Southern states,

and were mostly
concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a

strong part in opposing
the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from

the
North.
"Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came

to live at Horsham,
and all went as well as possible with us until the

January of '85.
On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father

give a sharp cry
of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table.

There he was, sitting
with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried

orange pips in
the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always

laughed at what
he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but

he looked very
scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come

upon himself.

"'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he

stammered.
"My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' said I.



"He looked inside the envelope. 'So it is,' he cried.

'Here are the very
letters. But what is this written above them?'

"'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peeping over

his shoulder.

"'What papers? What sundial?' he asked.

"'The sundial in the garden. There is no other,' said

I; 'but the papers
must be those that are destroyed.'

"'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. 'We are

in a civilised
land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind.

Where does the
thing come from?'

"'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.

"'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. 'What

have I to do with
sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such

nonsense.'

"'I should certainly speak to the police,' I said.

"'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'

"'Then let me do so?'

"'No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such

nonsense.'

"It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very

obstinate man. I
went about, however, with a heart which was full of

forebodings.

"On the third day after the coming of the letter my

father went from
home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who

is in command of
one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that

he should go, for it
seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he

was away from
home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second

day of his absence
I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to

come at
once. My father had fallen over one of the deep

chalk-pits which abound
in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a

shattered skull. I
hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever

recovered his
consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning

from Fareham in the
twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and

the chalk-pit unfenced,
the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of

'death from
accidental causes.' Carefully as I examined every fact

connected with his
death, I was unable to find anything which could

suggest the idea of
murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks,

no robbery, no
record of strangers having been seen upon the roads.

And yet I need not
tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I

was well-nigh certain
that some foul plot had been woven round him.

"In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You

will ask me why I
did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well

convinced that our
troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in

my uncle's
life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one

house as in another.


"It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his

end, and two years
and eight months have elapsed since then. During that

time I have lived
happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this

curse had passed
away from the family, and that it had ended with the

last generation. I
had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday

morning the
blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon

my father."

The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled

envelope, and
turning to the table he shook out upon it five little

dried orange pips.

"This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is

Lon-
don—eastern division. Within are the very words which

were upon my
father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the

papers on the sundial.'"

"What have you done?" asked Holmes.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"To tell the truth"—he sank his face into his thin,

white hands—"I have
felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor

rabbits when the snake is
writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some

resistless, inexorable
evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard

against."

"Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man,

or you are lost.
Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for

despair."

"I have seen the police."

"Ah!"

"But they listened to my story with a smile. I am

convinced that the inspector
has formed the opinion that the letters are all

practical jokes, and
that the deaths of my relations were really accidents,

as the jury stated,
and were not to be connected with the warnings."

Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible

imbecility!" he
cried.

"They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may

remain in
the house with me."

"Has he come with you to-night?"

"No. His orders were to stay in the house."

Again Holmes raved in the air.

"Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, above all,

why did you not
come at once?"

"I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to

Major Prendergast
about my troubles and was advised by him to come to

you."

"It is really two days since you had the letter. We

should have acted
before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose,

than that which
you have placed before us—no suggestive detail which

might help us?"


"There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He rummaged

in his coat
pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured,

blue-tinted paper, he
laid it out upon the table. "I have some remembrance,"

said he, "that on
the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that

the small, unburned
margins which lay amid the ashes were of this

particular colour.
I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room,

and I am inclined to
think that it may be one of the papers which has,

perhaps, fluttered out
from among the others, and in that way has escaped

destruction. Beyond
the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us

much. I think myself that
it is a page from some private diary. The writing is

undoubtedly my
uncle's."

Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet

of paper,
which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been

torn from a
book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were

the following enigmatical
notices:

"4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.

"7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John

Swain, of St.
Augustine.

"9th. McCauley cleared.

"10th. John Swain cleared.

"12th. Visited Paramore. All well."

"Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and

returning it to
our visitor. "And now you must on no account lose

another instant. We
cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told

me. You must get
home instantly and act."

"What shall I do?"

"There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once.

You must put
this piece of paper which you have shown us into the

brass box which
you have described. You must also put in a note to say

that all the other
papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the

only one which
remains. You must assert that in such words as will

carry conviction
with them. Having done this, you must at once put the

box out upon the
sundial, as directed. Do you understand?"

"Entirely."

"Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at

present. I think
that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have

our web to
weave, while theirs is already woven. The first

consideration is to remove
the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is

to clear up
the mystery and to punish the guilty parties."


"I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling

on his overcoat.
"You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall

certainly do as you
advise."

"Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of

yourself in the
meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt

that you are
threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do

you go back?"

"By train from Waterloo."

"It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I

trust that you may
be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too

closely."

"I am armed."

"That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your

case."

"I shall see you at Horsham, then?"

"No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I

shall seek it."

"Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days,

with news as to
the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in

every particular." He
shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the

wind still screamed
and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows.

This strange,
wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad

elements—
blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and

now to
have been reabsorbed by them once more.

Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his

head sunk forward
and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then

he lit his
pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue

smoke-rings as
they chased each other up to the ceiling.

"I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all

our cases we have
had none more fantastic than this."

"Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."

"Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John

Openshaw seems to
me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the

Sholtos."

"But have you," I asked, "formed any definite

conception as to what
these perils are?"

"There can be no question as to their nature," he

answered.

"Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does

he pursue
this unhappy family?"

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows

upon the arms
of his chair, with his finger-tips together. "The ideal

reasoner," he remarked,
"would, when he had once been shown a single fact in

all its
bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of

events which led up to
it but also all the results which would follow from it.

As Cuvier could
correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation

of a single bone,


so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link

in a series of incidents
should be able to accurately state all the other ones,

both before
and after. We have not yet grasped the results which

the reason alone
can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study

which have baffled all
those who have sought a solution by the aid of their

senses. To carry the
art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary

that the reasoner should
be able to utilise all the facts which have come to his

knowledge; and this
in itself implies, as you will readily see, a

possession of all knowledge,
which, even in these days of free education and

encyclopaedias, is a
somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible,

however, that a
man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be

useful to him in
his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do.

If I remember
rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our

friendship, defined
my limits in a very precise fashion."

"Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singular

document. Philosophy,
astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I

remember. Botany variable,
geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any

region within
fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy

unsystematic, sensational
literature and crime records unique, violin-player,

boxer, swordsman,
lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco.

Those, I think,
were the main points of my analysis."

Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he said, "I

say now, as I said
then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic

stocked with all the furniture
that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away

in the lumber-
room of his library, where he can get it if he wants

it. Now, for such a
case as the one which has been submitted to us

to-night, we need certainly
to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me down the

letter K of
the 'American Encyclopaedia' which stands upon the

shelf beside you.
Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see

what may be deduced
from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong

presumption
that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for

leaving America.
Men at his time of life do not change all their habits

and exchange
willingly the charming climate of Florida for the

lonely life of an English
provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in

England suggests the
idea that he was in fear of someone or something, so we

may assume as
a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or

something which
drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we

can only deduce
that by considering the formidable letters which were

received by
himself and his successors. Did you remark the

postmarks of those
letters?"


"The first was from Pondicherry, the second from

Dundee, and the
third from London."

"From East London. What do you deduce from that?"

"They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of

a ship."

"Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no

doubt that the
probability—the strong probability—is that the writer

was on board of a
ship. And now let us consider another point. In the

case of Pondicherry,
seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its

fulfilment, in Dundee it
was only some three or four days. Does that suggest

anything?"

"A greater distance to travel."

"But the letter had also a greater distance to come."

"Then I do not see the point."

"There is at least a presumption that the vessel in

which the man or
men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always

send their singular
warning or token before them when starting upon their

mission. You see
how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came

from Dundee. If
they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would

have arrived
almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of

fact, seven weeks
elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the

difference
between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the

sailing vessel
which brought the writer."

"It is possible."

"More than that. It is probable. And now you see the

deadly urgency
of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to

caution. The blow
has always fallen at the end of the time which it would

take the senders
to travel the distance. But this one comes from London,

and therefore we
cannot count upon delay."

"Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless

persecution?"

"The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of

vital importance
to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think

that it is quite
clear that there must be more than one of them. A

single man could not
have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive

a coroner's jury.
There must have been several in it, and they must have

been men of resource
and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be

the holder
of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases

to be the initials
of an individual and becomes the badge of a society."

"But of what society?"

"Have you never—" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward

and sinking
his voice—"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"

"I never have."


Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his

knee. "Here it is,"
said he presently:

"'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful

resemblance to the
sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret

society was
formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern

states after the
Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in

different parts of the
country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the

Carolinas, Georgia, and
Florida. Its power was used for political purposes,

principally for the terrorising
of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from

the
country of those who were opposed to its views. Its

outrages were usually
preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some

fantastic but
generally recognised shape—a sprig of oak-leaves in

some parts, melon
seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the

victim might either
openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the

country. If he
braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come

upon him, and
usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So

perfect was the organisation
of the society, and so systematic its methods, that

there is
hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in

braving it with
impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced

home to the perpetrators.
For some years the organisation flourished in spite of

the efforts
of the United States government and of the better

classes of the
community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869,

the movement
rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been

sporadic outbreaks
of the same sort since that date.'

"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the

volume, "that the
sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with

the disappearance
of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well

have
been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his

family have some
of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You

can understand that
this register and diary may implicate some of the first

men in the South,
and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at

night until it is
recovered."

"Then the page we have seen—"

"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember

right, 'sent the pips
to A, B, and C'—that is, sent the society's warning to

them. Then there
are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left

the country, and finally
that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for

C. Well, I think,
Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark

place, and I believe that
the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is

to do what I
have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to

be done to-night, so


hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for

half an hour the
miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of

our fellow-men."

It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining

with a subdued
brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the

great city. Sherlock
Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.

"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he;

"I have, I foresee,
a very busy day before me in looking into this case of

young
Openshaw's."

"What steps will you take?" I asked.

"It will very much depend upon the results of my first

inquiries. I may
have to go down to Horsham, after all."

"You will not go there first?"

"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell

and the maid
will bring up your coffee."

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the

table and
glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which

sent a chill to my
heart.

"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."

"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much.

How was it
done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was

deeply moved.

"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading

'Tragedy
Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:

"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook,

of the H Division,
on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and

a splash in
the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and

stormy, so that,
in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was

quite impossible to effect
a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the

aid of the water-police,
the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that

of a young
gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope

which was
found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose

residence is near
Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been

hurrying down to
catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in

his haste and the
extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the

edge of one of
the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body

exhibited no
traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the

deceased had been
the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should

have the effect of
calling the attention of the authorities to the

condition of the riverside
landing-stages."

We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more

depressed and
shaken than I had ever seen him.


"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is

a petty feeling, no
doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal

matter with me now,
and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon

this gang. That he
should come to me for help, and that I should send him

away to his
death—!" He sprang from his chair and paced about the

room in uncontrollable
agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a

nervous
clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.

"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last.

"How could they
have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on

the direct line
to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded,

even on such a
night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see

who will win in the
long run. I am going out now!"

"To the police?"

"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web

they may
take the flies, but not before."

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it

was late in the
evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock

Holmes had not come
back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he entered,

looking pale and
worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a

piece from the loaf
he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long

draught of
water.

"You are hungry," I remarked.

"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing

since
breakfast."

"Nothing?"

"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."

"And how have you succeeded?"

"Well."

"You have a clue?"

"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw

shall not
long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their

own devilish
trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"

"What do you mean?"

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to

pieces he
squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took

five and thrust
them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he

wrote "S. H. for J. O."
Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain James

Calhoun, Barque
'Lone Star,' Savannah, Georgia."


"That will await him when he enters port," said he,

chuckling. "It may
give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a

precursor of his fate
as Openshaw did before him."

"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but

he first."

"How did you trace it, then?"

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all

covered with dates
and names.

"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's

registers and files
of the old papers, following the future career of every

vessel which
touched at Pondicherry in January and February in '83.

There were
thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported

there during those
months. Of these, one, the 'Lone Star,' instantly

attracted my attention,
since, although it was reported as having cleared from

London, the name
is that which is given to one of the states of the

Union."

"Texas, I think."

"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the

ship must have
an American origin."

"What then?"

"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that

the barque
'Lone Star' was there in January, '85, my suspicion

became a certainty. I
then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in

the port of
London."

"Yes?"

"The 'Lone Star' had arrived here last week. I went

down to the Albert
Dock and found that she had been taken down the river

by the early tide
this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to

Gravesend and
learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the

wind is easterly I
have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not

very far from
the Isle of Wight."

"What will you do, then?"

"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are

as I learn,
the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others

are Finns and
Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away

from the ship last
night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading

their cargo. By
the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the

mail-boat will have
carried this letter, and the cable will have informed

the police of Savannah
that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a

charge of
murder."


There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of

human plans, and the
murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the

orange pips
which would show them that another, as cunning and as

resolute as
themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very

severe were the
equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of

the "Lone Star" of
Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear

that somewhere
far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a

boat was seen swinging
in the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S."

carved upon it, and that is
all which we shall ever know of the fate of the "Lone

Star."


Part 6
THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP



Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D.,

Principal of the
Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted

to opium. The
habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish

freak when he
was at college; for having read De Quincey's

description of his dreams
and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with

laudanum in an attempt
to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more

have
done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get

rid of, and for many
years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object

of mingled horror
and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him

now, with yellow,
pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all

huddled in a chair,
the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night—it was in June, '89—there came a ring to my

bell, about the
hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the

clock. I sat up in
my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her

lap and made a
little face of disappointment.

"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then

quick steps
upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady,

clad in some
dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the

room.

"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and

then, suddenly
losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her

arms about my wife's
neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such

trouble!" she cried;
"I do so want a little help."

"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate

Whitney. How you
startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when

you came in."

"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you."

That was always
the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like

birds to a lighthouse.


"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have

some wine
and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all

about it. Or should
you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too.

It's about Isa. He
has not been home for two days. I am so frightened

about him!"

It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of

her husband's
trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend

and school companion.
We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could

find.
Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible

that we could
bring him back to her?


It seems that it was. She had the surest information

that of late he had,
when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in

the farthest east
of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been

confined to one day, and
he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the

evening. But now the
spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he

lay there, doubtless
among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison

or sleeping off
the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of

it, at the Bar of
Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do?

How could she,
a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place

and pluck
her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded

him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way

out of it.
Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a

second thought, why
should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical

adviser, and as such
I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I

were alone. I promised
her on my word that I would send him home in a cab

within two
hours if he were indeed at the address which she had

given me. And so
in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery

sitting-room behind
me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange

errand, as it
seemed to me at the time, though the future only could

show how
strange it was to be.

But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of

my adventure.
Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the

high wharves
which line the north side of the river to the east of

London Bridge.
Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a

steep flight of
steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a

cave, I found the
den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait,

I passed down
the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless

tread of drunken
feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above

the door I found the
latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and

heavy with the
brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths,

like the forecastle
of an emigrant ship.

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of

bodies lying in
strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees,

heads thrown
back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a

dark, lack-lustre
eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows

there
glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now

faint, as the burning
poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.

The most lay silent,
but some muttered to themselves, and others talked

together in a
strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation

coming in gushes,
and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each

mumbling out his own


thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his

neighbour. At the
farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal,

beside which on a
three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old

man, with his jaw
resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his

knees, staring into
the fire.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up

with a pipe for
me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty

berth.

"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is

a friend of mine
here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right,

and peering
through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and

unkempt,
staring out at me.

"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable

state of reaction,
with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what

o'clock is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Of what day?"

"Of Friday, June 19th."

"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is

Wednesday. What
d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face

onto his arms and
began to sob in a high treble key.

"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been

waiting this two
days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only

been here a
few hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many.

But I'll go home
with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate—poor little Kate.

Give me your hand!
Have you a cab?"

"Yes, I have one waiting."

"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find

what I owe,
Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for

myself."

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row

of sleepers,
holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying

fumes of the
drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed

the tall man who
sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt,

and a low voice
whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me."

The words fell
quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They

could only have
come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as

absorbed as
ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium

pipe dangling
down from between his knees, as though it had dropped

in sheer lassitude
from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked

back. It took
all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out

into a cry of


astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could

see him but I.
His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the

dull eyes had regained
their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning

at my surprise,
was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight

motion to
me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his

face half round to
the company once more, subsided into a doddering,

loose-lipped
senility.

"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in

this den?"

"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent

ears. If you would
have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish

friend of yours I should
be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."

"I have a cab outside."

"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust

him, for he appears
to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should

recommend you
also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say

that you have
thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I

shall be with you
in five minutes."

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes'

requests, for they
were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward

with such a quiet
air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was

once confined in
the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and

for the rest, I
could not wish anything better than to be associated

with my friend in
one of those singular adventures which were the normal

condition of his
existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid

Whitney's bill,
led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the

darkness. In a
very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the

opium den, and I
was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For

two streets he
shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.

Then, glancing
quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst

into a hearty fit of
laughter.

"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I

have added
opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other

little weaknesses
on which you have favoured me with your medical views."

"I was certainly surprised to find you there."

"But not more so than I to find you."

"I came to find a friend."

"And I to find an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my

natural prey.
Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable

inquiry, and I


have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings

of these sots, as I
have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den

my life would
not have been worth an hour's purchase; for I have used

it before now
for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs

it has sworn to
have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the

back of that building,
near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some

strange tales
of what has passed through it upon the moonless

nights."

"What! You do not mean bodies?"

"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had

1000 pounds
for every poor devil who has been done to death in that

den. It is the
vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear

that Neville St. Clair
has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap

should be here." He
put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled

shrilly—a signal
which was answered by a similar whistle from the

distance, followed
shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of

horses' hoofs.

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed

up through the
gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light

from its side lanterns.
"You'll come with me, won't you?"

"If I can be of use."

"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a

chronicler still more so.
My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

"The Cedars?"

"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there

while I conduct
the inquiry."

"Where is it, then?"

"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before

us."

"But I am all in the dark."

"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently.

Jump up here.
All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a

crown. Look out for
me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long,

then!"

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away

through the
endless succession of sombre and deserted streets,

which widened
gradually, until we were flying across a broad

balustraded bridge, with
the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond

lay another dull
wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken

only by the heavy,
regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and

shouts of some belated
party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly

across the sky,
and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through

the rifts of the
clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk

upon his breast, and
the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat

beside him, curious to


learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax

his powers so
sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of

his thoughts. We
had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to

the fringe of the
belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself,

shrugged his shoulders,
and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has

satisfied himself that he
is acting for the best.

"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he.

"It makes you quite
invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great

thing for me to
have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not

over-pleasant. I
was wondering what I should say to this dear little

woman to-night
when she meets me at the door."

"You forget that I know nothing about it."

"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the

case before we get to
Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can

get nothing to go
upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't

get the end of it into
my hand. Now, I'll state the case clearly and concisely

to you, Watson,
and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me."

"Proceed, then."

"Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came

to Lee a
gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to

have plenty of
money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very

nicely, and lived
generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in

the neighbourhood,
and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer,

by whom
he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was

interested in
several companies and went into town as a rule in the

morning, returning
by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St.

Clair is now
thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate

habits, a good husband,
a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular

with all who know
him. I may add that his whole debts at the present

moment, as far as we
have been able to ascertain, amount to 88 pounds 10s.,

while he has 220
pounds standing to his credit in the Capital and

Counties Bank. There is
no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have

been weighing
upon his mind.

"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town

rather earlier than
usual, remarking before he started that he had two

important commissions
to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home

a box of
bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a

telegram upon
this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to

the effect that a
small parcel of considerable value which she had been

expecting was
waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping

Company. Now,


if you are well up in your London, you will know that

the office of the
company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of

Upper Swandam
Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had

her lunch, started
for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the

company's office, got
her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking

through Swandam
Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed

me so far?"

"It is very clear."

"If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day,

and Mrs. St.
Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of

seeing a cab, as she
did not like the neighbourhood in which she found

herself. While she
was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly

heard an
ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her

husband looking down
at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from

a second-floor window.
The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face,

which she
describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his

hands frantically to
her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that

it seemed to
her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible

force from behind.
One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye

was that
although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started

to town in, he
had on neither collar nor necktie.

"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she

rushed down the
steps—for the house was none other than the opium den

in which you
found me to-night—and running through the front room

she attempted
to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At

the foot of the stairs,
however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have

spoken, who
thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as

assistant there, pushed
her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening

doubts and fears,
she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met

in Fresno Street
a number of constables with an inspector, all on their

way to their beat.
The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in

spite of the
continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their

way to the room
in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no

sign of him there.
In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to

be found save a
crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made

his home there.
Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one else

had been in the
front room during the afternoon. So determined was

their denial that the
inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe

that Mrs. St.
Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at

a small deal box
which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out

there fell a cascade
of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had

promised to bring home.


"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the

cripple showed,
made the inspector realise that the matter was serious.

The rooms were
carefully examined, and results all pointed to an

abominable crime. The
front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and

led into a small
bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the

wharves.
Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow

strip, which is
dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at

least four and a half
feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and

opened from
below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen

upon the windowsill,
and several scattered drops were visible upon the

wooden floor
of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the

front room were all
the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the

exception of his coat. His
boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were

there. There were no
signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there

were no other
traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he

must apparently
have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and

the ominous bloodstains
upon the sill gave little promise that he could save

himself by
swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the

moment of the
tragedy.

"And now as to the villains who seemed to be

immediately implicated
in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the

vilest antecedents,
but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to have

been at
the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her

husband's appearance
at the window, he could hardly have been more than an

accessory
to the crime. His defence was one of absolute

ignorance, and he protested
that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh

Boone, his
lodger, and that he could not account in any way for

the presence of the
missing gentleman's clothes.

"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister

cripple who
lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who

was certainly the
last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St.

Clair. His name is
Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is

familiar to every man
who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar,

though in order
to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small

trade in wax vestas.
Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the

left-hand side,
there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in

the wall. Here it is
that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged

with his tiny stock of
matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a

small rain of charity
descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon

the pavement beside
him. I have watched the fellow more than once before

ever I thought


of making his professional acquaintance, and I have

been surprised at
the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His

appearance, you see,
is so remarkable that no one can pass him without

observing him. A
shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a

horrible scar, which, by
its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his

upper lip, a bulldog
chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which

present a singular
contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out

from amid the common
crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he

is ever ready
with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown

at him by the
passers-by. This is the man whom we now learn to have

been the lodger
at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see

the gentleman of
whom we are in quest."

"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done

single-handed
against a man in the prime of life?"

"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a

limp; but in other respects
he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man.

Surely your
medical experience would tell you, Watson, that

weakness in one limb is
often compensated for by exceptional strength in the

others."

"Pray continue your narrative."

"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood

upon the window,
and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as

her presence could
be of no help to them in their investigations.

Inspector Barton, who had
charge of the case, made a very careful examination of

the premises, but
without finding anything which threw any light upon the

matter. One
mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly,

as he was allowed
some few minutes during which he might have

communicated
with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon

remedied, and he was
seized and searched, without anything being found which

could incriminate
him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his

right shirtsleeve,
but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut

near the
nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there,

adding that he
had been to the window not long before, and that the

stains which had
been observed there came doubtless from the same

source. He denied
strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and

swore that the
presence of the clothes in his room was as much a

mystery to him as to
the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she

had actually seen her
husband at the window, he declared that she must have

been either mad
or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the

police-station,
while the inspector remained upon the premises in the

hope that the
ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.


"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank

what they
had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat,

and not Neville St.
Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And

what do you think
they found in the pockets?"

"I cannot imagine."

"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket

stuffed with pennies
and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It

was no wonder
that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a

human body is a different
matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and

the house. It
seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had

remained when the
stripped body had been sucked away into the river."

"But I understand that all the other clothes were found

in the room.
Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough.

Suppose that
this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the

window, there is
no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would

he do then?
It would of course instantly strike him that he must

get rid of the tell-tale
garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the

act of throwing it
out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and

not sink. He has
little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs

when the wife tried to
force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from

his Lascar confederate
that the police are hurrying up the street. There is

not an instant
to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he

has accumulated the
fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon

which he can lay his
hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat's

sinking. He throws it
out, and would have done the same with the other

garments had not he
heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time

to close the window
when the police appeared."

"It certainly sounds feasible."

"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want

of a better.
Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to

the station, but it
could not be shown that there had ever before been

anything against
him. He had for years been known as a professional

beggar, but his life
appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one.

There the matter
stands at present, and the questions which have to be

solved—what
Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what

happened to him
when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to

do with his
disappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever. I

confess that I cannot
recall any case within my experience which looked at

the first glance
so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."


While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular

series of
events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of

the great town until
the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we

rattled along
with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he

finished,
however, we drove through two scattered villages, where

a few lights
still glimmered in the windows.

"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion.

"We have
touched on three English counties in our short drive,

starting in Middle-
sex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in

Kent. See that light
among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that

lamp sits a woman
whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt,

caught the clink of
our horse's feet."

"But why are you not conducting the case from Baker

Street?" I asked.

"Because there are many inquiries which must be made

out here. Mrs.
St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal,

and you may
rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome

for my friend and
colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no

news of her husband.
Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"

We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood

within its own
grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head,

and springing
down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding

gravel-drive which led
to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and

a little blonde
woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light

mousseline de
soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck

and wrists. She stood
with her figure outlined against the flood of light,

one hand upon the
door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body

slightly bent, her head
and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a

standing question.

"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there

were two of us,
she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she

saw that my companion
shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"No good news?"

"None."

"No bad?"

"No."

"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary,

for you have
had a long day."

"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most

vital use to me in
several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it

possible for me to
bring him out and associate him with this

investigation."


"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand

warmly. "You
will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting

in our arrangements,
when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly

upon
us."

"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and

if I were not I
can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can

be of any assistance,
either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed

happy."

"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered

a well-lit
dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had

been laid out, "I
should very much like to ask you one or two plain

questions, to which I
beg that you will give a plain answer."

"Certainly, madam."

"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical,

nor given to
fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real

opinion."

"Upon what point?"

"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is

alive?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the

question. "Frankly,
now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking

keenly down at
him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

"You think that he is dead?"

"I do."

"Murdered?"

"I don't say that. Perhaps."

"And on what day did he meet his death?"

"On Monday."

"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to

explain how
it is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had

been galvanised.

"What!" he roared.

"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little

slip of paper in the
air.

"May I see it?"

"Certainly."

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing

it out upon
the table he drew over the lamp and examined it

intently. I had left my
chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The

envelope was a very
coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark

and with the
date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for

it was considerably
after midnight.


"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not

your
husband's writing, madam."

"No, but the enclosure is."

"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope

had to go and inquire
as to the address."

"How can you tell that?"

"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which

has dried itself.
The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that

blotting-paper has
been used. If it had been written straight off, and

then blotted, none
would be of a deep black shade. This man has written

the name, and
there has then been a pause before he wrote the

address, which can only
mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of

course, a trifle, but there is
nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the

letter. Ha! there has
been an enclosure here!"

"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."

"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

"One of his hands."

"One?"

"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike

his usual writing,
and yet I know it well."

"'Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well.

There is a huge error
which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in

pa-
tience.—NEVILLE.' Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf

of a book, octavo
size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by

a man with a
dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am

not very much
in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And

you have no
doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"

"None. Neville wrote those words."

"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs.

St. Clair, the
clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that

the danger is
over."

"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong

scent. The ring,
after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from

him."

"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

"Very well. It may, however, have been written on

Monday and only
posted to-day."

"That is possible."

"If so, much may have happened between."


"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know

that all is well
with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I

should know if
evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last

he cut himself
in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed

upstairs instantly
with the utmost certainty that something had happened.

Do you think
that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be

ignorant of his death?"

"I have seen too much not to know that the impression

of a woman
may be more valuable than the conclusion of an

analytical reasoner. And
in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece

of evidence to corroborate
your view. But if your husband is alive and able to

write letters,
why should he remain away from you?"

"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

"No."

"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

"Very much so."

"Was the window open?"

"Yes."

"Then he might have called to you?"

"He might."

"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

"Yes."

"A call for help, you thought?"

"Yes. He waved his hands."

"But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment

at the unexpected
sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"

"It is possible."

"And you thought he was pulled back?"

"He disappeared so suddenly."

"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else

in the
room?"

"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been

there, and the
Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had

his ordinary
clothes on?"

"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his

bare throat."

"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

"Never."

"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

"Never."


"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal

points about which
I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a

little supper and
then retire, for we may have a very busy day

to-morrow."

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been

placed at our
disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I

was weary after my
night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however,

who, when he
had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for

days, and even
for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging

his facts, looking at
it from every point of view until he had either

fathomed it or convinced
himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon

evident to me that he
was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off

his coat and
waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then

wandered about
the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions

from the sofa and
armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern

divan, upon which
he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag

tobacco and a
box of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim

light of the lamp I saw
him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips,

his eyes fixed vacantly
upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling

up from
him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon

his strong-set aquiline
features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so

he sat when a
sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found

the summer sun
shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between

his lips, the
smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a

dense tobacco
haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I

had seen upon
the previous night.

"Awake, Watson?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Game for a morning drive?"

"Certainly."

"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where

the stable-boy
sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He

chuckled to himself as
he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different

man to the
sombre thinker of the previous night.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder

that no one was
stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had

hardly finished when
Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting

in the horse.

"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he,

pulling on his boots. "I
think, Watson, that you are now standing in the

presence of one of the
most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked

from here to Charing
Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now."


"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not

joking," he continued,
seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been there,

and I have
taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag.

Come on, my boy,
and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock."

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and

out into the
bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse

and trap, with the
half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both

sprang in, and away
we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts

were stirring,
bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines

of villas on either
side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a

dream.

"It has been in some points a singular case," said

Holmes, flicking the
horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as

blind as a mole, but
it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn

it at all."

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look

sleepily from
their windows as we drove through the streets of the

Surrey side.
Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over

the river, and
dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the

right and found
ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known

to the force,
and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of

them held the
horse's head while the other led us in.

"Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

"Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

"Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official

had come down the
stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged

jacket. "I wish to
have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet." "Certainly,

Mr. Holmes. Step into
my room here." It was a small, office-like room, with a

huge ledger
upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the

wall. The inspector
sat down at his desk.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was

charged
with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr.

Neville St. Clair, of
Lee."

"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further

inquiries."

"So I heard. You have him here?"

"In the cells."

"Is he quiet?"

"Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."

"Dirty?"


"Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands,

and his face is as
black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been

settled, he will
have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw

him, you would agree
with me that he needed it."

"I should like to see him very much."

"Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can

leave your
bag."

"No, I think that I'll take it."

"Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us

down a passage,
opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and

brought us to a
whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

"The third on the right is his," said the inspector.

"Here it is!" He
quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door

and glanced
through.

"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."

We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay

with his face towards
us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily.

He was a
middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling,

with a coloured
shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat.

He was, as the inspector
had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered

his face
could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal

from an old scar
ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its

contraction had turned up
one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were

exposed in a perpetual
snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over

his eyes and
forehead.

"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.

"He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an

idea that he
might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools

with me." He opened
the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my

astonishment, a very
large bath-sponge.

"He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.

"Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that

door very
quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more

respectable figure."

"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He

doesn't look a
credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped

his key into the lock,
and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper

half turned, and then
settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes

stooped to the
water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it

twice vigorously
across and down the prisoner's face.


"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St.

Clair, of Lee, in
the county of Kent."

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's

face peeled off under
the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the

coarse brown tint!
Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it

across, and the twisted
lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A

twitch brought
away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his

bed, was a pale,
sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and

smooth-skinned, rubbing
his eyes and staring about him with sleepy

bewilderment. Then
suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream

and threw himself
down with his face to the pillow.

"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed,

the missing man. I
know him from the photograph."

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who

abandons himself
to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am

I charged
with?"

"With making away with Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you

can't be
charged with that unless they make a case of attempted

suicide of it,"
said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been

twenty-seven years in
the force, but this really takes the cake."

"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that

no crime has been
committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally

detained."

"No crime, but a very great error has been committed,"

said Holmes.
"You would have done better to have trusted you wife."

"It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the

prisoner. "God
help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father.

My God! What
an exposure! What can I do?"

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and

patted him
kindly on the shoulder.

"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter

up," said he, "of
course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other

hand, if you convince
the police authorities that there is no possible case

against you, I do
not know that there is any reason that the details

should find their way
into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure,

make notes upon
anything which you might tell us and submit it to the

proper authorities.
The case would then never go into court at all."

"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I

would have endured
imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left

my miserable
secret as a family blot to my children.


"You are the first who have ever heard my story. My

father was a
schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an

excellent education. I
travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally

became a reporter on
an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to

have a series
of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I

volunteered to supply
them. There was the point from which all my adventures

started. It was
only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get

the facts upon
which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of

course, learned all the
secrets of making up, and had been famous in the

green-room for my
skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I

painted my face, and to
make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar

and fixed one side
of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of

flesh-coloured plaster.
Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress,

I took my station
in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a

match-seller but really as a
beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I

returned home in
the evening I found to my surprise that I had received

no less than 26s.
4d.

"I wrote my articles and thought little more of the

matter until, some
time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ

served upon me for
25 pounds. I was at my wit's end where to get the

money, but a sudden
idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's grace from the

creditor, asked for
a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in

begging in the City
under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had

paid the debt.

"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down

to arduous
work at 2 pounds a week when I knew that I could earn

as much in a day
by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap

on the ground,
and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride

and the money, but
the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and

sat day after day in
the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by

my ghastly face and
filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my

secret. He was
the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in

Swandam Lane,
where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar

and in the
evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about

town. This fellow,
a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I

knew that my
secret was safe in his possession.

"Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable

sums of
money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of

London could
earn 700 pounds a year—which is less than my average

takings—but I
had exceptional advantages in my power of making up,

and also in a facility
of repartee, which improved by practice and made me

quite a


recognised character in the City. All day a stream of

pennies, varied by
silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in

which I failed to
take 2 pounds.

"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house

in the country,
and eventually married, without anyone having a

suspicion as to my real
occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in

the City. She little
knew what.

"Last Monday I had finished for the day and was

dressing in my room
above the opium den when I looked out of my window and

saw, to my
horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in

the street, with
her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise,

threw up my arms
to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the

Lascar, entreated him
to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her

voice downstairs,
but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw

off my clothes,
pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and

wig. Even a
wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise.

But then it occurred
to me that there might be a search in the room, and

that the clothes
might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by

my violence a
small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the

bedroom that morning.
Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the

coppers which I
had just transferred to it from the leather bag in

which I carried my takings.
I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into

the Thames.
The other clothes would have followed, but at that

moment there was a
rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes

after I found, rather, I
confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified

as Mr. Neville St.
Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.

"I do not know that there is anything else for me to

explain. I was determined
to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence

my preference
for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be

terribly anxious,
I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at

a moment when no
constable was watching me, together with a hurried

scrawl, telling her
that she had no cause to fear."

"That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.

"Good God! What a week she must have spent!"

"The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector

Bradstreet, "and I
can quite understand that he might find it difficult to

post a letter unobserved.
Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his,

who forgot
all about it for some days."

"That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I

have no doubt of
it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"


"Many times; but what was a fine to me?"

"It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the

police are to hush
this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."

"I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man

can take."

"In that case I think that it is probable that no

further steps may be
taken. But if you are found again, then all must come

out. I am sure, Mr.
Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for

having cleared the
matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results."

"I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon

five pillows and
consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we

drive to Baker
Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."


Part 7
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE
CARBUNCLE



I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the

second morning
after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the

compliments of
the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple

dressing-gown, a
pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile

of crumpled morning
papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside

the couch was
a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a

very seedy and
disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear,

and cracked in several
places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the

chair suggested
that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the

purpose of
examination.

"You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

"Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can

discuss my results.
The matter is a perfectly trivial one"—he jerked his

thumb in the
direction of the old hat—"but there are points in

connection with it
which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of

instruction."

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands

before his
crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the

windows were thick
with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that,

homely as it looks,
this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—that

it is the clue which
will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the

punishment of
some crime."

"No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing.

"Only one of
those whimsical little incidents which will happen when

you have four
million human beings all jostling each other within the

space of a few
square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense

a swarm of humanity,
every possible combination of events may be expected to

take
place, and many a little problem will be presented

which may be striking
and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had

experience of
such."

"So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases

which I have added
to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal

crime."

"Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the

Irene Adler papers,
to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to

the adventure of the
man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that

this small matter
will fall into the same innocent category. You know

Peterson, the
commissionaire?"

"Yes."

"It is to him that this trophy belongs."

"It is his hat."


"No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that

you will look
upon it not as a battered billycock but as an

intellectual problem. And,
first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon

Christmas morning, in company
with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt,

roasting at this
moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are

these: about four o'clock
on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a

very honest fellow,
was returning from some small jollification and was

making his
way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him

he saw, in
the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight

stagger, and carrying a
white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the

corner of Goodge
Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a

little knot of roughs.
One of the latter knocked off the man's hat, on which

he raised his stick
to defend himself and, swinging it over his head,

smashed the shop window
behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the

stranger
from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having

broken the window,
and seeing an official-looking person in uniform

rushing towards him,
dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid

the labyrinth of
small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court

Road. The roughs
had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he

was left in possession
of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of

victory in the shape of
this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas

goose."

"Which surely he restored to their owner?"

"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true

that 'For Mrs. Henry
Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to

the bird's left
leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are

legible upon the lining of
this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers,

and some hundreds
of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to

restore lost property
to any one of them."

"What, then, did Peterson do?"

"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas

morning,
knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest

to me. The goose
we retained until this morning, when there were signs

that, in spite of
the slight frost, it would be well that it should be

eaten without unnecessary
delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to

fulfil the ultimate
destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat

of the unknown gentleman
who lost his Christmas dinner."

"Did he not advertise?"

"No."

"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

"Only as much as we can deduce."


"From his hat?"

"Precisely."

"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old

battered felt?"

"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you

gather yourself
as to the individuality of the man who has worn this

article?"

I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it

over rather ruefully.
It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round

shape, hard
and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red

silk, but was a
good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but,

as Holmes had
remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one

side. It was
pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic

was missing. For the
rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in

several places, although
there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the

discoloured
patches by smearing them with ink.

"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my

friend.

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You

fail, however,
to reason from what you see. You are too timid in

drawing your
inferences."

"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from

this hat?"

He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar

introspective fashion
which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less

suggestive than it
might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few

inferences
which are very distinct, and a few others which

represent at least a
strong balance of probability. That the man was highly

intellectual is of
course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he

was fairly well-to-do
within the last three years, although he has now fallen

upon evil days.
He had foresight, but has less now than formerly,

pointing to a moral
retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of

his fortunes, seems
to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at

work upon him. This
may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has

ceased to love
him."

"My dear Holmes!"

"He has, however, retained some degree of

self-respect," he continued,
disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a

sedentary life,
goes out little, is out of training entirely, is

middle-aged, has grizzled
hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and

which he anoints
with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which

are to be deduced
from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely

improbable that
he has gas laid on in his house."

"You are certainly joking, Holmes."


"Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I

give you these
results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

"I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must

confess that I am
unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce

that this man
was intellectual?"

For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It

came right over
the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose.

"It is a question of
cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain

must have
something in it."

"The decline of his fortunes, then?"

"This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled

at the edge came in
then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the

band of ribbed silk
and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to

buy so expensive a
hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he

has assuredly gone
down in the world."

"Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about

the foresight and
the moral retrogression?"

Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said

he putting his
finger upon the little disc and loop of the

hat-securer. "They are never
sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign

of a certain amount of
foresight, since he went out of his way to take this

precaution against the
wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic

and has not
troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less

foresight now than
formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening

nature. On the other
hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these

stains upon the felt
by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has

not entirely lost his
self-respect."

"Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

"The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his

hair is grizzled,
that it has been recently cut, and that he uses

lime-cream, are all to be
gathered from a close examination of the lower part of

the lining. The
lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut

by the scissors of the
barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a

distinct odour of
lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the

gritty, grey dust of the
street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing

that it has been
hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of

moisture upon the
inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired

very freely, and could
therefore, hardly be in the best of training."

"But his wife—you said that she had ceased to love

him."


"This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see

you, my dear
Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your

hat, and when
your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall

fear that you also
have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's

affection."

"But he might be a bachelor."

"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a

peace-offering to his wife.
Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

"You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do

you deduce
that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

"One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance;

but when I see
no less than five, I think that there can be little

doubt that the individual
must be brought into frequent contact with burning

tallow—walks upstairs
at night probably with his hat in one hand and a

guttering candle
in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a

gas-jet. Are you
satisfied?"

"Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but

since, as you said just
now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm

done save the
loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of

energy."

Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the

door flew
open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the

apartment with
flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with

astonishment.

"The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.

"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and

flapped off through
the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon

the sofa to
get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

"See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He

held out his
hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a

brilliantly scintillating
blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of

such purity and radiance
that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark

hollow of his
hand.

Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove,

Peterson!" said he,
"this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what

you have got?"

"A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass

as though it were
putty."

"It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious

stone."

"Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I

ejaculated.

"Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape,

seeing that I have
read the advertisement about it in The Times every day

lately. It is absolutely
unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the

reward


offered of 1000 pounds is certainly not within a

twentieth part of the
market price."

"A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The

commissionaire
plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the

other of us.

"That is the reward, and I have reason to know that

there are sentimental
considerations in the background which would induce the
Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but

recover the gem."

"It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel

Cosmopolitan," I
remarked.

"Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago.

John Horner, a
plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the

lady's jewel-case.
The evidence against him was so strong that the case

has been referred to
the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I

believe." He rummaged
amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at

last he
smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the

following paragraph:

"Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26,

plumber, was
brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd

inst., abstracted
from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the

valuable gem known
as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at

the hotel, gave
his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up

to the dressing-
room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the

robbery in order
that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which

was loose. He
had remained with Horner some little time, but had

finally been called
away. On returning, he found that Horner had

disappeared, that the bureau
had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket

in which,
as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was

accustomed to keep her
jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder

instantly gave the
alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but

the stone could
not be found either upon his person or in his rooms.

Catherine Cusack,
maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's

cry of dismay on
discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the

room, where she
found matters as described by the last witness.

Inspector Bradstreet, B division,
gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled

frantically,
and protested his innocence in the strongest terms.

Evidence of a
previous conviction for robbery having been given

against the prisoner,
the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the

offence, but referred it
to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense

emotion during
the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was

carried out of
court."


"Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes

thoughtfully, tossing
aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is

the sequence of
events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to

the crop of a goose
in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson,

our little deductions
have suddenly assumed a much more important and less

innocent
aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the

goose, and the goose
came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad

hat and all the
other characteristics with which I have bored you. So

now we must set
ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and

ascertaining what
part he has played in this little mystery. To do this,

we must try the
simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an

advertisement in
all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall have

recourse to other
methods."

"What will you say?"

"Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then:

'Found at the
corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat.

Mr. Henry Baker
can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at

221B, Baker Street.'
That is clear and concise."

"Very. But will he see it?"

"Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since,

to a poor man, the
loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his

mischance in
breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson

that he thought of
nothing but flight, but since then he must have

bitterly regretted the impulse
which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the

introduction of
his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who

knows him will direct
his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down

to the advertising
agency and have this put in the evening papers."

"In which, sir?"

"Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's,

Evening News, Standard,
Echo, and any others that occur to you."

"Very well, sir. And this stone?"

"Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I

say, Peterson, just
buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me,

for we must
have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one

which your family
is now devouring."

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the

stone and
held it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said

he. "Just see how it
glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and

focus of crime. Every
good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the

larger and older jewels
every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is

not yet twenty


years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River

in southern China
and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the

carbuncle,
save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In

spite of its youth, it
has already a sinister history. There have been two

murders, a vitriol-
throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought

about for the sake of
this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. Who

would think that so
pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the

prison? I'll lock
it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the

Countess to say that
we have it."

"Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

"I cannot tell."

"Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry

Baker, had anything
to do with the matter?"

"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is

an absolutely innocent
man, who had no idea that the bird which he was

carrying was of
considerably more value than if it were made of solid

gold. That,
however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we

have an answer to
our advertisement."

"And you can do nothing until then?"

"Nothing."

"In that case I shall continue my professional round.

But I shall come
back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for

I should like to
see the solution of so tangled a business."

"Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a

woodcock, I believe.
By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I

ought to ask Mrs.
Hudson to examine its crop."

I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after

half-past six when
I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I

approached the house I
saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was

buttoned up to
his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which

was thrown from
the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened,

and we were shown
up together to Holmes' room.

"Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his

armchair and
greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality

which he could so readily
assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker.

It is a cold night,
and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for

summer than for
winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right

time. Is that your
hat, Mr. Baker?"

"Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."


He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive

head, and a
broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed

beard of grizzled
brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight

tremor of his extended
hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his habits. His

rusty black
frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the

collar turned up, and
his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a

sign of cuff or shirt.
He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words

with care, and
gave the impression generally of a man of learning and

letters who had
had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

"We have retained these things for some days," said

Holmes, "because
we expected to see an advertisement from you giving

your address. I am
at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings

have not been
so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked.

"I had no doubt
that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried

off both my hat
and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a

hopeless attempt
at recovering them."

"Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were

compelled to eat
it."

"To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in

his excitement.

"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not

done so. But I
presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which

is about the
same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your

purpose equally
well?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a

sigh of relief.

"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and

so on of your own
bird, so if you wish—"

The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be

useful to me as relics
of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can

hardly see what use
the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going

to be to me. No,
sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine

my attentions to the
excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard."

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a

slight shrug of
his shoulders.

"There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said

he. "By the way,
would it bore you to tell me where you got the other

one from? I am
somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a

better grown
goose."

"Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked

his newly
gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us

who frequent the


Alpha Inn, near the Museum—we are to be found in the

Museum itself
during the day, you understand. This year our good

host, Windigate by
name, instituted a goose club, by which, on

consideration of some few
pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at

Christmas. My
pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you.

I am much indebted
to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to

my years nor
my gravity." With a comical pomposity of manner he

bowed solemnly to
both of us and strode off upon his way.

"So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had

closed the
door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows

nothing whatever
about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

"Not particularly."

"Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper

and follow up
this clue while it is still hot."

"By all means."

It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and

wrapped cravats
about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining

coldly in a cloudless
sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into

smoke like so many
pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly

as we swung
through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley

Street, and so
through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter

of an hour we
were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small

public-house at
the corner of one of the streets which runs down into

Holborn. Holmes
pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two

glasses of beer
from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

"Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your

geese," said he.

"My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry

Baker, who
was a member of your goose club."

"Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our

geese."

"Indeed! Whose, then?"

"Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent

Garden."

"Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"

"Breckinridge is his name."

"Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health

landlord, and
prosperity to your house. Good-night."

"Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up

his coat as we
came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that

though we have so
homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we

have at the other a
man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude

unless we can


establish his innocence. It is possible that our

inquiry may but confirm
his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of

investigation which has been
missed by the police, and which a singular chance has

placed in our
hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to

the south, then, and
quick march!"

We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so

through a zigzag
of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest

stalls bore the
name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a

horsey-looking man,
with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a

boy to put up the
shutters.

"Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my

companion.

"Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing

at the bare slabs
of marble.

"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

"That's no good."

"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

"Ah, but I was recommended to you."

"Who by?"

"The landlord of the Alpha."

"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them

from?"

To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger

from the
salesman.

"Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and

his arms
akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it

straight, now."

"It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold

you the geese
which you supplied to the Alpha."

"Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know

why you should
be so warm over such a trifle."

"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered

as I am.
When I pay good money for a good article there should

be an end of the
business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did

you sell the geese
to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would

think they were
the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is

made over them."

"Well, I have no connection with any other people who

have been
making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you

won't tell us the bet is
off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my

opinion on a matter of
fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is

country bred."


"Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town

bred," snapped the
salesman.

"It's nothing of the kind."

"I say it is."

"I don't believe it."

"D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have

handled
them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those

birds that went to the
Alpha were town bred."

"You'll never persuade me to believe that."

"Will you bet, then?"

"It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am

right. But I'll have
a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be

obstinate."

The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books,

Bill," said he.

The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a

great greasy-
backed one, laying them out together beneath the

hanging lamp.

"Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought

that I was out
of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is

still one left in my
shop. You see this little book?"

"Well?"

"That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you

see? Well, then,
here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers

after their names
are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now,

then! You see this
other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town

suppliers. Now,
look at that third name. Just read it out to me."

"Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249," read Holmes.

"Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."

Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are,

'Mrs. Oakshott,
117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"

"Now, then, what's the last entry?"

"'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"

"Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"

"'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"

"What have you to say now?"

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a

sovereign from
his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning

away with the air of
a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards

off he stopped
under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless

fashion which
was peculiar to him.

"When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the

'Pink 'un' protruding
out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,"

said he. "I


daresay that if I had put 100 pounds down in front of

him, that man
would not have given me such complete information as

was drawn from
him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well,

Watson, we are,
I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only

point which remains
to be determined is whether we should go on to this

Mrs. Oakshott tonight,
or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is

clear from
what that surly fellow said that there are others

besides ourselves who
are anxious about the matter, and I should—"

His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub

which broke
out from the stall which we had just left. Turning

round we saw a little
rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle

of yellow light which
was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge,

the salesman,
framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists

fiercely at the
cringing figure.

"I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I

wish you were
all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any

more with your
silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs.

Oakshott here and I'll answer
her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the

geese off you?"

"No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the

little man.

"Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

"She told me to ask you."

"Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care.

I've had enough of
it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and

the inquirer flitted
away into the darkness.

"Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,"

whispered Holmes.
"Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of

this fellow." Striding
through the scattered knots of people who lounged round

the flaring
stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man

and touched him
upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in

the gas-light that
every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.

"Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a

quavering
voice.

"You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could

not help overhearing
the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I

think
that I could be of assistance to you."

"You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the

matter?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know

what other
people don't know."

"But you can know nothing of this?"


"Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are

endeavouring to trace
some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton

Road, to a
salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr.

Windigate, of the
Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker

is a member."

"Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to

meet," cried the
little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering

fingers. "I can hardly
explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was

passing. "In that
case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather

than in this windswept
market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we go

farther,
who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John

Robinson," he
answered with a sidelong glance.

"No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is

always awkward
doing business with an alias."

A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger.

"Well then," said he,
"my real name is James Ryder."

"Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel

Cosmopolitan. Pray step into
the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you

everything which you
would wish to know."

The little man stood glancing from one to the other of

us with half-
frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure

whether he is on the
verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he

stepped into the cab, and
in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at

Baker Street. Nothing
had been said during our drive, but the high, thin

breathing of our new
companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his

hands, spoke of the
nervous tension within him.

"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into

the room. "The
fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look

cold, Mr. Ryder.
Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my

slippers before we settle
this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to

know what became of
those geese?"

"Yes, sir."

"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I

imagine in which
you were interested—white, with a black bar across the

tail."

Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can

you tell me
where it went to?"

"It came here."

"Here?"


"Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't

wonder that you
should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it

was dead—the bonniest,
brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it

here in my
museum."

Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the

mantelpiece with his
right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up

the blue carbuncle,
which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,

many-pointed
radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face,

uncertain whether to
claim or to disown it.

"The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up,

man, or you'll
be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair,

Watson. He's not
got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity.

Give him a dash of
brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a

shrimp it is, to be
sure!"

For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but

the brandy
brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat

staring with
frightened eyes at his accuser.

"I have almost every link in my hands, and all the

proofs which I could
possibly need, so there is little which you need tell

me. Still, that little
may as well be cleared up to make the case complete.

You had heard,
Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar's?"

"It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in

a crackling
voice.

"I see—her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the

temptation of sudden
wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it

has been for better
men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the

means you
used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making

of a very pretty villain
in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had

been concerned
in some such matter before, and that suspicion would

rest the
more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made

some small
job in my lady's room—you and your confederate

Cusack—and you
managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when

he had left, you
rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this

unfortunate man arrested.
You then—"

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and

clutched at my
companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he

shrieked. "Think of
my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I

never went
wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll

swear it on a Bible. Oh,
don't bring it into court! For Christ's sake, don't!"


"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is

very well to
cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of

this poor Horner
in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

"I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir.

Then the charge
against him will break down."

"Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a

true account of
the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and

how came the
goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for

there lies your only
hope of safety."

Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will

tell you it just as
it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been

arrested, it seemed to
me that it would be best for me to get away with the

stone at once, for I
did not know at what moment the police might not take

it into their
heads to search me and my room. There was no place

about the hotel
where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some

commission, and I
made for my sister's house. She had married a man named

Oakshott, and
lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the

market. All the
way there every man I met seemed to me to be a

policeman or a detective;
and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was

pouring down my
face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked

me what was the
matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I

had been upset by the
jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back

yard and smoked a
pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.

"I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the

bad, and has
just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he

had met me, and
fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they

could get rid of
what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me,

for I knew one or
two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right

on to Kilburn,
where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He

would show me
how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him

in safety? I
thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming

from the hotel. I
might at any moment be seized and searched, and there

would be the
stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the

wall at the time
and looking at the geese which were waddling about

round my feet, and
suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how

I could beat
the best detective that ever lived.

"My sister had told me some weeks before that I might

have the pick
of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that

she was always as
good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it

I would carry
my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the

yard, and behind this I


drove one of the birds—a fine big one, white, with a

barred tail. I caught
it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down

its throat as far as my
finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt

the stone pass along
its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature

flapped and struggled,
and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As

I turned to
speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off

among the others.

"'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says

she.

"'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for

Christmas, and I was
feeling which was the fattest.'

"'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you—Jem's

bird, we call it.
It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six

of them, which
makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for

the market.'

"'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the

same to you, I'd rather
have that one I was handling just now.'

"'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she,

'and we fattened it
expressly for you.'

"'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it

now,' said I.

"'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed.

'Which is it you want,
then?'

"'That white one with the barred tail, right in the

middle of the flock.'

"'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

"Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried

the bird all the
way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he

was a man that it
was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until

he choked, and we
got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to

water, for there
was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible

mistake had occurred.
I left the bird, rushed back to my sister's, and

hurried into the
back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.

"'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

"'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

"'Which dealer's?'

"'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

"'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked,

'the same as the
one I chose?'

"'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I

could never tell
them apart.'

"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as

hard as my feet
would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had

sold the lot at once,
and not one word would he tell me as to where they had

gone. You
heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always

answered me like


that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I

think that I am
myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded thief,

without ever
having touched the wealth for which I sold my

character. God help me!
God help me!" He burst into convulsive sobbing, with

his face buried in
his hands.

There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy

breathing and by
the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips

upon the edge of
the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

"Get out!" said he.

"What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

"No more words. Get out!"

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a

clatter upon the
stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of

running footfalls from
the street.

"After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand

for his clay
pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their

deficiencies. If
Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but

this fellow will not
appear against him, and the case must collapse. I

suppose that I am commuting
a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a

soul. This fellow
will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened.

Send him to gaol
now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it

is the season of
forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular

and whimsical
problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you

will have the goodness
to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another

investigation, in
which, also a bird will be the chief feature."


Part 8
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED
BAND



On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in

which I have during
the last eight years studied the methods of my friend

Sherlock
Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number

merely strange,
but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for

the love of his
art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to

associate himself
with any investigation which did not tend towards the

unusual, and
even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however,

I cannot recall any
which presented more singular features than that which

was associated
with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of

Stoke Moran. The
events in question occurred in the early days of my

association with
Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in

Baker Street. It is
possible that I might have placed them upon record

before, but a promise
of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only

been freed
during the last month by the untimely death of the lady

to whom the
pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts

should now come to
light, for I have reasons to know that there are

widespread rumours as to
the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make

the matter even
more terrible than the truth.

It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one

morning to find Sherlock
Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed.

He was a
late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the

mantelpiece showed me that it
was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in

some surprise, and
perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself

regular in my habits.

"Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but

it's the common
lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she

retorted upon
me, and I on you."

"What is it, then—a fire?"

"No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived

in a considerable
state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is

waiting now in
the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about

the metropolis
at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up

out of their
beds, I presume that it is something very pressing

which they have to
communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case,

you would, I am
sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at

any rate, that I
should call you and give you the chance."

"My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in

his professional
investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions,

as swift as intuitions,
and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he

unravelled
the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly

threw on my


clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my

friend down
to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and

heavily veiled, who had
been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

"Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name

is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr.

Watson, before
whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am

glad to see that
Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire.

Pray draw up to it,
and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I

observe that you are
shivering."

"It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman

in a low voice,
changing her seat as requested.

"What, then?"

"It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her

veil as she spoke,
and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable

state of agitation, her
face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes,

like those of some
hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a

woman of thirty,
but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her

expression was
weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with

one of his quick,
all-comprehensive glances.

"You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending

forward and patting
her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have

no doubt. You have
come in by train this morning, I see."

"You know me, then?"

"No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket

in the palm of your
left glove. You must have started early, and yet you

had a good drive in
a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the

station."

The lady gave a violent start and stared in

bewilderment at my
companion.

"There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling.

"The left arm
of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than

seven places. The
marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a

dog-cart which
throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit

on the left-hand
side of the driver."

"Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly

correct," said she. "I
started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at

twenty past, and
came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can

stand this strain no
longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one

to turn to—none, save
only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be

of little aid. I
have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from

Mrs. Farintosh,
whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was

from her that I had


your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could

help me, too, and
at least throw a little light through the dense

darkness which surrounds
me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for

your services, but
in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the

control of my own
income, and then at least you shall not find me

ungrateful."

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a

small case-
book, which he consulted.

"Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it

was concerned with an
opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I

can only say,
madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to

your case as I
did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession

is its own reward;
but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I

may be put to, at the
time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will

lay before us
everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon

the matter."

"Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my

situation lies in the
fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions

depend so entirely
upon small points, which might seem trivial to another,

that even he to
whom of all others I have a right to look for help and

advice looks upon
all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a

nervous woman. He does not
say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and

averted eyes. But
I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into

the manifold
wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to

walk amid
the dangers which encompass me."

"I am all attention, madam."

"My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my

stepfather, who is
the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families

in England, the
Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of

Surrey."

Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me,"

said he.

"The family was at one time among the richest in

England, and the estates
extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north,

and Hampshire
in the west. In the last century, however, four

successive heirs were
of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family

ruin was eventually
completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency.

Nothing was left
save a few acres of ground, and the

two-hundred-year-old house, which
is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last

squire dragged out his
existence there, living the horrible life of an

aristocratic pauper; but his
only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt

himself to the new
conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which

enabled him to
take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where,

by his professional
skill and his force of character, he established a

large practice. In a


fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which

had been perpetrated
in the house, he beat his native butler to death and

narrowly escaped
a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term

of imprisonment
and afterwards returned to England a morose and

disappointed
man.

"When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother,

Mrs. Stoner,
the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal

Artillery. My
sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two

years old at the time
of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable sum

of money—not
less than 1000 pounds a year—and this she bequeathed to

Dr. Roylott entirely
while we resided with him, with a provision that a

certain annual
sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our

marriage.
Shortly after our return to England my mother died—she

was killed
eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr.

Roylott then abandoned
his attempts to establish himself in practice in London

and took
us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke

Moran. The money
which my mother had left was enough for all our wants,

and there
seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

"But a terrible change came over our stepfather about

this time. Instead
of making friends and exchanging visits with our

neighbours, who
had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke

Moran back in the
old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and

seldom came out
save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever

might cross his path.
Violence of temper approaching to mania has been

hereditary in the men
of the family, and in my stepfather's case it had, I

believe, been intensified
by his long residence in the tropics. A series of

disgraceful brawls
took place, two of which ended in the police-court,

until at last he became
the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at

his approach, for
he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely

uncontrollable in his
anger.

"Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a

parapet into a stream,
and it was only by paying over all the money which I

could gather together
that I was able to avert another public exposure. He

had no
friends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would

give these vagabonds
leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered

land
which represent the family estate, and would accept in

return the hospitality
of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for

weeks on
end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which

are sent over to him
by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah

and a baboon,


which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by

the villagers almost
as much as their master.

"You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister

Julia and I had
no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay

with us, and for a
long time we did all the work of the house. She was but

thirty at the time
of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to

whiten, even as mine
has."

"Your sister is dead, then?"

"She died just two years ago, and it is of her death

that I wish to speak
to you. You can understand that, living the life which

I have described,
we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and

position. We had,
however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss

Honoria Westphail,
who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed

to pay short
visits at this lady's house. Julia went there at

Christmas two years ago,
and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she

became engaged.
My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister

returned
and offered no objection to the marriage; but within a

fortnight of
the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the

terrible event occurred
which has deprived me of my only companion."

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with

his eyes
closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half

opened his lids now
and glanced across at his visitor.

"Pray be precise as to details," said he.

"It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that

dreadful time is
seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have

already said, very
old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms

in this wing are
on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the

central block of the
buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr.

Roylott's, the second my
sister's, and the third my own. There is no

communication between
them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do

I make myself
plain?"

"Perfectly so."

"The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn.

That fatal
night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we

knew that he
had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by

the smell of the
strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke.

She left her room,
therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some

time, chatting
about her approaching wedding. At eleven o'clock she

rose to leave me,
but she paused at the door and looked back.


"'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard

anyone whistle in the
dead of the night?'

"'Never,' said I.

"'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle,

yourself, in your
sleep?'

"'Certainly not. But why?'

"'Because during the last few nights I have always,

about three in the
morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light

sleeper, and it has
awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps

from the next
room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would

just ask you whether
you had heard it.'

"'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in

the plantation.'

"'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder

that you did not
hear it also.'

"'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'

"'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.'

She smiled back at
me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her

key turn in the
lock."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Was it your custom always to

lock yourselves
in at night?"

"Always."

"And why?"

"I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a

cheetah and a
baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors

were locked."

"Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."

"I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of

impending misfortune
impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were

twins, and you
know how subtle are the links which bind two souls

which are so closely
allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling

outside, and the rain
was beating and splashing against the windows.

Suddenly, amid all the
hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream

of a terrified woman.
I knew that it was my sister's voice. I sprang from my

bed,
wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor.

As I opened
my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my

sister described, and
a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of

metal had fallen.
As I ran down the passage, my sister's door was

unlocked, and revolved
slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken,

not knowing what
was about to issue from it. By the light of the

corridor-lamp I saw my sister
appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror,

her hands groping
for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that

of a drunkard.


I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that

moment her knees
seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She

writhed as one who
is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully

convulsed. At first I
thought that she had not recognised me, but as I bent

over her she suddenly
shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget,

'Oh, my God!
Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!' There was

something else
which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with

her finger into the
air in the direction of the doctor's room, but a fresh

convulsion seized her
and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for

my stepfather,
and I met him hastening from his room in his

dressing-gown. When he
reached my sister's side she was unconscious, and

though he poured
brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid from

the village, all efforts
were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without

having recovered
her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my

beloved
sister."

"One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this

whistle and
metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"

"That was what the county coroner asked me at the

inquiry. It is my
strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the

crash of the gale
and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have

been deceived."

"Was your sister dressed?"

"No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was

found the
charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."

"Showing that she had struck a light and looked about

her when the
alarm took place. That is important. And what

conclusions did the coroner
come to?"

"He investigated the case with great care, for Dr.

Roylott's conduct had
long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to

find any satisfactory
cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had

been
fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were

blocked by old-
fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were

secured every
night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown

to be quite solid
all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly

examined, with the
same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by

four large staples.
It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite

alone when she met her
end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon

her."

"How about poison?"

"The doctors examined her for it, but without success."

"What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of,

then?"


"It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous

shock, though
what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."

"Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?"

"Yes, there are nearly always some there."

"Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a

band—a speckled
band?"

"Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild

talk of delirium,
sometimes that it may have referred to some band of

people, perhaps
to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know

whether the
spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over

their heads
might have suggested the strange adjective which she

used."

Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being

satisfied.

"These are very deep waters," said he; "pray go on with

your
narrative."

"Two years have passed since then, and my life has been

until lately
lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear

friend, whom I have
known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my

hand in marriage.
His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of

Mr.
Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather

has offered no
opposition to the match, and we are to be married in

the course of the
spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the

west wing of the
building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that

I have had to
move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to

sleep in the very
bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of

terror when last night,
as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I

suddenly heard in the silence
of the night the low whistle which had been the herald

of her own
death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to

be seen in the
room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so

I dressed, and as
soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart

at the Crown Inn,
which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from

whence I have come
on this morning with the one object of seeing you and

asking your
advice."

"You have done wisely," said my friend. "But have you

told me all?"

"Yes, all."

"Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your

stepfather."

"Why, what do you mean?"

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace

which fringed
the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little

livid spots, the marks
of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the

white wrist.

"You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.


The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured

wrist. "He is a
hard man," she said, "and perhaps he hardly knows his

own strength."

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned

his chin upon
his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

"This is a very deep business," he said at last. "There

are a thousand
details which I should desire to know before I decide

upon our course of
action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to

come to Stoke
Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over

these rooms
without the knowledge of your stepfather?"

"As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day

upon some most
important business. It is probable that he will be away

all day, and that
there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a

housekeeper now, but
she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out

of the way."

"Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"

"By no means."

"Then we shall both come. What are you going to do

yourself?"

"I have one or two things which I would wish to do now

that I am in
town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train,

so as to be there in
time for your coming."

"And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have

myself some
small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait

and breakfast?"

"No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I

have confided my
trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you

again this afternoon."
She dropped her thick black veil over her face and

glided from the room.

"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked

Sherlock Holmes,
leaning back in his chair.

"It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister

business."

"Dark enough and sinister enough."

"Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring

and walls are
sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are

impassable, then her
sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met

her mysterious
end."

"What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and

what of the very
peculiar words of the dying woman?"

"I cannot think."

"When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the

presence of a
band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old

doctor, the fact
that we have every reason to believe that the doctor

has an interest in
preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying

allusion to a band,
and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a

metallic clang, which


might have been caused by one of those metal bars that

secured the shutters
falling back into its place, I think that there is good

ground to think
that the mystery may be cleared along those lines."

"But what, then, did the gipsies do?"

"I cannot imagine."

"I see many objections to any such theory."

"And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we

are going to Stoke
Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections

are fatal, or if they
may be explained away. But what in the name of the

devil!"

The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the

fact that
our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge

man had
framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a

peculiar mixture of
the professional and of the agricultural, having a

black top-hat, a long
frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a

hunting-crop swinging in
his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed

the cross bar of the
doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from

side to side. A
large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned

yellow with the sun,
and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one

to the other of
us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high,

thin, fleshless nose,
gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird

of prey.

"Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.

"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said

my companion
quietly.

"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a

seat."

"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has

been here. I have
traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said

Holmes.

"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man

furiously.

"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,"

continued my companion
imperturbably.

"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor,

taking a step forward
and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you

scoundrel! I have
heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

My friend smiled.

"Holmes, the busybody!"

His smile broadened.

"Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"

Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most

entertaining,"
said he. "When you go out close the door, for there is

a decided draught."


"I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare to

meddle with my
affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I

traced her! I am a dangerous
man to fall foul of! See here." He stepped swiftly

forward, seized
the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown

hands.

"See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he

snarled, and hurling
the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of

the room.

"He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes,

laughing. "I am not
quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have

shown him that my
grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he

spoke he picked up
the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened

it out again.

"Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the

official detective
force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,

however, and I
only trust that our little friend will not suffer from

her imprudence in allowing
this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall

order breakfast,
and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors' Commons,

where I
hope to get some data which may help us in this

matter."

It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned

from his excursion.
He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled

over with
notes and figures.

"I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he.

"To determine its
exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the

present prices of the
investments with which it is concerned. The total

income, which at the
time of the wife's death was little short of 1100

pounds, is now, through
the fall in agricultural prices, not more than 750

pounds. Each daughter
can claim an income of 250 pounds, in case of marriage.

It is evident,
therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty

would have had a
mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him

to a very serious
extent. My morning's work has not been wasted, since it

has proved
that he has the very strongest motives for standing in

the way of anything
of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for

dawdling, especially
as the old man is aware that we are interesting

ourselves in his
affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and

drive to Waterloo. I
should be very much obliged if you would slip your

revolver into your
pocket. An Eley's No. 2 is an excellent argument with

gentlemen who
can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a

tooth-brush are, I think, all
that we need."

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for

Leatherhead,
where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for

four or five miles
through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day,

with a bright sun
and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and

wayside hedges


were just throwing out their first green shoots, and

the air was full of the
pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least there

was a strange contrast
between the sweet promise of the spring and this

sinister quest
upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the

front of the trap,
his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and

his chin sunk
upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought.

Suddenly, however, he
started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over

the meadows.

"Look there!" said he.

A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope,

thickening into
a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches

there jutted out the
grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

"Stoke Moran?" said he.

"Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,"

remarked the
driver.

"There is some building going on there," said Holmes;

"that is where
we are going."

"There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a

cluster of roofs some
distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the

house, you'll find it
shorter to get over this stile, and so by the foot-path

over the fields.
There it is, where the lady is walking."

"And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed

Holmes, shading his
eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest."

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on

its way to
Leatherhead.

"I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the

stile, "that this
fellow should think we had come here as architects, or

on some definite
business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss

Stoner. You see
that we have been as good as our word."

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet

us with a face
which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly

for you," she cried,
shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned out

splendidly. Dr.
Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he

will be back before
evening."

"We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's

acquaintance," said
Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had

occurred. Miss
Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

"Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then."

"So it appears."

"He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from

him. What
will he say when he returns?"


"He must guard himself, for he may find that there is

someone more
cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock

yourself up from
him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away

to your aunt's at
Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so

kindly take us
at once to the rooms which we are to examine."

The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a

high central
portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a

crab, thrown out on
each side. In one of these wings the windows were

broken and blocked
with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in,

a picture of ruin.
The central portion was in little better repair, but

the right-hand block
was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the

windows, with the
blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that

this was where
the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected

against the end
wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but

there were no signs
of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes

walked slowly up
and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep

attention the
outsides of the windows.

"This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used

to sleep, the
centre one to your sister's, and the one next to the

main building to Dr.
Roylott's chamber?"

"Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one."

"Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way,

there does not
seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that

end wall."

"There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to

move me from my
room."

"Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this

narrow wing
runs the corridor from which these three rooms open.

There are windows
in it, of course?"

"Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to

pass through."

"As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms

were unapproachable
from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go

into
your room and bar your shutters?"

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful

examination through
the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the

shutter open,
but without success. There was no slit through which a

knife could be
passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested

the hinges, but they
were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive

masonry. "Hum!" said
he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, "my theory

certainly presents
some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if

they were bolted.
Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon

the matter."


A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor

from which the
three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the

third chamber,
so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss

Stoner was now
sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her

fate. It was a homely
little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace,

after the fashion of
old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in

one corner, a
narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a

dressing-table on the
left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two

small wicker-work
chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save for

a square of Wilton
carpet in the centre. The boards round and the

panelling of the walls
were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and discoloured

that it may have
dated from the original building of the house. Holmes

drew one of the
chairs into a corner and sat silent, while his eyes

travelled round and
round and up and down, taking in every detail of the

apartment.

"Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at

last pointing to
a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the

tassel actually lying
upon the pillow.

"It goes to the housekeeper's room."

"It looks newer than the other things?"

"Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."

"Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"

"No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to

get what we
wanted for ourselves."

"Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a

bell-pull there. You
will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself

as to this floor."
He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in

his hand and
crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining

minutely the cracks
between the boards. Then he did the same with the

wood-work with
which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over

to the bed and
spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye

up and down the
wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and

gave it a brisk tug.

"Why, it's a dummy," said he.

"Won't it ring?"

"No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very

interesting. You can
see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where

the little opening
for the ventilator is."

"How very absurd! I never noticed that before."

"Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope.

"There are one
or two very singular points about this room. For

example, what a fool a


builder must be to open a ventilator into another room,

when, with the

same trouble, he might have communicated with the

outside air!"

"That is also quite modern," said the lady.

"Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked

Holmes.

"Yes, there were several little changes carried out

about that time."

"They seem to have been of a most interesting

character—dummy bell-
ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With

your permission,
Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the

inner
apartment."

Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that of

his stepdaughter,
but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small

wooden
shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character,

an armchair beside the
bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round

table, and a large
iron safe were the principal things which met the eye.

Holmes walked
slowly round and examined each and all of them with the

keenest
interest.

"What's in here?" he asked, tapping the safe.

"My stepfather's business papers."

"Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

"Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full

of papers."

"There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

"No. What a strange idea!"

"Well, look at this!" He took up a small saucer of milk

which stood on
the top of it.

"No; we don't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a

baboon."

"Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat,

and yet a saucer of
milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I

daresay. There is one
point which I should wish to determine." He squatted

down in front of
the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the

greatest attention.

"Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising and

putting his lens
in his pocket. "Hullo! Here is something interesting!"

The object which had caught his eye was a small dog

lash hung on one
corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon

itself and tied so
as to make a loop of whipcord.

"What do you make of that, Watson?"

"It's a common enough lash. But I don't know why it

should be tied."

"That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's a

wicked world, and
when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the

worst of all. I think
that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your

permission we
shall walk out upon the lawn."


I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow

so dark as it was
when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We

had walked
several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner

nor myself liking
to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself

from his
reverie.

"It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you

should absolutely
follow my advice in every respect."

"I shall most certainly do so."

"The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your

life may depend
upon your compliance."

"I assure you that I am in your hands."

"In the first place, both my friend and I must spend

the night in your
room."

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

"Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that

that is the village inn
over there?"

"Yes, that is the Crown."

"Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?"

"Certainly."

"You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of

a headache,
when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him

retire for the
night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo

the hasp, put
your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw

quietly with
everything which you are likely to want into the room

which you used to
occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs,

you could manage
there for one night."

"Oh, yes, easily."

"The rest you will leave in our hands."

"But what will you do?"

"We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall

investigate the
cause of this noise which has disturbed you."

"I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up

your mind,"
said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion's

sleeve.

"Perhaps I have."

"Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause of

my sister's death."

"I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I

speak."

"You can at least tell me whether my own thought is

correct, and if she
died from some sudden fright."

"No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably

some more tangible
cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if

Dr. Roylott


returned and saw us our journey would be in vain.

Good-bye, and be
brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may

rest assured that
we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten

you."

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a

bedroom and
sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper

floor, and from
our window we could command a view of the avenue gate,

and of the
inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we

saw Dr.
Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up

beside the little
figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some

slight difficulty in
undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse

roar of the
doctor's voice and saw the fury with which he shook his

clinched fists at
him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw

a sudden light
spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of

the sitting-rooms.

"Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together

in the gathering
darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking you

to-night.
There is a distinct element of danger."

"Can I be of assistance?"

"Your presence might be invaluable."

"Then I shall certainly come."

"It is very kind of you."

"You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in

these rooms
than was visible to me."

"No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more.

I imagine that
you saw all that I did."

"I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what

purpose that
could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."

"You saw the ventilator, too?"

"Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual

thing to have a
small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a

rat could
hardly pass through."

"I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we

came to Stoke
Moran."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said

that her sister
could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that

suggested at once
that there must be a communication between the two

rooms. It could
only be a small one, or it would have been remarked

upon at the
coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

"But what harm can there be in that?"


"Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of

dates. A ventilator is
made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed

dies. Does not
that strike you?"

"I cannot as yet see any connection."

"Did you observe anything very peculiar about that

bed?"

"No."

"It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed

fastened like that
before?"

"I cannot say that I have."

"The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in

the same relative
position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may

call it, since
it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

"Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are

hinting at. We are
only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible

crime."

"Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does

go wrong he
is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has

knowledge. Palmer and
Pritchard were among the heads of their profession.

This man strikes
even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able

to strike deeper
still. But we shall have horrors enough before the

night is over; for goodness'
sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a

few hours to
something more cheerful."

About nine o'clock the light among the trees was

extinguished, and all
was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours

passed slowly
away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven,

a single bright
light shone out right in front of us.

"That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his

feet; "it comes from
the middle window."

As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the

landlord, explaining
that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance,

and that it
was possible that we might spend the night there. A

moment later we
were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our

faces, and one
yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom

to guide us on
our sombre errand.

There was little difficulty in entering the grounds,

for unrepaired
breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way

among the trees,
we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to

enter through the
window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there

darted what
seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw

itself upon the
grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across

the lawn into the
darkness.


"My God!" I whispered; "did you see it?"

Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand

closed like a vice
upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a

low laugh and put
his lips to my ear.

"It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the

baboon."

I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor

affected. There was a
cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our

shoulders at any moment.
I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after

following
Holmes' example and slipping off my shoes, I found

myself inside the
bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters,

moved the
lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room.

All was as we had
seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and

making a trumpet of
his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that

it was all that I
could do to distinguish the words:

"The least sound would be fatal to our plans."

I nodded to show that I had heard.

"We must sit without light. He would see it through the

ventilator."

I nodded again.

"Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it.

Have your pistol
ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side

of the bed, and
you in that chair."

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the

table.

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he

placed upon the
bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and

the stump of a
candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left

in darkness.

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could

not hear a sound,
not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that

my companion sat
open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state

of nervous tension
in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least

ray of light, and we
waited in absolute darkness.

From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird,

and once at our
very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us

that the cheetah
was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep

tones of the parish
clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How

long they
seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two

and three, and
still we sat waiting silently for whatever might

befall.

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in

the direction
of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was

succeeded by a
strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone

in the next room
had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of

movement, and then all


was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger.

For half an hour I
sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound

became audible—a
very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet

of steam escaping
continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard

it, Holmes sprang
from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with

his cane at the
bell-pull.

"You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the

light I
heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare

flashing into my weary
eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at

which my friend
lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face

was deadly pale
and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to

strike and was gazing
up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the

silence of
the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever

listened. It swelled
up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear

and anger all
mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away

down in the village,
and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the

sleepers from
their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood

gazing at Holmes, and
he at me, until the last echoes of it had died away

into the silence from
which it rose.

"What can it mean?" I gasped.

"It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And

perhaps, after all,
it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter

Dr. Roylott's room."

With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down

the corridor.
Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply

from within.
Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels,

with the cocked
pistol in my hand.

It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the

table stood a dark-
lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a

brilliant beam of light
upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside

this table, on the
wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long

grey dressing-
gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet

thrust into red
heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short

stock with the long
lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin was

cocked upward
and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at

the corner of the ceiling.
Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with

brownish
speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his

head. As we
entered he made neither sound nor motion.

"The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes.


I took a step forward. In an instant his strange

headgear began to
move, and there reared itself from among his hair the

squat diamond-
shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

"It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest

snake in India. He
has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence

does, in truth, recoil
upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit

which he digs for another.
Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we

can then remove
Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county

police
know what has happened."

As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead

man's lap,
and throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew

it from its horrid
perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into

the iron safe,
which he closed upon it.

Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby

Roylott, of Stoke
Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a

narrative which has
already run to too great a length by telling how we

broke the sad news to
the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning

train to the care
of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of

official inquiry
came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate

while indiscreetly
playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had

yet to learn of the
case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled

back next day.

"I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous

conclusion which
shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to

reason from insufficient
data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the

word
'band,' which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to

explain the appearance
which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light

of her
match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong

scent. I can only
claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my

position when, however,
it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened

an occupant of
the room could not come either from the window or the

door. My attention
was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you,

to this ventilator,
and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The

discovery
that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to

the floor, instantly
gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a

bridge for
something passing through the hole and coming to the

bed. The idea of a
snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it

with my knowledge
that the doctor was furnished with a supply of

creatures from India,
I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea

of using a form
of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any

chemical test
was just such a one as would occur to a clever and

ruthless man who had


had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a

poison would
take effect would also, from his point of view, be an

advantage. It would
be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish

the two little
dark punctures which would show where the poison fangs

had done
their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he

must recall the
snake before the morning light revealed it to the

victim. He had trained
it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to

return to him when
summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at

the hour that he
thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl

down the rope and
land on the bed. It might or might not bite the

occupant, perhaps she
might escape every night for a week, but sooner or

later she must fall a
victim.

"I had come to these conclusions before ever I had

entered his room.
An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been

in the habit of
standing on it, which of course would be necessary in

order that he
should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the

saucer of milk, and
the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any

doubts which
may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss

Stoner was obviously
caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of

his safe upon
its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you

know the
steps which I took in order to put the matter to the

proof. I heard the
creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and

I instantly lit the
light and attacked it."

"With the result of driving it through the ventilator."

"And also with the result of causing it to turn upon

its master at the
other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and

roused its
snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person

it saw. In this way I
am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby

Roylott's death, and
I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily

upon my conscience."


Part 9
THE ADVENTURE OF THE
ENGINEER'S THUMB



Of all the problems which have been submitted to my

friend, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy,

there were
only two which I was the means of introducing to his

notice—that of Mr.
Hatherley's thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton's

madness. Of these
the latter may have afforded a finer field for an acute

and original observer,
but the other was so strange in its inception and so

dramatic in its
details that it may be the more worthy of being placed

upon record, even
if it gave my friend fewer openings for those deductive

methods of reasoning
by which he achieved such remarkable results. The story

has, I believe,
been told more than once in the newspapers, but, like

all such narratives,
its effect is much less striking when set forth en bloc

in a single
half-column of print than when the facts slowly evolve

before your own
eyes, and the mystery clears gradually away as each new

discovery furnishes
a step which leads on to the complete truth. At the

time the circumstances
made a deep impression upon me, and the lapse of two
years has hardly served to weaken the effect.

It was in the summer of '89, not long after my

marriage, that the events
occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had

returned to civil
practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker

Street rooms, although
I continually visited him and occasionally even

persuaded him to
forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and visit

us. My practice had
steadily increased, and as I happened to live at no

very great distance
from Paddington Station, I got a few patients from

among the officials.
One of these, whom I had cured of a painful and

lingering disease, was
never weary of advertising my virtues and of

endeavouring to send me
on every sufferer over whom he might have any

influence.

One morning, at a little before seven o'clock, I was

awakened by the
maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had

come from Paddington
and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed

hurriedly,
for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom

trivial, and
hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the

guard, came out
of the room and closed the door tightly behind him.

"I've got him here," he whispered, jerking his thumb

over his shoulder;
"he's all right."

"What is it, then?" I asked, for his manner suggested

that it was some
strange creature which he had caged up in my room.

"It's a new patient," he whispered. "I thought I'd

bring him round myself;
then he couldn't slip away. There he is, all safe and

sound. I must go
now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you."

And off he went,
this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank

him.


I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman

seated by the
table. He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather

tweed with a soft cloth
cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of

his hands he
had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over

with bloodstains.
He was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should

say, with
a strong, masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale

and gave me the
impression of a man who was suffering from some strong

agitation,
which it took all his strength of mind to control.

"I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor," said he,

"but I have had
a very serious accident during the night. I came in by

train this morning,
and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find

a doctor, a
worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the

maid a card, but I
see that she has left it upon the side-table."

I took it up and glanced at it. "Mr. Victor Hatherley,

hydraulic engineer,
16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor)." That was the name,

style, and abode
of my morning visitor. "I regret that I have kept you

waiting," said I, sitting
down in my library-chair. "You are fresh from a night

journey, I understand,
which is in itself a monotonous occupation."

"Oh, my night could not be called monotonous," said he,

and laughed.
He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note,

leaning back in his
chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts

rose up against that
laugh.

"Stop it!" I cried; "pull yourself together!" and I

poured out some water
from a caraffe.

It was useless, however. He was off in one of those

hysterical outbursts
which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis

is over
and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very

weary and pale-
looking.

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

"Not at all. Drink this." I dashed some brandy into the

water, and the
colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.

"That's better!" said he. "And now, Doctor, perhaps you

would kindly
attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my

thumb used to be."

He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It

gave even my
hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were

four protruding fingers
and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should

have
been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the

roots.

"Good heavens!" I cried, "this is a terrible injury. It

must have bled
considerably."


"Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think

that I must have
been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found

that it was still
bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very

tightly round the
wrist and braced it up with a twig."

"Excellent! You should have been a surgeon."

"It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came

within my own
province."

"This has been done," said I, examining the wound, "by

a very heavy
and sharp instrument."

"A thing like a cleaver," said he.

"An accident, I presume?"

"By no means."

"What! a murderous attack?"

"Very murderous indeed."

"You horrify me."

I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and

finally covered it over
with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay

back without wincing,
though he bit his lip from time to time.

"How is that?" I asked when I had finished.

"Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel

a new man. I
was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go

through."

"Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is

evidently trying
to your nerves."

"Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the

police; but, between
ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence

of this wound of
mine, I should be surprised if they believed my

statement, for it is a very
extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of

proof with which
to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the clues

which I can give
them are so vague that it is a question whether justice

will be done."

"Ha!" cried I, "if it is anything in the nature of a

problem which you desire
to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come

to my
friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the

official police."

"Oh, I have heard of that fellow," answered my visitor,

"and I should
be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of

course I must use
the official police as well. Would you give me an

introduction to him?"

"I'll do better. I'll take you round to him myself."

"I should be immensely obliged to you."

"We'll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in

time to have a
little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?"

"Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my

story."


"Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with

you in an instant."
I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my

wife, and in five
minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new

acquaintance to
Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his

sitting-room
in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The

Times and
smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed

of all the plugs
and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all

carefully dried and
collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He received

us in his quietly
genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and

joined us in a hearty
meal. When it was concluded he settled our new

acquaintance upon the
sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a

glass of brandy and
water within his reach.

"It is easy to see that your experience has been no

common one, Mr.
Hatherley," said he. "Pray, lie down there and make

yourself absolutely
at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are

tired and keep up
your strength with a little stimulant."

"Thank you," said my patient. "but I have felt another

man since the
doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has

completed the
cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time

as possible, so I shall
start at once upon my peculiar experiences."

Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary,

heavy-lidded expression
which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat

opposite to him,
and we listened in silence to the strange story which

our visitor detailed
to us.

"You must know," said he, "that I am an orphan and a

bachelor, residing
alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a

hydraulic engineer,
and I have had considerable experience of my work

during the seven
years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the

well-known
firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my

time, and having
also come into a fair sum of money through my poor

father's death, I determined
to start in business for myself and took professional

chambers
in Victoria Street.

"I suppose that everyone finds his first independent

start in business a
dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so.

During two years I
have had three consultations and one small job, and

that is absolutely all
that my profession has brought me. My gross takings

amount to 27
pounds 10s. Every day, from nine in the morning until

four in the afternoon,
I waited in my little den, until at last my heart began

to sink, and I
came to believe that I should never have any practice

at all.


"Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving

the office, my
clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who

wished to see
me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the

name of 'Colonel
Lysander Stark' engraved upon it. Close at his heels

came the colonel
himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an

exceeding thinness.
I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a man. His

whole face
sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin of his

cheeks was
drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet this

emaciation
seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no disease,

for his eye was
bright, his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was

plainly but neatly
dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer

forty than thirty.

"'Mr. Hatherley?' said he, with something of a German

accent. 'You
have been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a

man who is
not only proficient in his profession but is also

discreet and capable of
preserving a secret.'

"I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would

at such an address.
'May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?'

"'Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you

that just at this moment.
I have it from the same source that you are both an

orphan and a
bachelor and are residing alone in London.'

"'That is quite correct,' I answered; 'but you will

excuse me if I say that
I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional

qualifications. I understand
that it was on a professional matter that you wished to

speak to
me?'

"'Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is

really to the point. I
have a professional commission for you, but absolute

secrecy is quite essential—
absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course we may

expect
that more from a man who is alone than from one who

lives in the bosom
of his family.'

"'If I promise to keep a secret,' said I, 'you may

absolutely depend
upon my doing so.'

"He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to

me that I had
never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.

"'Do you promise, then?' said he at last.

"'Yes, I promise.'

"'Absolute and complete silence before, during, and

after? No reference
to the matter at all, either in word or writing?'

"'I have already given you my word.'

"'Very good.' He suddenly sprang up, and darting like

lightning across
the room he flung open the door. The passage outside

was empty.


"'That's all right,' said he, coming back. 'I know that

clerks are sometimes
curious as to their master's affairs. Now we can talk

in safety.' He
drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare

at me again with
the same questioning and thoughtful look.

"A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear

had begun to
rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless

man. Even my dread
of losing a client could not restrain me from showing

my impatience.

"'I beg that you will state your business, sir,' said

I; 'my time is of
value.' Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but

the words came to
my lips.

"'How would fifty guineas for a night's work suit you?'

he asked.

"'Most admirably.'

"'I say a night's work, but an hour's would be nearer

the mark. I simply
want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine

which has got
out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon

set it right
ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as

that?'

"'The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.'

"'Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by

the last train.'

"'Where to?'

"'To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near

the borders of Oxford-
shire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a

train from Padding-
ton which would bring you there at about 11:15.'

"'Very good.'

"'I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.'

"'There is a drive, then?'

"'Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It

is a good seven
miles from Eyford Station.'

"'Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I

suppose there would
be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to

stop the night.'

"'Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.'

"'That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more

convenient
hour?'

"'We have judged it best that you should come late. It

is to recompense
you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a

young and unknown
man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very

heads of
your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to

draw out of the
business, there is plenty of time to do so.'

"I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful

they would be
to me. 'Not at all,' said I, 'I shall be very happy to

accommodate myself to


your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a

little more clearly
what it is that you wish me to do.'

"'Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of

secrecy which we have
exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I

have no wish to
commit you to anything without your having it all laid

before you. I suppose
that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?'

"'Entirely.'

"'Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware

that fuller'searth
is a valuable product, and that it is only found in one

or two places
in England?'

"'I have heard so.'

"'Some little time ago I bought a small place—a very

small
place—within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate

enough to discover
that there was a deposit of fuller's-earth in one of my

fields. On examining
it, however, I found that this deposit was a

comparatively small one,
and that it formed a link between two very much larger

ones upon the
right and left—both of them, however, in the grounds of

my neighbours.
These good people were absolutely ignorant that their

land contained
that which was quite as valuable as a gold-mine.

Naturally, it was to my
interest to buy their land before they discovered its

true value, but unfortunately
I had no capital by which I could do this. I took a few

of my
friends into the secret, however, and they suggested

that we should
quietly and secretly work our own little deposit and

that in this way we
should earn the money which would enable us to buy the

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

in order to help
us in our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This

press, as I have
already explained, has got out of order, and we wish

your advice upon
the subject. We guard our secret very jealously,

however, and if it once
became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to

our little
house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the

facts came out, it
would be good-bye to any chance of getting these fields

and carrying out
our plans. That is why I have made you promise me that

you will not tell
a human being that you are going to Eyford to-night. I

hope that I make
it all plain?'

"'I quite follow you,' said I. 'The only point which I

could not quite understand
was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in
excavating fuller's-earth, which, as I understand, is

dug out like gravel
from a pit.'

"'Ah!' said he carelessly, 'we have our own process. We

compress the
earth into bricks, so as to remove them without

revealing what they are.


But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into

my confidence now,
Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you.'

He rose as he
spoke. 'I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11:15.'

"'I shall certainly be there.'

"'And not a word to a soul.' He looked at me with a

last long, questioning
gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp,

he hurried
from the room.

"Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I

was very much
astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden

commission which
had been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I

was glad, for the
fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I

set a price upon
my own services, and it was possible that this order

might lead to other
ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my

patron had made an
unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not think

that his explanation
of the fuller's-earth was sufficient to explain the

necessity for my
coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I

should tell anyone of
my errand. However, I threw all fears to the winds, ate

a hearty supper,
drove to Paddington, and started off, having obeyed to

the letter the injunction
as to holding my tongue.

"At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my

station.
However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford,

and I reached the
little dim-lit station after eleven o'clock. I was the

only passenger who
got out there, and there was no one upon the platform

save a single
sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through

the wicket gate,
however, I found my acquaintance of the morning waiting

in the shadow
upon the other side. Without a word he grasped my arm

and hurried me
into a carriage, the door of which was standing open.

He drew up the
windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work, and

away we went
as fast as the horse could go."

"One horse?" interjected Holmes.

"Yes, only one."

"Did you observe the colour?"

"Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping

into the carriage.
It was a chestnut."

"Tired-looking or fresh?"

"Oh, fresh and glossy."

"Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray

continue your
most interesting statement."

"Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour.

Colonel
Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles,

but I should think,


from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time

that we took, that
it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in

silence all the time,
and I was aware, more than once when I glanced in his

direction, that he
was looking at me with great intensity. The country

roads seem to be not
very good in that part of the world, for we lurched and

jolted terribly. I
tried to look out of the windows to see something of

where we were, but
they were made of frosted glass, and I could make out

nothing save the
occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now and then

I hazarded some
remark to break the monotony of the journey, but the

colonel answered
only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon

flagged. At last,
however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for the

crisp smoothness
of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand.

Colonel
Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after

him, pulled me
swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We

stepped, as it were,
right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I

failed to catch the
most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The

instant that I had
crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind

us, and I heard
faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove

away.

"It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel

fumbled about
looking for matches and muttering under his breath.

Suddenly a door
opened at the other end of the passage, and a long,

golden bar of light
shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman

appeared with a
lamp in her hand, which she held above her head,

pushing her face forward
and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and

from the
gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I

knew that it was a
rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign

tongue in a tone as
though asking a question, and when my companion

answered in a gruff
monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly

fell from her
hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something

in her ear, and
then, pushing her back into the room from whence she

had come, he
walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand.

"'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this

room for a few
minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a

quiet, little,
plainly furnished room, with a round table in the

centre, on which several
German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down

the lamp on
the top of a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not

keep you waiting an
instant,' said he, and vanished into the darkness.

"I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of

my ignorance of
German I could see that two of them were treatises on

science, the others
being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the

window, hoping


that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side,

but an oak shutter,
heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a

wonderfully silent house.
There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the

passage, but
otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling

of uneasiness
began to steal over me. Who were these German people,

and what were
they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way

place? And where was
the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was

all I knew, but
whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For

that matter, Reading,
and possibly other large towns, were within that

radius, so the place
might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was quite

certain, from the absolute
stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and

down the
room, humming a tune under my breath to keep up my

spirits and feeling
that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee.

"Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst

of the utter
stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The

woman was
standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall

behind her, the yellow
light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful

face. I could
see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the

sight sent a chill to my
own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to

be silent, and
she shot a few whispered words of broken English at me,

her eyes glancing
back, like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom

behind her.

"'I would go,' said she, trying hard, as it seemed to

me, to speak
calmly; 'I would go. I should not stay here. There is

no good for you to
do.'

"'But, madam,' said I, 'I have not yet done what I came

for. I cannot
possibly leave until I have seen the machine.'

"'It is not worth your while to wait,' she went on.

'You can pass
through the door; no one hinders.' And then, seeing

that I smiled and
shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint

and made a
step forward, with her hands wrung together. 'For the

love of Heaven!'
she whispered, 'get away from here before it is too

late!'

"But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more

ready to engage
in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I

thought of my
fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the

unpleasant night
which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for

nothing? Why should
I slink away without having carried out my commission,

and without the
payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I

knew, be a
monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her

manner had
shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook

my head and declared
my intention of remaining where I was. She was about to

renew


her entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the

sound of several
footsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened for

an instant, threw up
her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as

suddenly and as
noiselessly as she had come.

"The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short

thick man
with a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of

his double chin,
who was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.

"'This is my secretary and manager,' said the colonel.

'By the way, I
was under the impression that I left this door shut

just now. I fear that
you have felt the draught.'

"'On the contrary,' said I, 'I opened the door myself

because I felt the
room to be a little close.'

"He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. 'Perhaps we

had better proceed
to business, then,' said he. 'Mr. Ferguson and I will

take you up to
see the machine.'

"'I had better put my hat on, I suppose.'

"'Oh, no, it is in the house.'

"'What, you dig fuller's-earth in the house?'

"'No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never

mind that. All
we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let

us know what is
wrong with it.'

"We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the

lamp, the fat
manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old

house, with corridors,
passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low

doors, the
thresholds of which were hollowed out by the

generations who had
crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any

furniture above
the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the

walls, and the
damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches.

I tried to put
on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not

forgotten the warnings
of the lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept

a keen eye
upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a

morose and silent
man, but I could see from the little that he said that

he was at least a
fellow-countryman.

"Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low

door, which he
unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the

three of us
could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained

outside, and the colonel
ushered me in.

"'We are now,' said he, 'actually within the hydraulic

press, and it
would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if

anyone were to turn it
on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end

of the descending


piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons

upon this metal
floor. There are small lateral columns of water outside

which receive the
force, and which transmit and multiply it in the manner

which is familiar
to you. The machine goes readily enough, but there is

some stiffness in
the working of it, and it has lost a little of its

force. Perhaps you will have
the goodness to look it over and to show us how we can

set it right.'

"I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine

very thoroughly.
It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising

enormous
pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed

down the levers
which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing

sound that there was
a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of

water through one of
the side cylinders. An examination showed that one of

the india-rubber
bands which was round the head of a driving-rod had

shrunk so as not
quite to fill the socket along which it worked. This

was clearly the cause
of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my

companions, who followed
my remarks very carefully and asked several practical

questions
as to how they should proceed to set it right. When I

had made it clear to
them, I returned to the main chamber of the machine and

took a good
look at it to satisfy my own curiosity. It was obvious

at a glance that the
story of the fuller's-earth was the merest fabrication,

for it would be absurd
to suppose that so powerful an engine could be designed

for so inadequate
a purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor

consisted of a
large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I

could see a crust of
metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was

scraping at this to see
exactly what it was when I heard a muttered exclamation

in German and
saw the cadaverous face of the colonel looking down at

me.

"'What are you doing there?' he asked.

"I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a

story as that
which he had told me. 'I was admiring your

fuller's-earth,' said I; 'I think
that I should be better able to advise you as to your

machine if I knew
what the exact purpose was for which it was used.'

"The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the

rashness of my
speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang

up in his grey eyes.

"'Very well,' said he, 'you shall know all about the

machine.' He took a
step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the

key in the lock. I
rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was

quite secure, and
did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves.

'Hullo!' I yelled. 'Hullo!
Colonel! Let me out!'

"And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which

sent my
heart into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and

the swish of the


leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The

lamp still stood
upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the

trough. By its
light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon

me, slowly,
jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a

force which must
within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw

myself, screaming,
against the door, and dragged with my nails at the

lock. I implored the
colonel to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of

the levers drowned
my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my

head, and with my
hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface.

Then it flashed
through my mind that the pain of my death would depend

very much
upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my

face the weight would
come upon my spine, and I shuddered to think of that

dreadful snap.
Easier the other way, perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve

to lie and look up
at that deadly black shadow wavering down upon me?

Already I was
unable to stand erect, when my eye caught something

which brought a
gush of hope back to my heart.

"I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of

iron, the walls
were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I

saw a thin line of
yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened

and
broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an

instant I could
hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led

away from death.
The next instant I threw myself through, and lay

half-fainting upon the
other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but

the crash of the
lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two

slabs of metal,
told me how narrow had been my escape.

"I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my

wrist, and I found
myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor,

while a woman
bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while

she held a
candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose

warning I had so
foolishly rejected.

"'Come! come!' she cried breathlessly. 'They will be

here in a moment.
They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste

the so-precious
time, but come!'

"This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I

staggered to my feet
and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding

stair. The latter
led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it

we heard the
sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices,

one answering the
other from the floor on which we were and from the one

beneath. My
guide stopped and looked about her like one who is at

her wit's end.


Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom,

through the window
of which the moon was shining brightly.

"'It is your only chance,' said she. 'It is high, but

it may be that you can
jump it.'

"As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further

end of the passage,
and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark

rushing forward
with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a

butcher's cleaver in
the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the

window, and
looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the

garden looked in
the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty

feet down. I
clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump

until I should have
heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian

who pursued
me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was

determined to go back to
her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through

my mind before
he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she

threw her arms
round him and tried to hold him back.

"'Fritz! Fritz!' she cried in English, 'remember your

promise after the
last time. You said it should not be again. He will be

silent! Oh, he will be
silent!'

"'You are mad, Elise!' he shouted, struggling to break

away from her.
'You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let

me pass, I say!' He
dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut

at me with his
heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by

the hands to the
sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull

pain, my grip loosened,
and I fell into the garden below.

"I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked

myself up and
rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for

I understood that
I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly,

however, as I ran, a
deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced

down at my
hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the

first time, saw
that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was

pouring from my
wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it,

but there came a
sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a

dead faint
among the rose-bushes.

"How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must

have been a
very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright

morning was breaking
when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with

dew, and
my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded

thumb. The
smarting of it recalled in an instant all the

particulars of my night's adventure,
and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I might

hardly yet


be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment, when

I came to look
round me, neither house nor garden were to be seen. I

had been lying in
an angle of the hedge close by the highroad, and just a

little lower down
was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching

it, to be the
very station at which I had arrived upon the previous

night. Were it not
for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed

during those
dreadful hours might have been an evil dream.

"Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about

the morning train.
There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The

same porter
was on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived.

I inquired of him
whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark.

The name was
strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night

before waiting for
me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere

near? There
was one about three miles off.

"It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I

determined to wait
until I got back to town before telling my story to the

police. It was a
little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have

my wound dressed,
and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along

here. I put the
case into your hands and shall do exactly what you

advise."

We both sat in silence for some little time after

listening to this extraordinary
narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the

shelf
one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he

placed his
cuttings.

"Here is an advertisement which will interest you,"

said he. "It appeared
in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this:

'Lost, on the 9th
inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a

hydraulic engineer. Left
his lodgings at ten o'clock at night, and has not been

heard of since. Was
dressed in,' etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last

time that the colonel
needed to have his machine overhauled, I fancy."

"Good heavens!" cried my patient. "Then that explains

what the girl
said."

"Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a

cool and desperate
man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should

stand in
the way of his little game, like those out-and-out

pirates who will leave
no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment

now is precious,
so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to Scotland

Yard at once as a
preliminary to starting for Eyford."

Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the

train together,
bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village.

There were Sherlock
Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet,

of Scotland Yard, a


plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread an

ordnance map
of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his

compasses drawing
a circle with Eyford for its centre.

"There you are," said he. "That circle is drawn at a

radius of ten miles
from the village. The place we want must be somewhere

near that line.
You said ten miles, I think, sir."

"It was an hour's good drive."

"And you think that they brought you back all that way

when you
were unconscious?"

"They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too,

of having
been lifted and conveyed somewhere."

"What I cannot understand," said I, "is why they should

have spared
you when they found you lying fainting in the garden.

Perhaps the villain
was softened by the woman's entreaties."

"I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more

inexorable face in my
life."

"Oh, we shall soon clear up all that," said Bradstreet.

"Well, I have
drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point

upon it the folk
that we are in search of are to be found."

"I think I could lay my finger on it," said Holmes

quietly.

"Really, now!" cried the inspector, "you have formed

your opinion!
Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it

is south, for the
country is more deserted there."

"And I say east," said my patient.

"I am for west," remarked the plain-clothes man. "There

are several
quiet little villages up there."

"And I am for north," said I, "because there are no

hills there, and our
friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up

any."

"Come," cried the inspector, laughing; "it's a very

pretty diversity of
opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you

give your
casting vote to?"

"You are all wrong."

"But we can't all be."

"Oh, yes, you can. This is my point." He placed his

finger in the centre
of the circle. "This is where we shall find them."

"But the twelve-mile drive?" gasped Hatherley.

"Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say

yourself that the horse
was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be

that if it had gone
twelve miles over heavy roads?"


"Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough," observed

Bradstreet thoughtfully.
"Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of

this gang."

"None at all," said Holmes. "They are coiners on a

large scale, and have
used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken

the place of
silver."

"We have known for some time that a clever gang was at

work," said
the inspector. "They have been turning out half-crowns

by the thousand.
We even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no

farther, for they
had covered their traces in a way that showed that they

were very old
hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think

that we have got
them right enough."

But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals

were not destined
to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into

Eyford Station we saw a
gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind

a small
clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an

immense ostrich
feather over the landscape.

"A house on fire?" asked Bradstreet as the train

steamed off again on
its way.

"Yes, sir!" said the station-master.

"When did it break out?"

"I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has

got worse, and the
whole place is in a blaze."

"Whose house is it?"

"Dr. Becher's."

"Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is Dr. Becher a

German, very thin,
with a long, sharp nose?"

The station-master laughed heartily. "No, sir, Dr.

Becher is an Englishman,
and there isn't a man in the parish who has a

better-lined waistcoat.
But he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as

I understand, who
is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little good

Berkshire beef would do
him no harm."

The station-master had not finished his speech before

we were all
hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped

a low hill, and
there was a great widespread whitewashed building in

front of us,
spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the

garden in front
three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the

flames under.

"That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excitement.

"There is the gravel-
drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That

second window is
the one that I jumped from."


"Well, at least," said Holmes, "you have had your

revenge upon them.
There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp

which, when it was
crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls,

though no doubt they
were too excited in the chase after you to observe it

at the time. Now
keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of

last night, though I
very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off

by now."

And Holmes' fears came to be realised, for from that

day to this no
word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman,

the sinister
German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a

peasant had
met a cart containing several people and some very

bulky boxes driving
rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all

traces of the fugitives
disappeared, and even Holmes' ingenuity failed ever to

discover the
least clue as to their whereabouts.

The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange

arrangements
which they had found within, and still more so by

discovering a newly
severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second

floor. About
sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful,

and they subdued
the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and

the whole place
been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some

twisted cylinders and
iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery

which had cost our
unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of

nickel and of tin
were discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins

were to be found,
which may have explained the presence of those bulky

boxes which have
been already referred to.

How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the

garden to
the spot where he recovered his senses might have

remained forever a
mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a

very plain tale.
He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one

of whom had
remarkably small feet and the other unusually large

ones. On the whole,
it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being

less bold or less
murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to

bear the unconscious
man out of the way of danger.

"Well," said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats

to return once
more to London, "it has been a pretty business for me!

I have lost my
thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have

I gained?"

"Experience," said Holmes, laughing. "Indirectly it may

be of value,
you know; you have only to put it into words to gain

the reputation of
being excellent company for the remainder of your

existence."


Part 10
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE
BACHELOR



The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious

termination, have long
ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted

circles in which the unfortunate
bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and

their
more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from

this four-yearold
drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the

full facts have
never been revealed to the general public, and as my

friend Sherlock
Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the matter

up, I feel that no
memoir of him would be complete without some little

sketch of this remarkable
episode.

It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the

days when I
was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street,

that he came home
from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table

waiting for him. I had
remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a

sudden turn to
rain, with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet

which I had
brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan

campaign
throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one

easy-chair and my
legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud

of newspapers
until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I

tossed them all aside
and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram

upon the envelope
upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend's

noble correspondent
could be.

"Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he

entered. "Your
morning letters, if I remember right, were from a

fish-monger and a tide-
waiter."

"Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of

variety," he
answered, smiling, "and the humbler are usually the

more interesting.
This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses

which call
upon a man either to be bored or to lie."

He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

"Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest,

after all."

"Not social, then?"

"No, distinctly professional."

"And from a noble client?"

"One of the highest in England."

"My dear fellow, I congratulate you."

"I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the

status of my client
is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of

his case. It is just
possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in

this new investigation.
You have been reading the papers diligently of late,

have you
not?"


"It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge

bundle in the
corner. "I have had nothing else to do."

"It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post

me up. I read nothing
except the criminal news and the agony column. The

latter is always
instructive. But if you have followed recent events so

closely you must
have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?"

"Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."

"That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is

from Lord St. Simon.
I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over

these papers
and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is

what he says:

"'MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:—Lord Backwater tells me
that I may place implicit reliance upon your judgment

and discretion. I
have determined, therefore, to call upon you and to

consult you in reference
to the very painful event which has occurred in

connection with my
wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is acting

already in the matter,
but he assures me that he sees no objection to your

co-operation, and that
he even thinks that it might be of some assistance. I

will call at four
o'clock in the afternoon, and, should you have any

other engagement at
that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this

matter is of paramount
importance. Yours faithfully, ST. SIMON.'

"It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a

quill pen, and
the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of

ink upon the outer
side of his right little finger," remarked Holmes as he

folded up the
epistle.

"He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here

in an hour."

"Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get

clear upon the subject.
Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in

their order of
time, while I take a glance as to who our client is."

He picked a red-
covered volume from a line of books of reference beside

the mantelpiece.
"Here he is," said he, sitting down and flattening it

out upon his knee.
"'Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son

of the Duke of
Balmoral.' Hum! 'Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief

over a fess sable.
Born in 1846.' He's forty-one years of age, which is

mature for marriage.
Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late

administration. The Duke,
his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign

Affairs. They inherit
Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the

distaff side. Ha!
Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this. I

think that I must turn
to you Watson, for something more solid."

"I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,"

said I, "for the
facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as

remarkable. I feared to


refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an

inquiry on hand
and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters."

"Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor

Square furniture
van. That is quite cleared up now—though, indeed, it

was obvious from
the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper

selections."

"Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in

the personal column of
the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks

back: 'A marriage
has been arranged,' it says, 'and will, if rumour is

correct, very shortly
take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second son

of the Duke of
Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of

Aloysius Doran.
Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.' That is all."

"Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching

his long, thin
legs towards the fire.

"There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the

society papers of
the same week. Ah, here it is: 'There will soon be a

call for protection in
the marriage market, for the present free-trade

principle appears to tell
heavily against our home product. One by one the

management of the
noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the hands

of our fair cousins
from across the Atlantic. An important addition has

been made during
the last week to the list of the prizes which have been

borne away by
these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown

himself for
over twenty years proof against the little god's

arrows, has now definitely
announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty

Doran, the
fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss

Doran, whose
graceful figure and striking face attracted much

attention at the West-
bury House festivities, is an only child, and it is

currently reported that
her dowry will run to considerably over the six

figures, with expectancies
for the future. As it is an open secret that the Duke

of Balmoral has
been compelled to sell his pictures within the last few

years, and as Lord
St. Simon has no property of his own save the small

estate of Birchmoor,
it is obvious that the Californian heiress is not the

only gainer by an alliance
which will enable her to make the easy and common

transition
from a Republican lady to a British peeress.'"

"Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning.

"Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the

Morning Post to say
that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one,

that it would be at
St. George's, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen

intimate friends
would be invited, and that the party would return to

the furnished house
at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius

Doran. Two
days later—that is, on Wednesday last—there is a curt

announcement


that the wedding had taken place, and that the

honeymoon would be
passed at Lord Backwater's place, near Petersfield.

Those are all the notices
which appeared before the disappearance of the bride."

"Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start.

"The vanishing of the lady."

"When did she vanish, then?"

"At the wedding breakfast."

"Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to

be; quite dramatic,
in fact."

"Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the

common."

"They often vanish before the ceremony, and

occasionally during the
honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so

prompt as this.
Pray let me have the details."

"I warn you that they are very incomplete."

"Perhaps we may make them less so."

"Such as they are, they are set forth in a single

article of a morning paper
of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed,

'Singular Occurrence
at a Fashionable Wedding':

"'The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown

into the
greatest consternation by the strange and painful

episodes which have
taken place in connection with his wedding. The

ceremony, as shortly
announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the

previous morning;
but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm

the strange rumours
which have been so persistently floating about. In

spite of the attempts
of the friends to hush the matter up, so much public

attention has
now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be served

by affecting to
disregard what is a common subject for conversation.

"'The ceremony, which was performed at St. George's,

Hanover
Square, was a very quiet one, no one being present save

the father of the
bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral,

Lord Backwater,
Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger

brother and sister
of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The

whole party proceeded
afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at

Lancaster Gate,
where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some

little trouble
was caused by a woman, whose name has not been

ascertained, who endeavoured
to force her way into the house after the bridal party,

alleging
that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was

only after a painful
and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler

and the footman.
The bride, who had fortunately entered the house before

this unpleasant
interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest,

when she


complained of a sudden indisposition and retired to her

room. Her prolonged
absence having caused some comment, her father followed

her,
but learned from her maid that she had only come up to

her chamber for
an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried

down to the passage.
One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady

leave the
house thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that

it was his mistress,
believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining

that his daughter
had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction

with the bridegroom,
instantly put themselves in communication with the

police, and
very energetic inquiries are being made, which will

probably result in a
speedy clearing up of this very singular business. Up

to a late hour last
night, however, nothing had transpired as to the

whereabouts of the
missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the

matter, and it is said
that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who

had caused the
original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy

or some other
motive, she may have been concerned in the strange

disappearance of
the bride.'"

"And is that all?"

"Only one little item in another of the morning papers,

but it is a suggestive
one."

"And it is—"

"That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the

disturbance, has
actually been arrested. It appears that she was

formerly a danseuse at the
Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some

years. There
are no further particulars, and the whole case is in

your hands now—so
far as it has been set forth in the public press."

"And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be.

I would not have
missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell,

Watson, and as the
clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no

doubt that this will
prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going,

Watson, for I very
much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my

own memory."

"Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page-boy,

throwing open the
door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured

face, high-nosed
and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the

mouth, and
with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose

pleasant lot it had ever
been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk,

and yet his
general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for

he had a slight
forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he

walked. His hair, too,
as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was

grizzled round the
edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was

careful to the verge


of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat,

white waistcoat, yellow
gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured

gaiters. He advanced
slowly into the room, turning his head from left to

right, and swinging in
his right hand the cord which held his golden

eyeglasses.

"Good-day, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, rising and

bowing. "Pray
take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague,

Dr. Watson. Draw
up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter

over."

"A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily

imagine, Mr.
Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that

you have already
managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir,

though I presume that
they were hardly from the same class of society."

"No, I am descending."

"I beg pardon."

"My last client of the sort was a king."

"Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?"

"The King of Scandinavia."

"What! Had he lost his wife?"

"You can understand," said Holmes suavely, "that I

extend to the affairs
of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to

you in
yours."

"Of course! Very right! very right! I'm sure I beg

pardon. As to my own
case, I am ready to give you any information which may

assist you in
forming an opinion."

"Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the

public prints, nothing
more. I presume that I may take it as correct— this

article, for example,
as to the disappearance of the bride."

Lord St. Simon glanced over it. "Yes, it is correct, as

far as it goes."

"But it needs a great deal of supplementing before

anyone could offer
an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most

directly by questioning
you."

"Pray do so."

"When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?"

"In San Francisco, a year ago."

"You were travelling in the States?"

"Yes."

"Did you become engaged then?"

"No."

"But you were on a friendly footing?"

"I was amused by her society, and she could see that I

was amused."

"Her father is very rich?"


"He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific

slope."

"And how did he make his money?"

"In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he

struck gold, invested
it, and came up by leaps and bounds."

"Now, what is your own impression as to the young

lady's—your
wife's character?"

The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and

stared down into
the fire. "You see, Mr. Holmes," said he, "my wife was

twenty before her
father became a rich man. During that time she ran free

in a mining
camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that

her education
has come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster.

She is what we
call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild

and free, unfettered
by any sort of traditions. She is impetuous—volcanic, I

was about to say.
She is swift in making up her mind and fearless in

carrying out her resolutions.
On the other hand, I would not have given her the name

which I
have the honour to bear"—he gave a little stately

cough—"had not I
thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe

that she is capable
of heroic self-sacrifice and that anything

dishonourable would be repugnant
to her."

"Have you her photograph?"

"I brought this with me." He opened a locket and showed

us the full
face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph

but an ivory miniature,
and the artist had brought out the full effect of the

lustrous black
hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth.

Holmes gazed long
and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and

handed it back to Lord
St. Simon.

"The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed

your
acquaintance?"

"Yes, her father brought her over for this last London

season. I met her
several times, became engaged to her, and have now

married her."

"She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?"

"A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family."

"And this, of course, remains to you, since the

marriage is a fait
accompli?"

"I really have made no inquiries on the subject."

"Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day

before the
wedding?"

"Yes."

"Was she in good spirits?"


"Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in

our future
lives."

"Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning

of the
wedding?"

"She was as bright as possible—at least until after the

ceremony."

"And did you observe any change in her then?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs

that I had ever seen
that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident

however, was too
trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon

the case."

"Pray let us have it, for all that."

"Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went

towards the
vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and

it fell over into the
pew. There was a moment's delay, but the gentleman in

the pew handed
it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the

worse for the fall. Yet
when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me

abruptly; and in the
carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly agitated

over this trifling
cause."

"Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew.

Some of the
general public were present, then?"

"Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the

church is open."

"This gentleman was not one of your wife's friends?"

"No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was

quite a
common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance.

But really I
think that we are wandering rather far from the point."

"Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a

less cheerful
frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do

on re-entering
her father's house?"

"I saw her in conversation with her maid."

"And who is her maid?"

"Alice is her name. She is an American and came from

California with
her."

"A confidential servant?"

"A little too much so. It seemed to me that her

mistress allowed her to
take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they

look upon these
things in a different way."

"How long did she speak to this Alice?"

"Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of."

"You did not overhear what they said?"

"Lady St. Simon said something about 'jumping a claim.'

She was accustomed
to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she

meant."


"American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what

did your
wife do when she finished speaking to her maid?"

"She walked into the breakfast-room."

"On your arm?"

"No, alone. She was very independent in little matters

like that. Then,
after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose

hurriedly,
muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She

never came
back."

"But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that

she went to her
room, covered her bride's dress with a long ulster, put

on a bonnet, and
went out."

"Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into

Hyde Park in
company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in

custody, and who
had already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran's house

that morning."

"Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this

young lady, and your
relations to her."

Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his

eyebrows. "We
have been on a friendly footing for some years—I may

say on a very
friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have

not treated her ungenerously,
and she had no just cause of complaint against me, but

you
know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear

little thing, but
exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me.

She wrote me
dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be

married, and, to
tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage

celebrated so quietly
was that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the

church. She came to
Mr. Doran's door just after we returned, and she

endeavoured to push
her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards

my wife, and
even threatening her, but I had foreseen the

possibility of something of
the sort, and I had two police fellows there in private

clothes, who soon
pushed her out again. She was quiet when she saw that

there was no
good in making a row."

"Did your wife hear all this?"

"No, thank goodness, she did not."

"And she was seen walking with this very woman

afterwards?"

"Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,

looks upon as so
serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out

and laid some terrible
trap for her."

"Well, it is a possible supposition."

"You think so, too?"


"I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself

look upon this
as likely?"

"I do not think Flora would hurt a fly."

"Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of

characters. Pray what is your
own theory as to what took place?"

"Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound

one. I have given
you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say

that it has occurred
to me as possible that the excitement of this affair,

the consciousness
that she had made so immense a social stride, had the

effect of causing
some little nervous disturbance in my wife."

"In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?"

"Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her

back—I will not
say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to

without success—
I can hardly explain it in any other fashion."

"Well, certainly that is also a conceivable

hypothesis," said Holmes,
smiling. "And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have

nearly all my data.
May I ask whether you were seated at the

breakfast-table so that you
could see out of the window?"

"We could see the other side of the road and the Park."

"Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain

you longer. I shall
communicate with you."

"Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem,"

said our client,
rising.

"I have solved it."

"Eh? What was that?"

"I say that I have solved it."

"Where, then, is my wife?"

"That is a detail which I shall speedily supply."

Lord St. Simon shook his head. "I am afraid that it

will take wiser
heads than yours or mine," he remarked, and bowing in a

stately, old-
fashioned manner he departed.

"It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by

putting it on a
level with his own," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "I

think that I shall
have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this

cross-questioning. I had
formed my conclusions as to the case before our client

came into the
room."

"My dear Holmes!"

"I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as

I remarked before,
which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served

to turn
my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence

is occasionally


very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk,

to quote Thoreau's

example."

"But I have heard all that you have heard."

"Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases

which serves
me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen

some years back,
and something on very much the same lines at Munich the

year after the
Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases—but,

hullo, here is
Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an

extra tumbler upon
the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box."

The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and

cravat, which
gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he

carried a black canvas
bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated

himself and lit the cigar
which had been offered to him.

"What's up, then?" asked Holmes with a twinkle in his

eye. "You look
dissatisfied."

"And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon

marriage case. I can
make neither head nor tail of the business."

"Really! You surprise me."

"Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue

seems to slip
through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all

day."

"And very wet it seems to have made you," said Holmes

laying his
hand upon the arm of the pea-jacket.

"Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine."

"In heaven's name, what for?"

"In search of the body of Lady St. Simon."

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed

heartily.

"Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square

fountain?" he asked.

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Because you have just as good a chance of finding this

lady in the one
as in the other."

Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. "I

suppose you know
all about it," he snarled.

"Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is

made up."

"Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays

no part in the
matter?"

"I think it very unlikely."

"Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we

found this in
it?" He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto

the floor a
wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin

shoes and a bride's
wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water.

"There," said he,


putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile.

"There is a little nut
for you to crack, Master Holmes."

"Oh, indeed!" said my friend, blowing blue rings into

the air. "You
dragged them from the Serpentine?"

"No. They were found floating near the margin by a

park-keeper. They
have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to

me that if the
clothes were there the body would not be far off."

"By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is

to be found in
the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did

you hope to arrive
at through this?"

"At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the

disappearance."

"I am afraid that you will find it difficult."

"Are you, indeed, now?" cried Lestrade with some

bitterness. "I am
afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with

your deductions and
your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many

minutes. This
dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar."

"And how?"

"In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a

card-case. In the card-case is
a note. And here is the very note." He slapped it down

upon the table in
front of him. "Listen to this: 'You will see me when

all is ready. Come at
once. F.H.M.' Now my theory all along has been that

Lady St. Simon was
decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she, with

confederates, no doubt,
was responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed

with her initials, is
the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into

her hand at the
door and which lured her within their reach."

"Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, laughing. "You

really are very
fine indeed. Let me see it." He took up the paper in a

listless way, but his
attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a

little cry of satisfaction.
"This is indeed important," said he.

"Ha! you find it so?"

"Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly."

Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look.

"Why," he
shrieked, "you're looking at the wrong side!"

"On the contrary, this is the right side."

"The right side? You're mad! Here is the note written

in pencil over
here."

"And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a

hotel bill,
which interests me deeply."


"There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," said

Lestrade. "'Oct. 4th,
rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s.

6d., glass sherry, 8d.' I
see nothing in that."

"Very likely not. It is most important, all the same.

As to the note, it is
important also, or at least the initials are, so I

congratulate you again."

"I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, rising. "I

believe in hard
work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine

theories. Good-day, Mr.
Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of

the matter first."
He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag,

and made for the
door.

"Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled Holmes before

his rival vanished;
"I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady

St. Simon is a
myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such

person."

Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned

to me, tapped
his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and

hurried away.

He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose

to put on
his overcoat. "There is something in what the fellow

says about outdoor
work," he remarked, "so I think, Watson, that I must

leave you to your
papers for a little."

It was after five o'clock when Sherlock Holmes left me,

but I had no
time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a

confectioner's man
with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the

help of a youth
whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very

great astonishment,
a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid

out upon
our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple

of brace of
cold woodcock, a pheasant, a pâté de foie gras pie with

a group of ancient
and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these

luxuries, my two
visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian

Nights, with no explanation
save that the things had been paid for and were ordered

to this
address.

Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes stepped

briskly into the
room. His features were gravely set, but there was a

light in his eye
which made me think that he had not been disappointed

in his
conclusions.

"They have laid the supper, then," he said, rubbing his

hands.

"You seem to expect company. They have laid for five."

"Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in,"

said he. "I am
surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived.

Ha! I fancy that I
hear his step now upon the stairs."


It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came

bustling in,
dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and

with a very perturbed
expression upon his aristocratic features.

"My messenger reached you, then?" asked Holmes.

"Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me

beyond measure.
Have you good authority for what you say?"

"The best possible."

Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand

over his
forehead.

"What will the Duke say," he murmured, "when he hears

that one of
the family has been subjected to such humiliation?"

"It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there

is any humiliation."

"Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint."

"I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly

see how the lady
could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of

doing it was
undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had

no one to advise
her at such a crisis."

"It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said Lord St.

Simon, tapping his
fingers upon the table.

"You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in

so unprecedented
a position."

"I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and

I have been
shamefully used."

"I think that I heard a ring," said Holmes. "Yes, there

are steps on the
landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient

view of the matter,
Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may

be more successful."
He opened the door and ushered in a lady and gentleman.
"Lord St. Simon," said he "allow me to introduce you to

Mr. and Mrs.
Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have

already met."

At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung

from his seat
and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his

hand thrust into
the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended

dignity. The lady had
taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to

him, but he still
refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his

resolution, perhaps, for her
pleading face was one which it was hard to resist.

"You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, I guess you

have every cause to
be."

"Pray make no apology to me," said Lord St. Simon

bitterly.

"Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and

that I should
have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of

rattled, and from the


time when I saw Frank here again I just didn't know

what I was doing or
saying. I only wonder I didn't fall down and do a faint

right there before
the altar."

"Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me

to leave the
room while you explain this matter?"

"If I may give an opinion," remarked the strange

gentleman, "we've
had just a little too much secrecy over this business

already. For my part,
I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights

of it." He was a
small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp

face and alert
manner.

"Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady.

"Frank here and I
met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies, where

pa was working a
claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but

then one day
father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor

Frank here had a
claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer

pa grew the
poorer was Frank; so at last pa wouldn't hear of our

engagement lasting
any longer, and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank

wouldn't throw up his
hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me

without pa knowing
anything about it. It would only have made him mad to

know, so we
just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he

would go and make
his pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he

had as much as
pa. So then I promised to wait for him to the end of

time and pledged
myself not to marry anyone else while he lived. 'Why

shouldn't we be
married right away, then,' said he, 'and then I will

feel sure of you; and I
won't claim to be your husband until I come back?'

Well, we talked it
over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a

clergyman all ready in
waiting, that we just did it right there; and then

Frank went off to seek
his fortune, and I went back to pa.

"The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana,

and then he
went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him

from New Mexico.
After that came a long newspaper story about how a

miners' camp had
been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my

Frank's name
among the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very

sick for months
after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half

the doctors in
'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more,

so that I never
doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon

came to
'Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was

arranged, and pa
was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man

on this earth would
ever take the place in my heart that had been given to

my poor Frank.


"Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd

have done my duty
by him. We can't command our love, but we can our

actions. I went to
the altar with him with the intention to make him just

as good a wife as
it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt

when, just as I came
to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank

standing and looking at
me out of the first pew. I thought it was his ghost at

first; but when I
looked again there he was still, with a kind of

question in his eyes, as if
to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to see him. I

wonder I didn't
drop. I know that everything was turning round, and the

words of the
clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee in my ear. I

didn't know what
to do. Should I stop the service and make a scene in

the church? I
glanced at him again, and he seemed to know what I was

thinking, for
he raised his finger to his lips to tell me to be

still. Then I saw him
scribble on a piece of paper, and I knew that he was

writing me a note.
As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet

over to him,
and he slipped the note into my hand when he returned

me the flowers.
It was only a line asking me to join him when he made

the sign to me to
do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment that my

first duty was
now to him, and I determined to do just whatever he

might direct.

"When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in

California,
and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say

nothing, but to get a
few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought

to have spoken
to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his

mother and all
those great people. I just made up my mind to run away

and explain afterwards.
I hadn't been at the table ten minutes before I saw

Frank out of
the window at the other side of the road. He beckoned

to me and then
began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my

things, and followed
him. Some woman came talking something or other about

Lord
St. Simon to me—seemed to me from the little I heard as

if he had a little
secret of his own before marriage also—but I managed to

get away from
her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab

together, and away we
drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square,

and that was my
true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank

had been a prisoner
among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to 'Frisco,

found that I had
given him up for dead and had gone to England, followed

me there, and
had come upon me at last on the very morning of my

second wedding."

"I saw it in a paper," explained the American. "It gave

the name and
the church but not where the lady lived."

"Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank

was all for
openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as

if I should like to


vanish away and never see any of them again—just

sending a line to pa,
perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to

me to think of all
those lords and ladies sitting round that

breakfast-table and waiting for
me to come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and

things and
made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced,

and dropped them
away somewhere where no one could find them. It is

likely that we
should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this

good gentleman,
Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how

he found us is
more than I can think, and he showed us very clearly

and kindly that I
was wrong and that Frank was right, and that we should

be putting
ourselves in the wrong if we were so secret. Then he

offered to give us a
chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and so we

came right away
round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert, you have heard

it all, and I am
very sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that

you do not think
very meanly of me."

Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid

attitude, but had
listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to

this long
narrative.

"Excuse me," he said, "but it is not my custom to

discuss my most intimate
personal affairs in this public manner."

"Then you won't forgive me? You won't shake hands

before I go?"

"Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure." He

put out his hand
and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.

"I had hoped," suggested Holmes, "that you would have

joined us in a
friendly supper."

"I think that there you ask a little too much,"

responded his Lordship.
"I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent

developments, but I can
hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think

that with your permission
I will now wish you all a very good-night." He included

us all in
a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room.

"Then I trust that you at least will honour me with

your company,"
said Sherlock Holmes. "It is always a joy to meet an

American, Mr.
Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the

folly of a monarch
and the blundering of a minister in far-gone years will

not prevent our
children from being some day citizens of the same

world-wide country
under a flag which shall be a quartering of the Union

Jack with the Stars
and Stripes."

"The case has been an interesting one," remarked Holmes

when our
visitors had left us, "because it serves to show very

clearly how simple
the explanation may be of an affair which at first

sight seems to be


almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than

the sequence of
events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger

than the result
when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of Scotland

Yard."

"You were not yourself at fault at all, then?"

"From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the

one that the
lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding

ceremony, the other
that she had repented of it within a few minutes of

returning home. Obviously
something had occurred during the morning, then, to

cause her
to change her mind. What could that something be? She

could not have
spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in

the company of
the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had,

it must be
someone from America because she had spent so short a

time in this
country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to

acquire so deep an
influence over her that the mere sight of him would

induce her to change
her plans so completely. You see we have already

arrived, by a process
of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an

American. Then
who could this American be, and why should he possess

so much influence
over her? It might be a lover; it might be a husband.

Her young womanhood
had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes and under

strange
conditions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord

St. Simon's narrative.
When he told us of a man in a pew, of the change in the

bride's manner,
of so transparent a device for obtaining a note as the

dropping of a
bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and of

her very significant
allusion to claim-jumping—which in miners' parlance

means taking
possession of that which another person has a prior

claim to—the whole
situation became absolutely clear. She had gone off

with a man, and the
man was either a lover or was a previous husband—the

chances being in
favour of the latter."

"And how in the world did you find them?"

"It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held

information in
his hands the value of which he did not himself know.

The initials were,
of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable

still was it to
know that within a week he had settled his bill at one

of the most select
London hotels."

"How did you deduce the select?"

"By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and

eightpence for a
glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive

hotels. There are not
many in London which charge at that rate. In the second

one which I visited
in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection of

the book
that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had

left only the day


before, and on looking over the entries against him, I

came upon the very
items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His

letters were to be forwarded
to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being

fortunate
enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to

give them some
paternal advice and to point out to them that it would

be better in every
way that they should make their position a little

clearer both to the general
public and to Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited

them to meet
him here, and, as you see, I made him keep the

appointment."

"But with no very good result," I remarked. "His

conduct was certainly
not very gracious."

"Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would

not be very
gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing

and wedding, you
found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of

fortune. I think that
we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank

our stars that
we are never likely to find ourselves in the same

position. Draw your
chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we

have still to
solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal

evenings."


Part 11
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL
CORONET



"Holmes," said I as I stood one morning in our

bow-window looking
down the street, "here is a madman coming along. It

seems rather sad
that his relatives should allow him to come out alone."

My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with

his hands in
the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my

shoulder. It was a
bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day

before still lay
deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry

sun. Down the
centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a

brown crumbly band
by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up

edges of the footpaths
it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey

pavement had been
cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously

slippery, so that there
were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the

direction of the Metropolitan
Station no one was coming save the single gentleman

whose
eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.

He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and

imposing, with a massive,
strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was

dressed in a
sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining

hat, neat brown gaiters,
and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were

in absurd contrast
to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was

running hard, with occasional
little springs, such as a weary man gives who is little

accustomed
to set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he jerked his

hands up and
down, waggled his head, and writhed his face into the

most extraordinary
contortions.

"What on earth can be the matter with him?" I asked.

"He is looking up
at the numbers of the houses."

"I believe that he is coming here," said Holmes,

rubbing his hands.

"Here?"

"Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me

professionally. I think
that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?"

As he spoke, the
man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled

at our bell until
the whole house resounded with the clanging.

A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing,

still gesticulating,
but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his

eyes that our
smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity.

For a while he could
not get his words out, but swayed his body and plucked

at his hair like
one who has been driven to the extreme limits of his

reason. Then, suddenly
springing to his feet, he beat his head against the

wall with such
force that we both rushed upon him and tore him away to

the centre of
the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the

easy-chair and,


sitting beside him, patted his hand and chatted with

him in the easy,
soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.

"You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?"

said he. "You
are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have

recovered yourself,
and then I shall be most happy to look into any little

problem which
you may submit to me."

The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest,

fighting
against his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief

over his brow, set
his lips tight, and turned his face towards us.

"No doubt you think me mad?" said he.

"I see that you have had some great trouble," responded

Holmes.

"God knows I have!—a trouble which is enough to unseat

my reason,
so sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I

might have faced, although
I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain.

Private
affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two

coming together, and
in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my

very soul. Besides,
it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land may

suffer unless some way
be found out of this horrible affair."

"Pray compose yourself, sir," said Holmes, "and let me

have a clear account
of who you are and what it is that has befallen you."

"My name," answered our visitor, "is probably familiar

to your ears. I
am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder &

Stevenson, of
Threadneedle Street."

The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to

the senior
partner in the second largest private banking concern

in the City of London.
What could have happened, then, to bring one of the

foremost citizens
of London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all

curiosity, until
with another effort he braced himself to tell his

story.

"I feel that time is of value," said he; "that is why I

hastened here when
the police inspector suggested that I should secure

your co-operation. I
came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried

from there on
foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is

why I was so out
of breath, for I am a man who takes very little

exercise. I feel better now,
and I will put the facts before you as shortly and yet

as clearly as I can.

"It is, of course, well known to you that in a

successful banking business
as much depends upon our being able to find

remunerative investments
for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and

the number
of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of

laying out
money is in the shape of loans, where the security is

unimpeachable. We
have done a good deal in this direction during the last

few years, and


there are many noble families to whom we have advanced

large sums
upon the security of their pictures, libraries, or

plate.

"Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the

bank when a card
was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started

when I saw the name,
for it was that of none other than—well, perhaps even

to you I had better
say no more than that it was a name which is a

household word all over
the earth—one of the highest, noblest, most exalted

names in England. I
was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when he

entered, to say
so, but he plunged at once into business with the air

of a man who
wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task.

"'Mr. Holder,' said he, 'I have been informed that you

are in the habit
of advancing money.'

"'The firm does so when the security is good.' I

answered.

"'It is absolutely essential to me,' said he, 'that I

should have 50,000
pounds at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling

a sum ten times
over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a

matter of business
and to carry out that business myself. In my position

you can readily understand
that it is unwise to place one's self under

obligations.'

"'For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?' I

asked.

"'Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall

then most
certainly repay what you advance, with whatever

interest you think it
right to charge. But it is very essential to me that

the money should be
paid at once.'

"'I should be happy to advance it without further

parley from my own
private purse,' said I, 'were it not that the strain

would be rather more
than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do

it in the name of the
firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that,

even in your case,
every businesslike precaution should be taken.'

"'I should much prefer to have it so,' said he, raising

up a square, black
morocco case which he had laid beside his chair. 'You

have doubtless
heard of the Beryl Coronet?'

"'One of the most precious public possessions of the

empire,' said I.

"'Precisely.' He opened the case, and there, imbedded

in soft, flesh-coloured
velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which he

had named.
'There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,' said he, 'and

the price of the gold
chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate would put

the worth of the
coronet at double the sum which I have asked. I am

prepared to leave it
with you as my security.'

"I took the precious case into my hands and looked in

some perplexity
from it to my illustrious client.


"'You doubt its value?' he asked.

"'Not at all. I only doubt—'

"'The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind

at rest about
that. I should not dream of doing so were it not

absolutely certain that I
should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure

matter of form. Is the
security sufficient?'

"'Ample.'

"'You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a

strong proof of
the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all

that I have heard
of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to

refrain from all gossip
upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this

coronet with every
possible precaution because I need not say that a great

public scandal
would be caused if any harm were to befall it. Any

injury to it would be
almost as serious as its complete loss, for there are

no beryls in the world
to match these, and it would be impossible to replace

them. I leave it
with you, however, with every confidence, and I shall

call for it in person
on Monday morning.'

"Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no

more but, calling
for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty 1000

pound notes. When I
was alone once more, however, with the precious case

lying upon the
table in front of me, I could not but think with some

misgivings of the
immense responsibility which it entailed upon me. There

could be no
doubt that, as it was a national possession, a horrible

scandal would ensue
if any misfortune should occur to it. I already

regretted having ever
consented to take charge of it. However, it was too

late to alter the matter
now, so I locked it up in my private safe and turned

once more to my
work.

"When evening came I felt that it would be an

imprudence to leave so
precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers'

safes had been forced
before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how

terrible would be
the position in which I should find myself! I

determined, therefore, that
for the next few days I would always carry the case

backward and forward
with me, so that it might never be really out of my

reach. With this
intention, I called a cab and drove out to my house at

Streatham, carrying
the jewel with me. I did not breathe freely until I had

taken it upstairs
and locked it in the bureau of my dressing-room.

"And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I

wish you to
thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my

page sleep out
of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have

three maid-servants
who have been with me a number of years and whose

absolute reliability


is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr, the

second waiting-maid,
has only been in my service a few months. She came with

an excellent
character, however, and has always given me

satisfaction. She is a very
pretty girl and has attracted admirers who have

occasionally hung about
the place. That is the only drawback which we have

found to her, but we
believe her to be a thoroughly good girl in every way.

"So much for the servants. My family itself is so small

that it will not
take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an

only son, Arthur.
He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes—a

grievous disappointment.
I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People tell

me
that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my

dear wife died I felt
that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to see

the smile fade even
for a moment from his face. I have never denied him a

wish. Perhaps it
would have been better for both of us had I been

sterner, but I meant it
for the best.

"It was naturally my intention that he should succeed

me in my business,
but he was not of a business turn. He was wild,

wayward, and, to
speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling

of large sums of
money. When he was young he became a member of an

aristocratic club,
and there, having charming manners, he was soon the

intimate of a number
of men with long purses and expensive habits. He

learned to play
heavily at cards and to squander money on the turf,

until he had again
and again to come to me and implore me to give him an

advance upon
his allowance, that he might settle his debts of

honour. He tried more
than once to break away from the dangerous company

which he was
keeping, but each time the influence of his friend, Sir

George Burnwell,
was enough to draw him back again.

"And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir

George Burn-
well should gain an influence over him, for he has

frequently brought
him to my house, and I have found myself that I could

hardly resist the
fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a

man of the world to
his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen

everything, a brilliant
talker, and a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I

think of him
in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his

presence, I am convinced
from his cynical speech and the look which I have

caught in his eyes that
he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think,

and so, too, thinks
my little Mary, who has a woman's quick insight into

character.

"And now there is only she to be described. She is my

niece; but when
my brother died five years ago and left her alone in

the world I adopted
her, and have looked upon her ever since as my

daughter. She is a


sunbeam in my house—sweet, loving, beautiful, a

wonderful manager
and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as

a woman could
be. She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do

without her. In
only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes.

Twice my boy has
asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly, but

each time she
has refused him. I think that if anyone could have

drawn him into the
right path it would have been she, and that his

marriage might have
changed his whole life; but now, alas! it is too

late—forever too late!

"Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my

roof, and
I shall continue with my miserable story.

"When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that

night after dinner,
I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the

precious treasure
which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name

of my client.
Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am

sure, left the room;
but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and

Arthur were
much interested and wished to see the famous coronet,

but I thought it
better not to disturb it.

"'Where have you put it?' asked Arthur.

"'In my own bureau.'

"'Well, I hope to goodness the house won't be burgled

during the
night.' said he.

"'It is locked up,' I answered.

"'Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a

youngster I have
opened it myself with the key of the box-room

cupboard.'

"He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought

little of what he
said. He followed me to my room, however, that night

with a very grave
face.

"'Look here, dad,' said he with his eyes cast down,

'can you let me
have 200 pounds?'

"'No, I cannot!' I answered sharply. 'I have been far

too generous with
you in money matters.'

"'You have been very kind,' said he, 'but I must have

this money, or
else I can never show my face inside the club again.'

"'And a very good thing, too!' I cried.

"'Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured

man,' said he.
'I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money

in some way, and if
you will not let me have it, then I must try other

means.'

"I was very angry, for this was the third demand during

the month.
'You shall not have a farthing from me,' I cried, on

which he bowed and
left the room without another word.


"When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that

my treasure
was safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go

round the house to
see that all was secure—a duty which I usually leave to

Mary but which I
thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came

down the stairs I
saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which

she closed and
fastened as I approached.

"'Tell me, dad,' said she, looking, I thought, a little

disturbed, 'did you
give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?'

"'Certainly not.'

"'She came in just now by the back door. I have no

doubt that she has
only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think

that it is hardly safe
and should be stopped.'

"'You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if

you prefer it. Are
you sure that everything is fastened?'

"'Quite sure, dad.'

"'Then, good-night.' I kissed her and went up to my

bedroom again,
where I was soon asleep.

"I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes,

which may
have any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will

question me
upon any point which I do not make clear."

"On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid."

"I come to a part of my story now in which I should

wish to be particularly
so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in

my mind tended,
no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two

in the
morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the

house. It had
ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an

impression behind it as
though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay

listening with all
my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct

sound of footsteps
moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed,

all palpitating with
fear, and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room

door.

"'Arthur!' I screamed, 'you villain! you thief! How

dare you touch that
coronet?'

"The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy

boy, dressed
only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the

light, holding the
coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at

it, or bending it
with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his

grasp and turned
as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. One

of the gold
corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing.


"'You blackguard!' I shouted, beside myself with rage.

'You have destroyed
it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the

jewels which
you have stolen?'

"'Stolen!' he cried.

"'Yes, thief!' I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.

"'There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,'

said he.

"'There are three missing. And you know where they are.

Must I call
you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying

to tear off another
piece?'

"'You have called me names enough,' said he, 'I will

not stand it any
longer. I shall not say another word about this

business, since you have
chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the

morning and make my
own way in the world.'

"'You shall leave it in the hands of the police!' I

cried half-mad with
grief and rage. 'I shall have this matter probed to the

bottom.'

"'You shall learn nothing from me,' said he with a

passion such as I
should not have thought was in his nature. 'If you

choose to call the police,
let the police find what they can.'

"By this time the whole house was astir, for I had

raised my voice in
my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and,

at the sight of
the coronet and of Arthur's face, she read the whole

story and, with a
scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the

house-maid for the
police and put the investigation into their hands at

once. When the inspector
and a constable entered the house, Arthur, who had

stood sullenly
with his arms folded, asked me whether it was my

intention to
charge him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to

be a private matter,
but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet

was national
property. I was determined that the law should have its

way in
everything.

"'At least,' said he, 'you will not have me arrested at

once. It would be
to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the

house for five
minutes.'

"'That you may get away, or perhaps that you may

conceal what you
have stolen,' said I. And then, realising the dreadful

position in which I
was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my

honour but
that of one who was far greater than I was at stake;

and that he
threatened to raise a scandal which would convulse the

nation. He might
avert it all if he would but tell me what he had done

with the three missing
stones.


"'You may as well face the matter,' said I; 'you have

been caught in the
act, and no confession could make your guilt more

heinous. If you but
make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us

where the beryls
are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.'

"'Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,' he

answered, turning
away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too

hardened for any
words of mine to influence him. There was but one way

for it. I called in
the inspector and gave him into custody. A search was

made at once not
only of his person but of his room and of every portion

of the house
where he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no

trace of them
could be found, nor would the wretched boy open his

mouth for all our
persuasions and our threats. This morning he was

removed to a cell, and
I, after going through all the police formalities, have

hurried round to
you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the

matter. The police
have openly confessed that they can at present make

nothing of it. You
may go to any expense which you think necessary. I have

already offered
a reward of 1000 pounds. My God, what shall I do! I

have lost my honour,
my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!"

He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked

himself to and fro,
droning to himself like a child whose grief has got

beyond words.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with

his brows knitted
and his eyes fixed upon the fire.

"Do you receive much company?" he asked.

"None save my partner with his family and an occasional

friend of
Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell has been several times

lately. No one else,
I think."

"Do you go out much in society?"

"Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us

care for it."

"That is unusual in a young girl."

"She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very

young. She is fourand-
twenty."

"This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a

shock to her
also."

"Terrible! She is even more affected than I."

"You have neither of you any doubt as to your son's

guilt?"

"How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with

the coronet
in his hands."

"I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the

remainder of the
coronet at all injured?"

"Yes, it was twisted."


"Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying

to straighten
it?"

"God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and

for me. But it
is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If

his purpose were
innocent, why did he not say so?"

"Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not

invent a lie? His silence
appears to me to cut both ways. There are several

singular points
about the case. What did the police think of the noise

which awoke you
from your sleep?"

"They considered that it might be caused by Arthur's

closing his bedroom
door."

"A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam

his door so as
to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the

disappearance of
these gems?"

"They are still sounding the planking and probing the

furniture in the
hope of finding them."

"Have they thought of looking outside the house?"

"Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole

garden has
already been minutely examined."

"Now, my dear sir," said Holmes. "is it not obvious to

you now that
this matter really strikes very much deeper than either

you or the police
were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to

be a simple case; to
me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is

involved by your
theory. You suppose that your son came down from his

bed, went, at
great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau,

took out your
coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it,

went off to some
other place, concealed three gems out of the

thirty-nine, with such skill
that nobody can find them, and then returned with the

other thirty-six
into the room in which he exposed himself to the

greatest danger of being
discovered. I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?"

"But what other is there?" cried the banker with a

gesture of despair.
"If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain

them?"

"It is our task to find that out," replied Holmes; "so

now, if you please,
Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and

devote an hour to
glancing a little more closely into details."

My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their

expedition,
which I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and

sympathy were
deeply stirred by the story to which we had listened. I

confess that the
guilt of the banker's son appeared to me to be as

obvious as it did to his
unhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes'

judgment that I felt


that there must be some grounds for hope as long as he

was dissatisfied
with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke a word

the whole way
out to the southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon

his breast and his
hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought.

Our client appeared
to have taken fresh heart at the little glimpse of hope

which had
been presented to him, and he even broke into a

desultory chat with me
over his business affairs. A short railway journey and

a shorter walk
brought us to Fairbank, the modest residence of the

great financier.

Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone,

standing back
a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a

snow-clad lawn,
stretched down in front to two large iron gates which

closed the entrance.
On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led

into a
narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the

road to the
kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen's entrance. On

the left ran a
lane which led to the stables, and was not itself

within the grounds at all,
being a public, though little used, thoroughfare.

Holmes left us standing
at the door and walked slowly all round the house,

across the front,
down the tradesmen's path, and so round by the garden

behind into the
stable lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I went

into the dining-
room and waited by the fire until he should return. We

were sitting there
in silence when the door opened and a young lady came

in. She was
rather above the middle height, slim, with dark hair

and eyes, which
seemed the darker against the absolute pallor of her

skin. I do not think
that I have ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman's

face. Her lips,
too, were bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with

crying. As she swept
silently into the room she impressed me with a greater

sense of grief
than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the

more striking in
her as she was evidently a woman of strong character,

with immense capacity
for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she went

straight to
her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a

sweet womanly
caress.

"You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated,

have you not,
dad?" she asked.

"No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the

bottom."

"But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what

woman's instincts
are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will

be sorry
for having acted so harshly."

"Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?"

"Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you

should suspect
him."


"How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw

him with the
coronet in his hand?"

"Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh,

do, do take my
word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop

and say no more. It is
so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in prison!"

"I shall never let it drop until the gems are

found—never, Mary! Your
affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful

consequences to me. Far
from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman

down from London
to inquire more deeply into it."

"This gentleman?" she asked, facing round to me.

"No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is

round in the
stable lane now."

"The stable lane?" She raised her dark eyebrows. "What

can he hope to
find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir,

that you will succeed in
proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin

Arthur is innocent
of this crime."

"I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you,

that we may prove
it," returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock

the snow from his
shoes. "I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss

Mary Holder.
Might I ask you a question or two?"

"Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible

affair up."

"You heard nothing yourself last night?"

"Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I

heard that, and
I came down."

"You shut up the windows and doors the night before.

Did you fasten
all the windows?"

"Yes."

"Were they all fastened this morning?"

"Yes."

"You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you

remarked to
your uncle last night that she had been out to see

him?"

"Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the

drawing-room, and who
may have heard uncle's remarks about the coronet."

"I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell

her sweetheart, and
that the two may have planned the robbery."

"But what is the good of all these vague theories,"

cried the banker impatiently,
"when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the

coronet in his
hands?"

"Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that.

About this girl,
Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I

presume?"


"Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for

the night I met
her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom."

"Do you know him?"

"Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our

vegetables round. His
name is Francis Prosper."

"He stood," said Holmes, "to the left of the door—that

is to say, farther
up the path than is necessary to reach the door?"

"Yes, he did."

"And he is a man with a wooden leg?"

Something like fear sprang up in the young lady's

expressive black
eyes. "Why, you are like a magician," said she. "How do

you know that?"
She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes'

thin, eager
face.

"I should be very glad now to go upstairs," said he. "I

shall probably
wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps

I had better take
a look at the lower windows before I go up."

He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing

only at the
large one which looked from the hall onto the stable

lane. This he opened
and made a very careful examination of the sill with

his powerful magnifying
lens. "Now we shall go upstairs," said he at last.

The banker's dressing-room was a plainly furnished

little chamber,
with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror.

Holmes went to the
bureau first and looked hard at the lock.

"Which key was used to open it?" he asked.

"That which my son himself indicated—that of the

cupboard of the
lumber-room."

"Have you it here?"

"That is it on the dressing-table."

Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.

"It is a noiseless lock," said he. "It is no wonder

that it did not wake
you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We

must have a look at
it." He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he

laid it upon the
table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller's

art, and the thirty-
six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At

one side of the coronet
was a cracked edge, where a corner holding three gems

had been torn
away.

"Now, Mr. Holder," said Holmes, "here is the corner

which corresponds
to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I

beg that you
will break it off."

The banker recoiled in horror. "I should not dream of

trying," said he.


"Then I will." Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon

it, but without
result. "I feel it give a little," said he; "but,

though I am exceptionally
strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to

break it. An ordinary
man could not do it. Now, what do you think would

happen if I did
break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise like a

pistol shot. Do you
tell me that all this happened within a few yards of

your bed and that
you heard nothing of it?"

"I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me."

"But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you

think, Miss
Holder?"

"I confess that I still share my uncle's perplexity."

"Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw

him?"

"He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt."

"Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with

extraordinary luck
during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own

fault if we do not succeed
in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr.

Holder, I shall
now continue my investigations outside."

He went alone, at his own request, for he explained

that any unnecessary
footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an

hour or more
he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy

with snow and his
features as inscrutable as ever.

"I think that I have seen now all that there is to see,

Mr. Holder," said
he; "I can serve you best by returning to my rooms."

"But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?"

"I cannot tell."

The banker wrung his hands. "I shall never see them

again!" he cried.
"And my son? You give me hopes?"

"My opinion is in no way altered."

"Then, for God's sake, what was this dark business

which was acted in
my house last night?"

"If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms

to-morrow morning
between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can

to make it clearer.
I understand that you give me carte blanche to act for

you, provided
only that I get back the gems, and that you place no

limit on the sum I
may draw."

"I would give my fortune to have them back."

"Very good. I shall look into the matter between this

and then. Goodbye;
it is just possible that I may have to come over here

again before
evening."


It was obvious to me that my companion's mind was now

made up
about the case, although what his conclusions were was

more than I
could even dimly imagine. Several times during our

homeward journey I
endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he always

glided away to
some other topic, until at last I gave it over in

despair. It was not yet
three when we found ourselves in our rooms once more.

He hurried to
his chamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed

as a common
loafer. With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy

coat, his red cravat,
and his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the

class.

"I think that this should do," said he, glancing into

the glass above the
fireplace. "I only wish that you could come with me,

Watson, but I fear
that it won't do. I may be on the trail in this matter,

or I may be following
a will-o'-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it is.

I hope that I may be
back in a few hours." He cut a slice of beef from the

joint upon the sideboard,
sandwiched it between two rounds of bread, and

thrusting this
rude meal into his pocket he started off upon his

expedition.

I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently

in excellent
spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his

hand. He chucked it
down into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.

"I only looked in as I passed," said he. "I am going

right on."

"Where to?"

"Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some

time before I get
back. Don't wait up for me in case I should be late."

"How are you getting on?"

"Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to

Streatham since
I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is

a very sweet little problem,
and I would not have missed it for a good deal.

However, I must
not sit gossiping here, but must get these disreputable

clothes off and return
to my highly respectable self."

I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons

for satisfaction
than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled,

and there was
even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He

hastened upstairs, and
a few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door,

which told me that
he was off once more upon his congenial hunt.

I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his

return, so I retired
to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away

for days and
nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his

lateness caused
me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came in,

but when I came
down to breakfast in the morning there he was with a

cup of coffee in
one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh and trim

as possible.


"You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson,"

said he, "but
you remember that our client has rather an early

appointment this
morning."

"Why, it is after nine now," I answered. "I should not

be surprised if
that were he. I thought I heard a ring."

It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked

by the change
which had come over him, for his face which was

naturally of a broad
and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while

his hair
seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a

weariness and
lethargy which was even more painful than his violence

of the morning
before, and he dropped heavily into the armchair which

I pushed forward
for him.

"I do not know what I have done to be so severely

tried," said he.
"Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man,

without a care
in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured

age. One sorrow
comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary,

has deserted
me."

"Deserted you?"

"Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her

room was
empty, and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had

said to her last
night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had

married my boy all
might have been well with him. Perhaps it was

thoughtless of me to say
so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note:

"'MY DEAREST UNCLE:—I feel that I have brought trouble

upon you,
and that if I had acted differently this terrible

misfortune might never
have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind,

ever again be
happy under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you

forever. Do not
worry about my future, for that is provided for; and,

above all, do not
search for me, for it will be fruitless labour and an

ill-service to me. In
life or in death, I am ever your loving,—MARY.'

"What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you

think it
points to suicide?"

"No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best

possible solution. I
trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your

troubles."

"Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes;

you have
learned something! Where are the gems?"

"You would not think 1000 pounds apiece an excessive

sum for them?"

"I would pay ten."


"That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover

the matter.
And there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your

check-book? Here is
a pen. Better make it out for 4000 pounds."

With a dazed face the banker made out the required

check. Holmes
walked over to his desk, took out a little triangular

piece of gold with
three gems in it, and threw it down upon the table.

With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.

"You have it!" he gasped. "I am saved! I am saved!"

The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had

been, and he
hugged his recovered gems to his bosom.

"There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder," said

Sherlock Holmes
rather sternly.

"Owe!" He caught up a pen. "Name the sum, and I will

pay it."

"No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble

apology to that
noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this

matter as I should be
proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to

have one."

"Then it was not Arthur who took them?"

"I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was

not."

"You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once

to let him know
that the truth is known."

"He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I

had an interview
with him, and finding that he would not tell me the

story, I told it to him,
on which he had to confess that I was right and to add

the very few details
which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of this

morning,
however, may open his lips."

"For heaven's sake, tell me, then, what is this

extraordinary mystery!"

"I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I

reached it. And
let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for

me to say and for you
to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir

George Burnwell
and your niece Mary. They have now fled together."

"My Mary? Impossible!"

"It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain.

Neither you nor
your son knew the true character of this man when you

admitted him into
your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men

in England—
a ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a

man without
heart or conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such

men. When he
breathed his vows to her, as he had done to a hundred

before her, she
flattered herself that she alone had touched his heart.

The devil knows
best what he said, but at least she became his tool and

was in the habit of
seeing him nearly every evening."


"I cannot, and I will not, believe it!" cried the

banker with an ashen
face.

"I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house

last night. Your
niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room,

slipped down
and talked to her lover through the window which leads

into the stable
lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow,

so long had he
stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked

lust for gold kindled
at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no

doubt that she loved
you, but there are women in whom the love of a lover

extinguishes all
other loves, and I think that she must have been one.

She had hardly
listened to his instructions when she saw you coming

downstairs, on
which she closed the window rapidly and told you about

one of the servants'
escapade with her wooden-legged lover, which was all

perfectly
true.

"Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with

you but he
slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club

debts. In the
middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his

door, so he rose and,
looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking

very stealthily
along the passage until she disappeared into your

dressing-room. Petrified
with astonishment, the lad slipped on some clothes and

waited there
in the dark to see what would come of this strange

affair. Presently she
emerged from the room again, and in the light of the

passage-lamp your
son saw that she carried the precious coronet in her

hands. She passed
down the stairs, and he, thrilling with horror, ran

along and slipped behind
the curtain near your door, whence he could see what

passed in the
hall beneath. He saw her stealthily open the window,

hand out the coronet
to someone in the gloom, and then closing it once more

hurry back
to her room, passing quite close to where he stood hid

behind the
curtain.

"As long as she was on the scene he could not take any

action without
a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the

instant that
she was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this

would be for
you, and how all-important it was to set it right. He

rushed down, just as
he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out

into the snow,
and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure

in the moonlight.
Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur

caught him, and
there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging at

one side of the
coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle,

your son struck Sir
George and cut him over the eye. Then something

suddenly snapped,
and your son, finding that he had the coronet in his

hands, rushed back,


closed the window, ascended to your room, and had just

observed that
the coronet had been twisted in the struggle and was

endeavouring to
straighten it when you appeared upon the scene."

"Is it possible?" gasped the banker.

"You then roused his anger by calling him names at a

moment when
he felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He

could not explain
the true state of affairs without betraying one who

certainly deserved
little enough consideration at his hands. He took the

more chivalrous
view, however, and preserved her secret."

"And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw

the coronet,"
cried Mr. Holder. "Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have

been! And
his asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes!

The dear fellow
wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene of

the struggle. How
cruelly I have misjudged him!"

"When I arrived at the house," continued Holmes, "I at

once went very
carefully round it to observe if there were any traces

in the snow which
might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the

evening before, and
also that there had been a strong frost to preserve

impressions. I passed
along the tradesmen's path, but found it all trampled

down and indistinguishable.
Just beyond it, however, at the far side of the kitchen

door, a
woman had stood and talked with a man, whose round

impressions on
one side showed that he had a wooden leg. I could even

tell that they
had been disturbed, for the woman had run back swiftly

to the door, as
was shown by the deep toe and light heel marks, while

Wooden-leg had
waited a little, and then had gone away. I thought at

the time that this
might be the maid and her sweetheart, of whom you had

already spoken
to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I passed round the

garden without
seeing anything more than random tracks, which I took

to be the police;
but when I got into the stable lane a very long and

complex story was
written in the snow in front of me.

"There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and

a second
double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man

with naked feet.
I was at once convinced from what you had told me that

the latter was
your son. The first had walked both ways, but the other

had run swiftly,
and as his tread was marked in places over the

depression of the boot, it
was obvious that he had passed after the other. I

followed them up and
found they led to the hall window, where Boots had worn

all the snow
away while waiting. Then I walked to the other end,

which was a hundred
yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had

faced round,
where the snow was cut up as though there had been a

struggle, and,


finally, where a few drops of blood had fallen, to show

me that I was not
mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and another

little smudge
of blood showed that it was he who had been hurt. When

he came to the
highroad at the other end, I found that the pavement

had been cleared,
so there was an end to that clue.

"On entering the house, however, I examined, as you

remember, the
sill and framework of the hall window with my lens, and

I could at once
see that someone had passed out. I could distinguish

the outline of an instep
where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was

then beginning
to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred.

A man had
waited outside the window; someone had brought the

gems; the deed
had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the

thief; had struggled
with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their

united strength
causing injuries which neither alone could have

effected. He had returned
with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of

his opponent.
So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the

man and who
was it brought him the coronet?

"It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded

the impossible,
whatever remains, however improbable, must be the

truth.
Now, I knew that it was not you who had brought it

down, so there only
remained your niece and the maids. But if it were the

maids, why should
your son allow himself to be accused in their place?

There could be no
possible reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there

was an excellent
explanation why he should retain her secret—the more so

as the secret
was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that you had

seen her at that
window, and how she had fainted on seeing the coronet

again, my conjecture
became a certainty.

"And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover

evidently, for
who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which

she must feel to
you? I knew that you went out little, and that your

circle of friends was a
very limited one. But among them was Sir George

Burnwell. I had heard
of him before as being a man of evil reputation among

women. It must
have been he who wore those boots and retained the

missing gems. Even
though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might

still flatter
himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a

word without compromising
his own family.

"Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I

took next. I
went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George's house,

managed to pick up
an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master

had cut his head
the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six

shillings, made all sure


by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With these I

journeyed down to
Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted the tracks."

"I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday

evening," said Mr.
Holder.

"Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I

came home and
changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had

to play then, for I
saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert

scandal, and I knew that
so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied

in the matter. I
went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied

everything. But when I
gave him every particular that had occurred, he tried

to bluster and took
down a life-preserver from the wall. I knew my man,

however, and I
clapped a pistol to his head before he could strike.

Then he became a
little more reasonable. I told him that we would give

him a price for the
stones he held—1000 pounds apiece. That brought out the

first signs of
grief that he had shown. 'Why, dash it all!' said he,

'I've let them go at six
hundred for the three!' I soon managed to get the

address of the receiver
who had them, on promising him that there would be no

prosecution.
Off I set to him, and after much chaffering I got our

stones at 1000
pounds apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him

that all was
right, and eventually got to my bed about two o'clock,

after what I may
call a really hard day's work."

"A day which has saved England from a great public

scandal," said the
banker, rising. "Sir, I cannot find words to thank you,

but you shall not
find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill

has indeed exceeded
all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my

dear boy to
apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him.

As to what you
tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not

even your skill can inform
me where she is now."

"I think that we may safely say," returned Holmes,

"that she is
wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain,

too, that whatever
her sins are, they will soon receive a more than

sufficient punishment."


Part 12
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER
BEECHES



"To the man who loves art for its own sake," remarked

Sherlock Holmes,
tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the Daily

Telegraph, "it is frequently
in its least important and lowliest manifestations that

the keenest
pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to

observe, Watson, that
you have so far grasped this truth that in these little

records of our cases
which you have been good enough to draw up, and, I am

bound to say,
occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence

not so much to the
many causes célèbres and sensational trials in which I

have figured but
rather to those incidents which may have been trivial

in themselves, but
which have given room for those faculties of deduction

and of logical
synthesis which I have made my special province."

"And yet," said I, smiling, "I cannot quite hold myself

absolved from
the charge of sensationalism which has been urged

against my records."

"You have erred, perhaps," he observed, taking up a

glowing cinder
with the tongs and lighting with it the long

cherry-wood pipe which was
wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious

rather than a
meditative mood—"you have erred perhaps in attempting

to put colour
and life into each of your statements instead of

confining yourself to the
task of placing upon record that severe reasoning from

cause to effect
which is really the only notable feature about the

thing."

"It seems to me that I have done you full justice in

the matter," I remarked
with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism

which I
had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my

friend's singular
character.

"No, it is not selfishness or conceit," said he,

answering, as was his
wont, my thoughts rather than my words. "If I claim

full justice for my
art, it is because it is an impersonal thing—a thing

beyond myself. Crime
is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the

logic rather than upon
the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what

should have
been a course of lectures into a series of tales."

It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat

after breakfast on
either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker

Street. A thick fog
rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses,

and the opposing
windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the

heavy yellow
wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth

and glimmer of
china and metal, for the table had not been cleared

yet. Sherlock Holmes
had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously

into the advertisement
columns of a succession of papers until at last, having

apparently
given up his search, he had emerged in no very sweet

temper to lecture
me upon my literary shortcomings.


"At the same time," he remarked after a pause, during

which he had
sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the

fire, "you can
hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out

of these cases which
you have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a

fair proportion do not
treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The small

matter in which I endeavoured
to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience of

Miss
Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the man

with the twisted
lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all

matters which are
outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the

sensational, I fear that
you may have bordered on the trivial."

"The end may have been so," I answered, "but the

methods I hold to
have been novel and of interest."

"Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great

unobservant
public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or

a compositor by
his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis

and deduction!
But, indeed, if you are trivial. I cannot blame you,

for the days of the
great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man,

has lost all enterprise
and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems

to be degenerating
into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and

giving advice to
young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I have

touched bottom
at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my

zero-point, I
fancy. Read it!" He tossed a crumpled letter across to

me.

It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding

evening, and
ran thus:

"DEAR MR. HOLMES:—I am very anxious to consult you as

to whether
I should or should not accept a situation which has

been offered to me
as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow

if I do not inconvenience
you. Yours faithfully, "VIOLET HUNTER."

"Do you know the young lady?" I asked.

"Not I."

"It is half-past ten now."

"Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring."

"It may turn out to be of more interest than you think.

You remember
that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared

to be a mere whim
at first, developed into a serious investigation. It

may be so in this case,
also."

"Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be

solved, for here,
unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question."

As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered

the room. She
was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick

face, freckled like a


plover's egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who

has had her
own way to make in the world.

"You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure," said

she, as my companion
rose to greet her, "but I have had a very strange

experience, and
as I have no parents or relations of any sort from whom

I could ask advice,
I thought that perhaps you would be kind enough to tell

me what I
should do."

"Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do

anything that I
can to serve you."

I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the

manner and
speech of his new client. He looked her over in his

searching fashion,
and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and

his finger-tips together,
to listen to her story.

"I have been a governess for five years," said she, "in

the family of Colonel
Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received

an appointment
at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over

to America
with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I

advertised, and I
answered advertisements, but without success. At last

the little money
which I had saved began to run short, and I was at my

wit's end as to
what I should do.

"There is a well-known agency for governesses in the

West End called
Westaway's, and there I used to call about once a week

in order to see
whether anything had turned up which might suit me.

Westaway was
the name of the founder of the business, but it is

really managed by Miss
Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the

ladies who are seeking
employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in

one by one,
when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has

anything which
would suit them.

"Well, when I called last week I was shown into the

little office as usual,
but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A

prodigiously stout man
with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which

rolled down in
fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a

pair of glasses on
his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who

entered. As I came in
he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned quickly to

Miss Stoper.

"'That will do,' said he; 'I could not ask for anything

better. Capital!
capital!' He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his

hands together in
the most genial fashion. He was such a

comfortable-looking man that it
was quite a pleasure to look at him.

"'You are looking for a situation, miss?' he asked.

"'Yes, sir.'


"'As governess?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'And what salary do you ask?'

"'I had 4 pounds a month in my last place with Colonel

Spence
Munro.'

"'Oh, tut, tut! sweating—rank sweating!' he cried,

throwing his fat
hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling

passion. 'How could
anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such

attractions and
accomplishments?'

"'My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you

imagine,' said I. 'A
little French, a little German, music, and drawing—'

"'Tut, tut!' he cried. 'This is all quite beside the

question. The point is,
have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of

a lady? There it
is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted

for the rearing of a
child who may some day play a considerable part in the

history of the
country. But if you have why, then, how could any

gentleman ask you to
condescend to accept anything under the three figures?

Your salary with
me, madam, would commence at 100 pounds a year.'

"You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as

I was, such an
offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman,

however, seeing
perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a

pocket-book and
took out a note.

"'It is also my custom,' said he, smiling in the most

pleasant fashion
until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid

the white creases of
his face, 'to advance to my young ladies half their

salary beforehand, so
that they may meet any little expenses of their journey

and their
wardrobe.'

"It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating

and so thoughtful
a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the

advance was a
great convenience, and yet there was something

unnatural about the
whole transaction which made me wish to know a little

more before I
quite committed myself.

"'May I ask where you live, sir?' said I.

"'Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches,

five miles on
the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely

country, my dear young
lady, and the dearest old country-house.'

"'And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what

they would be.'

"'One child—one dear little romper just six years old.

Oh, if you could
see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack!

smack! smack! Three


gone before you could wink!' He leaned back in his

chair and laughed
his eyes into his head again.

"I was a little startled at the nature of the child's

amusement, but the
father's laughter made me think that perhaps he was

joking.

"'My sole duties, then,' I asked, 'are to take charge

of a single child?'

"'No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young

lady,' he cried. 'Your
duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would

suggest, to obey any
little commands my wife might give, provided always

that they were
such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You

see no difficulty,
heh?'

"'I should be happy to make myself useful.'

"'Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy

people, you
know—faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear

any dress
which we might give you, you would not object to our

little whim. Heh?'

"'No,' said I, considerably astonished at his words.

"'Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be

offensive to you?'

"'Oh, no.'

"'Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to

us?'

"I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe,

Mr. Holmes, my
hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar

tint of chestnut. It
has been considered artistic. I could not dream of

sacrificing it in this offhand
fashion.

"'I am afraid that that is quite impossible,' said I.

He had been watching
me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a

shadow pass over
his face as I spoke.

"'I am afraid that it is quite essential,' said he. 'It

is a little fancy of my
wife's, and ladies' fancies, you know, madam, ladies'

fancies must be
consulted. And so you won't cut your hair?'

"'No, sir, I really could not,' I answered firmly.

"'Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It

is a pity, because in
other respects you would really have done very nicely.

In that case, Miss
Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young

ladies.'

"The manageress had sat all this while busy with her

papers without a
word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so

much annoyance
upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she

had lost a handsome
commission through my refusal.

"'Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?'

she asked.

"'If you please, Miss Stoper.'

"'Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you

refuse the most excellent
offers in this fashion,' said she sharply. 'You can

hardly expect us to


exert ourselves to find another such opening for you.

Good-day to you,
Miss Hunter.' She struck a gong upon the table, and I

was shown out by
the page.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and

found little
enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the

table. I began to
ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing.

After all, if these
people had strange fads and expected obedience on the

most extraordinary
matters, they were at least ready to pay for their

eccentricity. Very
few governesses in England are getting 100 pounds a

year. Besides, what
use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by

wearing it short
and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I

was inclined to
think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after I

was sure of it. I
had almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to

the agency and inquire
whether the place was still open when I received this

letter from
the gentleman himself. I have it here and I will read

it to you:

"'The Copper Beeches, near Winchester. "'DEAR MISS
HUNTER:—Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your

address, and I
write from here to ask you whether you have

reconsidered your decision.
My wife is very anxious that you should come, for she

has been
much attracted by my description of you. We are willing

to give 30
pounds a quarter, or 120 pounds a year, so as to

recompense you for any
little inconvenience which our fads may cause you. They

are not very exacting,
after all. My wife is fond of a particular shade of

electric blue and
would like you to wear such a dress indoors in the

morning. You need
not, however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as

we have one belonging
to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which

would, I
should think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting

here or there, or amusing
yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause you

no inconvenience.
As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity, especially

as I could not
help remarking its beauty during our short interview,

but I am afraid
that I must remain firm upon this point, and I only

hope that the increased
salary may recompense you for the loss. Your duties, as

far as
the child is concerned, are very light. Now do try to

come, and I shall
meet you with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know

your train.
Yours faithfully, JEPHRO RUCASTLE.'

"That is the letter which I have just received, Mr.

Holmes, and my
mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought,

however, that before taking
the final step I should like to submit the whole matter

to your
consideration."


"Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that

settles the question,"
said Holmes, smiling.

"But you would not advise me to refuse?"

"I confess that it is not the situation which I should

like to see a sister
of mine apply for."

"What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have

yourself formed
some opinion?"

"Well, there seems to me to be only one possible

solution. Mr. Rucastle
seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not

possible that his
wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter

quiet for fear she
should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her

fancies in every
way in order to prevent an outbreak?"

"That is a possible solution—in fact, as matters stand,

it is the most
probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a

nice household for
a young lady."

"But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!"

"Well, yes, of course the pay is good—too good. That is

what makes
me uneasy. Why should they give you 120 pounds a year,

when they
could have their pick for 40 pounds? There must be some

strong reason
behind."

"I thought that if I told you the circumstances you

would understand
afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much

stronger if I felt
that you were at the back of me."

"Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure

you that your
little problem promises to be the most interesting

which has come my
way for some months. There is something distinctly

novel about some of
the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or

in danger—"

"Danger! What danger do you foresee?"

Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a

danger if we
could define it," said he. "But at any time, day or

night, a telegram would
bring me down to your help."

"That is enough." She rose briskly from her chair with

the anxiety all
swept from her face. "I shall go down to Hampshire

quite easy in my
mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once,

sacrifice my poor hair tonight,
and start for Winchester to-morrow." With a few

grateful words to
Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off upon

her way.

"At least," said I as we heard her quick, firm steps

descending the
stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well

able to take care of
herself."


"And she would need to be," said Holmes gravely. "I am

much mistaken
if we do not hear from her before many days are past."

It was not very long before my friend's prediction was

fulfilled. A fortnight
went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts

turning in
her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of

human experience
this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual salary,

the curious
conditions, the light duties, all pointed to something

abnormal, though
whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a

philanthropist or a
villain, it was quite beyond my powers to determine. As

to Holmes, I observed
that he sat frequently for half an hour on end, with

knitted brows
and an abstracted air, but he swept the matter away

with a wave of his
hand when I mentioned it. "Data! data! data!" he cried

impatiently. "I
can't make bricks without clay." And yet he would

always wind up by
muttering that no sister of his should ever have

accepted such a
situation.

The telegram which we eventually received came late one

night just as
I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling

down to one of
those all-night chemical researches which he frequently

indulged in,
when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a

test-tube at night
and find him in the same position when I came down to

breakfast in the
morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then,

glancing at the message,
threw it across to me.

"Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, and

turned back to his
chemical studies.

The summons was a brief and urgent one.

"Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at

midday to-morrow,"
it said. "Do come! I am at my wit's end. HUNTER."

"Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up.

"I should wish to."

"Just look it up, then."

"There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glancing

over my Bradshaw.
"It is due at Winchester at 11:30."

"That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better

postpone my analysis
of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in

the morning."

By eleven o'clock the next day we were well upon our

way to the old
English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning

papers all the
way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border

he threw
them down and began to admire the scenery. It was an

ideal spring day,
a light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white

clouds drifting across
from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly,

and yet there was


an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a

man's energy. All
over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around

Aldershot, the
little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped

out from amid the
light green of the new foliage.

"Are they not fresh and beautiful?" I cried with all

the enthusiasm of a
man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.

But Holmes shook his head gravely.

"Do you know, Watson," said he, "that it is one of the

curses of a mind
with a turn like mine that I must look at everything

with reference to my
own special subject. You look at these scattered

houses, and you are impressed
by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought

which
comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the

impunity with which
crime may be committed there."

"Good heavens!" I cried. "Who would associate crime

with these dear
old homesteads?"

"They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my

belief, Watson,
founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest

alleys in London
do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does

the smiling and
beautiful countryside."

"You horrify me!"

"But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public

opinion can do
in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no

lane so vile that
the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a

drunkard's blow, does not
beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours,

and then the
whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word

of complaint can
set it going, and there is but a step between the crime

and the dock. But
look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields,

filled for the most part
with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law.

Think of the deeds of
hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on,

year in, year
out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had this lady

who appeals to us
for help gone to live in Winchester, I should never

have had a fear for
her. It is the five miles of country which makes the

danger. Still, it is clear
that she is not personally threatened."

"No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can

get away."

"Quite so. She has her freedom."

"What CAN be the matter, then? Can you suggest no

explanation?"

"I have devised seven separate explanations, each of

which would cover
the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is

correct can
only be determined by the fresh information which we

shall no doubt


find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the

cathedral, and we shall
soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell."

The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street,

at no distance
from the station, and there we found the young lady

waiting for us. She
had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us

upon the table.

"I am so delighted that you have come," she said

earnestly. "It is so
very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I

should do. Your
advice will be altogether invaluable to me."

"Pray tell us what has happened to you."

"I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised

Mr. Rucastle to
be back before three. I got his leave to come into town

this morning,
though he little knew for what purpose."

"Let us have everything in its due order." Holmes

thrust his long thin
legs out towards the fire and composed himself to

listen.

"In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the

whole, with no
actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is

only fair to them to
say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not

easy in my mind
about them."

"What can you not understand?"

"Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it

all just as it occurred.
When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me

in
his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said,

beautifully situated,
but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large

square block of a house,
whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp and

bad weather.
There are grounds round it, woods on three sides, and

on the fourth a
field which slopes down to the Southampton highroad,

which curves
past about a hundred yards from the front door. This

ground in front belongs
to the house, but the woods all round are part of Lord

Southerton's
preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately in

front of the hall
door has given its name to the place.

"I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable

as ever, and
was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the

child. There was
no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to

us to be probable
in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not

mad. I found her
to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her

husband, not
more than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly

be less than forty-
five. From their conversation I have gathered that they

have been married
about seven years, that he was a widower, and that his

only child by
the first wife was the daughter who has gone to

Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle
told me in private that the reason why she had left

them was that


she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As

the daughter
could not have been less than twenty, I can quite

imagine that her position
must have been uncomfortable with her father's young

wife.

"Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as

well as in feature.
She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse.

She was a
nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately

devoted both to
her husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes

wandered continually
from one to the other, noting every little want and

forestalling it if
possible. He was kind to her also in his bluff,

boisterous fashion, and on
the whole they seemed to be a happy couple. And yet she

had some
secret sorrow, this woman. She would often be lost in

deep thought, with
the saddest look upon her face. More than once I have

surprised her in
tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the

disposition of her child
which weighed upon her mind, for I have never met so

utterly spoiled
and so ill-natured a little creature. He is small for

his age, with a head
which is quite disproportionately large. His whole life

appears to be
spent in an alternation between savage fits of passion

and gloomy intervals
of sulking. Giving pain to any creature weaker than

himself seems
to be his one idea of amusement, and he shows quite

remarkable talent
in planning the capture of mice, little birds, and

insects. But I would
rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and,

indeed, he has little
to do with my story."

"I am glad of all details," remarked my friend,

"whether they seem to
you to be relevant or not."

"I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The

one unpleasant
thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the

appearance and
conduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and

his wife. Toller,
for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with

grizzled hair and
whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I

have been with
them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle

seemed to take no
notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman

with a sour face, as
silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable. They are

a most unpleasant
couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in the

nursery and
my own room, which are next to each other in one corner

of the building.

"For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my

life was very
quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after

breakfast and
whispered something to her husband.

"'Oh, yes,' said he, turning to me, 'we are very much

obliged to you,
Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to

cut your hair. I assure
you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from

your


appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue

dress will become
you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your

room, and if you
would be so good as to put it on we should both be

extremely obliged.'

"The dress which I found waiting for me was of a

peculiar shade of
blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige,

but it bore unmistakable
signs of having been worn before. It could not have

been a better fit if I
had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle

expressed a delight
at the look of it, which seemed quite exaggerated in

its vehemence.
They were waiting for me in the drawing-room, which is

a very large
room, stretching along the entire front of the house,

with three long windows
reaching down to the floor. A chair had been placed

close to the
central window, with its back turned towards it. In

this I was asked to
sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on the

other side of the
room, began to tell me a series of the funniest stories

that I have ever
listened to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and

I laughed until
I was quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who has

evidently no sense
of humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with her

hands in her lap,
and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an hour or

so, Mr. Rucastle
suddenly remarked that it was time to commence the

duties of the day,
and that I might change my dress and go to little

Edward in the nursery.

"Two days later this same performance was gone through

under exactly
similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again

I sat in the
window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny

stories of which
my employer had an immense répertoire, and which he

told inimitably.
Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my

chair a little
sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the

page, he begged
me to read aloud to him. I read for about ten minutes,

beginning in the
heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in the middle of

a sentence, he
ordered me to cease and to change my dress.

"You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I

became as to what
the meaning of this extraordinary performance could

possibly be. They
were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face

away from the
window, so that I became consumed with the desire to

see what was going
on behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible,

but I soon devised
a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy

thought
seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my

handkerchief. On
the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I put

my handkerchief up
to my eyes, and was able with a little management to

see all that there
was behind me. I confess that I was disappointed. There

was nothing. At
least that was my first impression. At the second

glance, however, I


perceived that there was a man standing in the

Southampton Road, a
small bearded man in a grey suit, who seemed to be

looking in my direction.
The road is an important highway, and there are usually

people
there. This man, however, was leaning against the

railings which
bordered our field and was looking earnestly up. I

lowered my handkerchief
and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed

upon me with a
most searching gaze. She said nothing, but I am

convinced that she had
divined that I had a mirror in my hand and had seen

what was behind
me. She rose at once.

"'Jephro,' said she, 'there is an impertinent fellow

upon the road there
who stares up at Miss Hunter.'

"'No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?' he asked.

"'No, I know no one in these parts.'

"'Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and

motion to
him to go away.'

"'Surely it would be better to take no notice.'

"'No, no, we should have him loitering here always.

Kindly turn round
and wave him away like that.'

"I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs.

Rucastle drew down
the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I

have not sat again
in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen

the man in the
road."

"Pray continue," said Holmes. "Your narrative promises

to be a most
interesting one."

"You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and

there may prove to be
little relation between the different incidents of

which I speak. On the
very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr.

Rucastle took me to a
small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As

we approached it
I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as

of a large animal
moving about.

"'Look in here!' said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit

between two
planks. 'Is he not a beauty?'

"I looked through and was conscious of two glowing

eyes, and of a
vague figure huddled up in the darkness.

"'Don't be frightened,' said my employer, laughing at

the start which I
had given. 'It's only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him

mine, but really old
Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything

with him. We
feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he

is always as keen
as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God

help the trespasser
whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness' sake don't

you ever on


any pretext set your foot over the threshold at night,

for it's as much as
your life is worth.'

"The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I

happened to look
out of my bedroom window about two o'clock in the

morning. It was a
beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the

house was
silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was

standing, rapt in the
peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that

something was
moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it

emerged into the
moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as

large as a calf, tawny
tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge

projecting bones. It
walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the

shadow upon the
other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my

heart which I do not
think that any burglar could have done.

"And now I have a very strange experience to tell you.

I had, as you
know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in

a great coil at the
bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in

bed, I began to
amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and

by rearranging
my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers

in the room,
the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one

locked. I had filled
the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to

pack away I was
naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third

drawer. It struck me
that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight,

so I took out my
bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key

fitted to perfection,
and I drew the drawer open. There was only one thing in

it, but I am
sure that you would never guess what it was. It was my

coil of hair.

"I took it up and examined it. It was of the same

peculiar tint, and the
same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing

obtruded itself
upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the

drawer? With
trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the

contents, and drew
from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses

together, and I assure
you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary?

Puzzle as I
would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I

returned the
strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the

matter to the Rucastles
as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening

a drawer
which they had locked.

"I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked,

Mr. Holmes,
and I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in

my head. There
was one wing, however, which appeared not to be

inhabited at all. A
door which faced that which led into the quarters of

the Tollers opened
into this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day,

however, as I


ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out

through this door, his
keys in his hand, and a look on his face which made him

a very different
person to the round, jovial man to whom I was

accustomed. His cheeks
were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and the

veins stood out
at his temples with passion. He locked the door and

hurried past me
without a word or a look.

"This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a

walk in the
grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side

from which I could
see the windows of this part of the house. There were

four of them in a
row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth

was shuttered
up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up

and down, glancing
at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me,

looking as merry
and jovial as ever.

"'Ah!' said he, 'you must not think me rude if I passed

you without a
word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with

business matters.'

"I assured him that I was not offended. 'By the way,'

said I, 'you seem
to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one

of them has the
shutters up.'

"He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little

startled at my
remark.

"'Photography is one of my hobbies,' said he. 'I have

made my dark
room up there. But, dear me! what an observant young

lady we have
come upon. Who would have believed it? Who would have

ever believed
it?' He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was no jest

in his eyes as
he looked at me. I read suspicion there and annoyance,

but no jest.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood

that there was
something about that suite of rooms which I was not to

know, I was all
on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity,

though I have my
share of that. It was more a feeling of duty—a feeling

that some good
might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk

of woman's instinct;
perhaps it was woman's instinct which gave me that

feeling. At
any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout

for any chance to
pass the forbidden door.

"It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell

you that, besides
Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something

to do in these
deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large

black linen bag with
him through the door. Recently he has been drinking

hard, and yesterday
evening he was very drunk; and when I came upstairs

there was the
key in the door. I have no doubt at all that he had

left it there. Mr. and
Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the child was

with them, so


that I had an admirable opportunity. I turned the key

gently in the lock,
opened the door, and slipped through.

"There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered

and uncarpeted,
which turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round

this corner were
three doors in a line, the first and third of which

were open. They each
led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two

windows in the
one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the

evening light
glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was

closed, and across
the outside of it had been fastened one of the broad

bars of an iron bed,
padlocked at one end to a ring in the wall, and

fastened at the other with
stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the

key was not there.
This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the

shuttered window
outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from

beneath it that the room
was not in darkness. Evidently there was a skylight

which let in light
from above. As I stood in the passage gazing at the

sinister door and
wondering what secret it might veil, I suddenly heard

the sound of steps
within the room and saw a shadow pass backward and

forward against
the little slit of dim light which shone out from under

the door. A mad,
unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr.

Holmes. My over-
strung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and

ran—ran as though
some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the

skirt of my dress. I
rushed down the passage, through the door, and straight

into the arms
of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside.

"'So,' said he, smiling, 'it was you, then. I thought

that it must be when
I saw the door open.'

"'Oh, I am so frightened!' I panted.

"'My dear young lady! my dear young lady!'—you cannot

think how
caressing and soothing his manner was—'and what has

frightened you,
my dear young lady?'

"But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He

overdid it. I was keenly
on my guard against him.

"'I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,' I

answered. 'But it is
so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was

frightened and ran out
again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!'

"'Only that?' said he, looking at me keenly.

"'Why, what did you think?' I asked.

"'Why do you think that I lock this door?'

"'I am sure that I do not know.'

"'It is to keep people out who have no business there.

Do you see?' He
was still smiling in the most amiable manner.


"'I am sure if I had known—'

"'Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your

foot over that
threshold again'—here in an instant the smile hardened

into a grin of
rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a

demon—'I'll throw
you to the mastiff.'

"I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I

suppose that I must
have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing

until I found
myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I

thought of you, Mr.
Holmes. I could not live there longer without some

advice. I was
frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of

the servants, even
of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could

only bring you down
all would be well. Of course I might have fled from the

house, but my
curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My mind was

soon made up.
I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak,

went down to the
office, which is about half a mile from the house, and

then returned, feeling
very much easier. A horrible doubt came into my mind as

I approached
the door lest the dog might be loose, but I remembered

that
Toller had drunk himself into a state of insensibility

that evening, and I
knew that he was the only one in the household who had

any influence
with the savage creature, or who would venture to set

him free. I slipped
in in safety and lay awake half the night in my joy at

the thought of seeing
you. I had no difficulty in getting leave to come into

Winchester this
morning, but I must be back before three o'clock, for

Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle
are going on a visit, and will be away all the evening,

so that I
must look after the child. Now I have told you all my

adventures, Mr.
Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could tell me

what it all means,
and, above all, what I should do."

Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this

extraordinary story. My
friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his

hands in his
pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity

upon his face.

"Is Toller still drunk?" he asked.

"Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she

could do nothing with
him."

"That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?"

"Yes."

"Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?"

"Yes, the wine-cellar."

"You seem to me to have acted all through this matter

like a very brave
and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you

could perform one


more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not

think you a quite excep


tional woman."

"I will try. What is it?"

"We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o'clock, my

friend and I.
The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller

will, we hope, be incapable.
There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the

alarm. If
you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and

then turn the key
upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely."

"I will do it."

"Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the

affair. Of course
there is only one feasible explanation. You have been

brought there to
personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in

this chamber.
That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no

doubt that it is the
daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who

was said to have
gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as

resembling her in
height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had

been cut off, very
possibly in some illness through which she has passed,

and so, of course,
yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance

you came upon her
tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some

friend of
hers—possibly her fiancé—and no doubt, as you wore the

girl's dress
and were so like her, he was convinced from your

laughter, whenever he
saw you, and afterwards from your gesture, that Miss

Rucastle was perfectly
happy, and that she no longer desired his attentions.

The dog is let
loose at night to prevent him from endeavouring to

communicate with
her. So much is fairly clear. The most serious point in

the case is the disposition
of the child."

"What on earth has that to do with it?" I ejaculated.

"My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually

gaining light
as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the

parents. Don't you see
that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently

gained my first real
insight into the character of parents by studying their

children. This
child's disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for

cruelty's sake, and
whether he derives this from his smiling father, as I

should suspect, or
from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is

in their power."

"I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes," cried our

client. "A thousand
things come back to me which make me certain that you

have hit it.
Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this

poor creature."

"We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very

cunning man.
We can do nothing until seven o'clock. At that hour we

shall be with
you, and it will not be long before we solve the

mystery."


We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when

we reached
the Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside

public-house.
The group of trees, with their dark leaves shining like

burnished metal in
the light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark

the house even had
Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the door-step.

"Have you managed it?" asked Holmes.

A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs.

"That is
Mrs. Toller in the cellar," said she. "Her husband lies

snoring on the kitchen
rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr.

Rucastle's."

"You have done well indeed!" cried Holmes with

enthusiasm. "Now
lead the way, and we shall soon see the end of this

black business."

We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on

down a passage,
and found ourselves in front of the barricade which

Miss Hunter
had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the

transverse bar.
Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but without

success. No sound
came from within, and at the silence Holmes' face

clouded over.

"I trust that we are not too late," said he. "I think,

Miss Hunter, that we
had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your

shoulder to it, and
we shall see whether we cannot make our way in."

It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our

united strength.
Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There

was no furniture
save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a

basketful of linen. The skylight
above was open, and the prisoner gone.

"There has been some villainy here," said Holmes; "this

beauty has
guessed Miss Hunter's intentions and has carried his

victim off."

"But how?"

"Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed

it." He
swung himself up onto the roof. "Ah, yes," he cried,

"here's the end of a
long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did

it."

"But it is impossible," said Miss Hunter; "the ladder

was not there
when the Rucastles went away."

"He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a

clever and dangerous
man. I should not be very much surprised if this were

he whose
step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that

it would be as well
for you to have your pistol ready."

The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man

appeared at the
door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a

heavy stick in his
hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall

at the sight of
him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted

him.

"You villain!" said he, "where's your daughter?"


The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the

open skylight.

"It is for me to ask you that," he shrieked, "you

thieves! Spies and
thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my

power. I'll serve you!"
He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he

could go.

"He's gone for the dog!" cried Miss Hunter.

"I have my revolver," said I.

"Better close the front door," cried Holmes, and we all

rushed down
the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall

when we heard the
baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a

horrible worrying
sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly

man with a red face
and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door.

"My God!" he cried. "Someone has loosed the dog. It's

not been fed for
two days. Quick, quick, or it'll be too late!"

Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the

house, with Toller
hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute,

its black muzzle
buried in Rucastle's throat, while he writhed and

screamed upon the
ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell

over with its keen
white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his

neck. With much labour
we separated them and carried him, living but horribly

mangled,
into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room sofa,

and having
dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to his

wife, I did what I
could to relieve his pain. We were all assembled round

him when the
door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room.

"Mrs. Toller!" cried Miss Hunter.

"Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back

before he went
up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn't let me

know what you were
planning, for I would have told you that your pains

were wasted."

"Ha!" said Holmes, looking keenly at her. "It is clear

that Mrs. Toller
knows more about this matter than anyone else."

"Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I

know."

"Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are

several points on
which I must confess that I am still in the dark."

"I will soon make it clear to you," said she; "and I'd

have done so before
now if I could ha' got out from the cellar. If there's

police-court business
over this, you'll remember that I was the one that

stood your friend,
and that I was Miss Alice's friend too.

"She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn't, from

the time that
her father married again. She was slighted like and had

no say in anything,
but it never really became bad for her until after she

met Mr. Fowler
at a friend's house. As well as I could learn, Miss

Alice had rights of


her own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she

was, that she never
said a word about them but just left everything in Mr.

Rucastle's
hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there was

a chance of a
husband coming forward, who would ask for all that the

law would give
him, then her father thought it time to put a stop on

it. He wanted her to
sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he

could use her
money. When she wouldn't do it, he kept on worrying her

until she got
brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death's door.

Then she got better at
last, all worn to a shadow, and with her beautiful hair

cut off; but that
didn't make no change in her young man, and he stuck to

her as true as
man could be."

"Ah," said Holmes, "I think that what you have been

good enough to
tell us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can

deduce all that remains.
Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of
imprisonment?"

"Yes, sir."

"And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to

get rid of
the disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler."

"That was it, sir."

"But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good

seaman should
be, blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded

by certain arguments,
metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your

interests were
the same as his."

"Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed

gentleman," said
Mrs. Toller serenely.

"And in this way he managed that your good man should

have no
want of drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the

moment when
your master had gone out."

"You have it, sir, just as it happened."

"I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller," said

Holmes, "for you
have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us.

And here comes
the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think,

Watson, that we had
best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems

to me that our
locus standi now is rather a questionable one."

And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house

with the copper
beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived,

but was always a
broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his

devoted wife. They
still live with their old servants, who probably know

so much of
Rucastle's past life that he finds it difficult to part

from them. Mr. Fowler
and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in

Southampton the


day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a

government appointment
in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet Hunter,

my friend
Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no

further interest in
her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of

his problems,
and she is now the head of a private school at Walsall,

where I believe
that she has met with considerable success.


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The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes

The last twelve stories written about Holmes and

Watson, these
tales reflect the disillusioned world of the 1920s in

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were written. Some of the sharpest turns of wit in

English literature
are contrasted by dark images of psychological tragedy,

suicide,
and incest in a collection of tales that have haunted

generations
of readers.

The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes is a collection of

Sherlock
Holmes stories, originally published in 1894, by Arthur

Conan
Doyle.

The Return of Sherlock Holmes

The Return of Sherlock Holmes is a collection of 13

Sherlock
Holmes stories, originally published in 1903-1904, by

Arthur Con-
an Doyle.
The book was first published on March 7, 1905 by

Georges
Newnes, Ltd and in a Colonial edition by Longmans.

30,000 copies
were made of the initial print run. The US edition by

McClure,
Phillips & Co. added another 28,000 to the run.
This was the first Holmes collection since 1893, when

Holmes had
"died" in "The Adventure of the Final Problem". Having

published
The Hound of the Baskervilles in 1901–1902 (although

setting it
before Holmes' death) Doyle came under intense pressure

to revive
his famous character.

The Hound of the Baskervilles

The rich landowner Sir Charles Baskerville is found

dead in the
park of his manor surrounded by the grim moor of

Dartmoor, in
the county of Devon. His death seems to have been

caused by a
heart attack, but the victim's best friend, Dr.

Mortimer, is convinced
that the strike was due to a supernatural creature,

which
haunts the moor in the shape of an enormous hound, with

blazing
eyes and jaws. In order to protect Baskerville's heir,

Sir Henry,
who's arriving to London from Canada, Dr. Mortimer asks

for


Sherlock Holmes' help, telling him also of the

so-called Baskervilles'
curse, according to which a monstrous hound has been
haunting and killing the family males for centuries, in

revenge for
the misdeeds of one Sir Hugo Baskerville, who lived at

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A Study in Scarlet

A Study in Scarlet is a detective mystery novel written

by Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle, which was first published in 1887. It is

the first
story to feature the character of Sherlock Holmes, who

would later
become one of the most famous and iconic literary

detective characters,
with long-lasting interest and appeal. The book's title

derives
from a speech given by Holmes to his companion Doctor
Watson on the nature of his work, in which he describes

the
story's murder investigation as his "study in scarlet":

"There’s the
scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless

skein of
life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it,

and expose every
inch of it."

The Sign of the Four

First published in 1890, The Sign of Four is Sir Arthur

Conan
Doyle's second book starring legendary detective

Sherlock
Holmes. The story is complex, involving a secret

between four ex-
cons from India and a hidden treasure. More complex

than the
first Holmes novel, The Sign of Four also introduces

the detective's
drug habit and leaves breadcrumbs for the reader that

lead toward
the final resolution.

His Last Bow

His Last Bow is a collection of seven Sherlock Holmes

stories
(eight in American editions) by Arthur Conan Doyle, as

well as
the title of one of the stories in that collection.

Originally published
in 1917, it contains the various Holmes stories

published
between 1908 and 1913, as well as the one-off title

story from 1917.
The collection was originally called Reminiscences of

Sherlock
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Bow, which
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Fear was published.
However later editions added it and changed the title.
Some recent complete editions have restored the earlier

title.
When the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes were published in

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USA for the first time, the publishers believed "The

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public,
since it dealt with the theme of adultery. As a result,

this story was
not published in the USA until many years later, when

it was added
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the
canon include it with His Last Bow, while most British

editions
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Sherlock
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The Count of Monte Cristo

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and the Levant during the historical events of

1815–1838 (from just
before the Hundred Days through the reign of

Louis-Philippe of
France). The historical setting is a fundamental

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justice, vengeance,
mercy, forgiveness and death, and is told in the style

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adventure story.

Sun Tzu

The Art of War

The Art of War is a Chinese military treatise that was

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and tactics of
its time.
The Art of War is one of the oldest books on military

strategy in
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successful works on
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Western
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strategy and


that position is affected both by objective conditions

in the physical
environment and the subjective opinions of competitive

actors
in that environment. He taught that strategy was not

planning in
the sense of working through a to-do list, but rather

that it requires
quick and appropriate responses to changing conditions.
Planning works in a controlled environment, but in a

competitive
environment,

Francis Scott Fitzgerald

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

This story was inspired by a remark of Mark Twain's to

the effect
that it was a pity that the best part of life came at

the beginning
and the worst part at the end. By trying the experiment

upon only
one man in a perfectly normal world I have scarcely

given his idea
a fair trial. Several weeks after completing it, I

discovered an almost
identical plot in Samuel Butler's "Note-books."
The story was published in "Collier's" last summer and

provoked
this startling letter from an anonymous admirer in

Cincinnati:
"Sir-I
have read the story Benjamin Button in Colliers and I

wish to say
that as a short story writer you would make a good

lunatic I have
seen many peices of cheese in my life but of all the

peices of cheese
I have ever seen you are the biggest peice. I hate to

waste a peice
of stationary on you but I will."