


cover



The Return of Sherlock Holmes



by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle



Contents


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


THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE

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      positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      I acknowledged that I was.

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

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

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

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

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

      I gripped him by the arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “You’ll come with me to-night?”

      “When you like and where you like.”

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

      “You never were in it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “But why are we here?”

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

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

      “Well?” said he.

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

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

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

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

      “But why?”

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

      “And you thought the rooms were watched?”

      “I _knew_ that they were watched.”

      “By whom?”

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

      “How do you know?”

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

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

      “The shadow has moved!” I cried.

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

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

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

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

      “That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “No, I have not.”

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

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

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

      He handed over the book, and I read:

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

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

      The second most dangerous man in London.

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

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

      “It is surely rather fanciful.”

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

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

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

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

      “You have formed one, then?”

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.

      Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Exactly,” said McFarlane.

      “Pray proceed.”

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

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

      “Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.

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

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

      “Not until I have been to Blackheath.”

      “You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade.

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

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

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

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

      The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

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

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

      “Well, what do _you_ make of it?”

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

      Lestrade began to laugh.

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

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

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

      “Oh, you think so?”

      “Don’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

      “Why should the tramp burn the body?”

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

      “To hide some evidence.”

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

      “And why did the tramp take nothing?”

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

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

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

      My friend seemed struck by this remark.

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

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

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

      “And why not Norwood?”

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

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

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

      “Did you go to Blackheath?”

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

      “‘You knew him at that time?’ said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “It is true.”

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

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

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

      It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

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

      “This sounds serious,” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Lestrade laughed loudly.

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

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

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

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

      “Yes, I am doing so.”

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

      “I have heard something of the kind.”

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

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

      “That is final,” said Lestrade.

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

      “It is final,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Where was the night constable?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.”

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

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

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

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

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

      “Indeed, Holmes! What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

      “So I am.”

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

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

      “What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

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

      “Can you produce him?”

      “I think I can.”

      “Then do so.”

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

      “There are three within call.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Fire!” we all yelled.

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

      “Fire!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I have done no harm.”

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

      The wretched creature began to whimper.

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

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

      Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “But how?”

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

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

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

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

      “Well, that’s likely enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Holmes smiled indulgently.

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I am.”

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

      “Why?”

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

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

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

      “I see no connection.”

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

      “How absurdly simple!” I cried.

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

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

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

      “Oh, that’s your idea!”

      “What else should it be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      AM-HERE-ABE-SLANEY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

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

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

      “No.”

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

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

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

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

      “You had better stay here, Watson.”

      “Why?”

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

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

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

      “Has she said anything yet?”

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

      “But you have found out something for yourself?”

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

      “What, the man who draws them?”

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

      AT-ELRIGES

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

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

      COME-ELSIE

      Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

      “Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

      “Have you that fresh drawing?”

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

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

      NEVER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      ELSIE-PREPARE-TO-MEET-THY-GOD

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

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

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

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

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

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

      A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face.

      “What makes you think such a thing?”

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

      Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.

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

      “How long have you been here, Doctor?”

      “Since four o’clock.”

      “Anyone else?”

      “Yes, the constable here.”

      “And you have touched nothing?”

      “Nothing.”

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

      “The housemaid, Saunders.”

      “Was it she who gave the alarm?”

      “She and Mrs. King, the cook.”

      “Where are they now?”

      “In the kitchen, I believe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Because I looked for it.”

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

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

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

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

      “How do you prove that?”

      “Because the candle was not guttered.”

      “Capital!” cried the inspector. “Capital!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I am sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

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

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

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

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

      “Whom do you suspect?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

      “Is it a lonely farm?”

      “Very lonely, sir.”

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

      “Maybe not, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      E

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

      N-V-R

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

      .M .ERE ..E SL.NE.

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

      AM HERE A.E SLANE.

      Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:

      AM HERE ABE SLANEY.

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

      A. ELRI. ES.

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

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

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

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

      ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.

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

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

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

      “How do you know?”

      “To fly would be a confession of guilt.”

      “Then let us go arrest him.”

      “I expect him here every instant.”

      “But why should he come.”

      “Because I have written and asked him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I wrote it, to bring you here.”

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

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

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

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

      Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

      “It is time for us to go.”

      “Can I see her first?”

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

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

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

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

      COME-HERE-AT-ONCE

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Last December—four months ago.”

      “Pray proceed.”

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

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

      The young lady blushed and laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

      “Two or three minutes.”

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

      “None.”

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

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

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

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

      Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

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

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

      “He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

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

      “Have you had any other admirers?”

      “Several before I knew Cyril.”

      “And since?”

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

      “No one else?”

      Our fair client seemed a little confused.

      “Who was he?” asked Holmes.

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

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

      “He is a rich man.”

      “No carriages or horses?”

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

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

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

      “That he should appear only at that point?”

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

      “You will go down?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

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

      The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “That’s the man!” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “They’re married!” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

      “You’re too late. She’s my wife.”

      “No, she’s your widow.”

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

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

      “Who are you, then?”

      “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

      “Good Lord!”

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

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

      “He will live,” said I.

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

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

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

      “And also unfrocked.”

      “Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.”

      “I think not. How about the license?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “What cable?”

      Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

      “That’s it,” said he.

      It was short and concise:

      The old man is dead.

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

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

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

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

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

      “What he says is true,” said Carruthers.

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

      Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

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

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

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

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

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

      “No, by George, I couldn’t!”

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

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL

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

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

      “What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes.

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

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

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

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

      “When you are quite restored——”

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

      My friend shook his head.

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

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

      “What! the late Cabinet Minister?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “But there has been some official investigation?”

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

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

      “It was entirely dropped.”

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

      “I feel it and admit it.”

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

      “None at all.”

      “Was he in the master’s class?”

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

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

      “No.”

      “Was any other bicycle missing?”

      “No.”

      “Is that certain?”

      “Quite.”

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

      “Certainly not.”

      “Then what is the theory in your mind?”

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

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

      “Several.”

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

      “I suppose he would.”

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

      “No.”

      “Did he get any letters?”

      “Yes, one letter.”

      “From whom?”

      “From his father.”

      “Do you open the boys’ letters?”

      “No.”

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

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

      “When had he a letter before that?”

      “Not for several days.”

      “Had he ever one from France?”

      “No, never.

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

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

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

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

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

      “Yes.”

      “Did he say so?”

      “No.”

      “The Duke, then?”

      “Good Heavens, no!”

      “Then how could you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “But surely, Mr. Wilder——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “No, sir, I have not.”

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

      The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.

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

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

      “No, sir.”

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

      “No, I wrote upon the day before.”

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

      “Yes.”

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

      “No, sir, certainly not.”

      “Did you post that letter yourself?”

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

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

      “You are sure this one was among them?”

      “Yes, I observed it.”

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

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

      “Not entirely,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Holmes'-map

      HOLMES’ MAP OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE SCHOOL.

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

      “Exactly.”

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

      “But the bicycle?” I objected.

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

      “But the bicycle?” I persisted.

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

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

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

      “Where was it found?”

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

      “How do they account for it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”

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

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

      “The boy’s, then?”

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

      “Or towards it?”

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

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

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

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

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

      “I congratulate you.”

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

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

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

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

      “A side-slip,” I suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

      “I could take a note back.”

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

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

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

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

      I assented.

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

      “Undoubtedly.”

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

      “So it would seem.”

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

      “The other bicycle.”

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

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

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

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

      “In a morass, Watson?”

      “I am at my wits’ end.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “No, I have not.”

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

      “Don’t put it to the ground.”

      “But I can’t walk.”

      “Well, then hop.”

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

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

      “Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.

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

      The landlord pricked up his ears.

      “Where do you want to go?”

      “To Holdernesse Hall.”

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

      Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

      “He’ll be glad to see us, anyhow.”

      “Why?”

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

      The landlord gave a very visible start.

      “What, you’re on his track?”

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

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

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

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

      “I haven’t got a bicycle.”

      Holmes held up a sovereign.

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

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

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

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

      “Yes, several.”

      “Where?”

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

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

      “I don’t remember seeing any.”

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

      “Yes, it is strange.”

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

      “Yes, I can.”

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

      “No, I cannot.”

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

      “And what is your conclusion?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “It looks like a flight.”

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

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

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

      “The bar is on the other side.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.”

      “But he is in his room.”

      “Then I must go to his room.”

      “I believe he is in his bed.”

      “I will see him there.”

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

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

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

      “Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.

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

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

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

      “If your Grace wishes——”

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

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

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

      “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

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

      “Exactly.”

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

      “Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “What do you mean, then?”

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

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

      “Where is he?” he gasped.

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

      The Duke fell back in his chair.

      “And whom do you accuse?”

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

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

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

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

      “I saw you together last night.”

      “Does anyone else beside your friend know?”

      “I have spoken to no one.”

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

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

      “I hardly understand your Grace.”

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

      But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

      “No, the murderer has escaped.”

      Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

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

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

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

      “Your secretary?”

      “No, sir, my son.”

      It was Holmes’s turn to look astonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      The Duke bowed his assent.

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

      “Under solemn promises——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “And the first?”

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

THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER

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

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

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

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

      “I drove to the butcher’s and back.”

      “The butcher’s?”

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

      “I will not attempt it.”

      He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

      “And what had you to report?”

      “Failure, sir, absolute failure.”

      “You have made no progress?”

      “None.”

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

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

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

      Hopkins looked surprised.

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

      “But he had no pipe.”

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

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

      Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Meaning that you saw none?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “What part of the table?”

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

      “Excellent! What more?”

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

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

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

      “Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

      “Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book
      off the floor.”

      “Was the blood-stain above or below?”

      “On the side next the boards.”

      “Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the
      crime was committed.”

      “Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured
      that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay
      near the door.”

      “I suppose that none of these securities have been found among
      the property of the dead man?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

      “No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

      “Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was
      a knife, was there not?”

      “A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the
      dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s
      property.”

      Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

      “Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and
      have a look at it.”

      Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

      “Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”

      Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

      “It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But
      even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you
      can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you
      will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for
      Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”

      Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
      through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of
      that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at
      bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of
      Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the
      seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have
      been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North
      have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves
      and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in
      a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low,
      stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the
      fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes,
      was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our
      direction. It was the scene of the murder.

      Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us
      to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man,
      whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror
      in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of
      hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her
      daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly
      at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,
      and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a
      terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself,
      and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the
      sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been
      worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

      The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
      shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
      side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had
      stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and
      surprise upon his face.

      “Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

      There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and
      the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been
      that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

      “Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed
      to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”

      “This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector, “I
      could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”

      “Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

      “Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the
      grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do
      you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”

      “I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

      “You mean that the person will come again?”

      “It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He
      tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could
      not manage it. What would he do?”

      “Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

      “So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
      receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

      The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture
      within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of
      the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes
      examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest
      was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient
      investigation.

      “Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

      “No, I have moved nothing.”

      “Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of
      the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its
      side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.
      Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few
      hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later,
      Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the
      gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”

      It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
      Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was
      of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the
      stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong
      blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we
      should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the bushes
      which grew round the farther window. In this way we should be
      able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his
      object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

      It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
      something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies
      beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty
      beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon
      us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which
      could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or
      would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the
      weak and unguarded?

      In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
      whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated
      villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our
      vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an
      absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the
      distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and
      for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
      foliage which roofed us in.

      Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
      precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click
      came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the
      drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear
      that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon
      the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping
      and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock. This time his
      skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden
      snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and
      next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior
      of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted
      upon the scene within.

      The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
      black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face.
      He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have
      never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable
      fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was shaking
      in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket
      and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched
      him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the
      candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one
      of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the
      logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the
      table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he
      came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of
      his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner,
      and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave the hut when
      Hopkin’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud
      gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was
      relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering
      in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest,
      and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

      “Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and
      what do you want here?”

      The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
      self-composure.

      “You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am
      connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you
      that I am innocent.”

      “We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your
      name?”

      “It is John Hopley Neligan.”

      I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

      “What are you doing here?”

      “Can I speak confidentially?”

      “No, certainly not.”

      “Why should I tell you?”

      “If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”

      The young man winced.

      “Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I
      hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.
      Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”

      I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes
      was keenly interested.

      “You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
      million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
      disappeared.”

      “Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

      At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a
      long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey
      pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all
      listened intently to the young man’s words.

      “It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I
      was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to
      feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that
      my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It
      was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize
      them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He
      started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant
      was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he
      bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities
      he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
      honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.
      Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and
      he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and
      it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the
      bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
      business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that
      some of the securities which my father had with him had
      reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I
      spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many
      doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
      had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

      “Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he
      had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the
      Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to
      Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a
      long succession of southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well
      have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter
      Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In
      any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these
      securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father
      had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit
      when he took them.

      “I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,
      but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I
      read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it
      stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it.
      It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of
      August, 1883, on board the _Sea Unicorn_, I might settle the
      mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night to get at these
      logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again
      and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that
      month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment I found
      myself a prisoner in your hands.”

      “Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

      “Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

      “You have nothing else to tell us?”

      He hesitated.

      “No, there is nothing.”

      “You have not been here before last night?”

      “No.

      “Then how do you account for _that_?” cried Hopkins, as he held
      up the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the
      first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

      The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and
      trembled all over.

      “Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I
      had lost it at the hotel.”

      “That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have
      to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to
      the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to
      you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns
      out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the
      case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less, I
      am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye
      Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together.”

      “Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we
      travelled back next morning.

      “I can see that you are not satisfied.”

      “Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
      time, Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me.
      I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better
      things from him. One should always look for a possible
      alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of
      criminal investigation.”

      “What, then, is the alternative?”

      “The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It
      may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow
      it to the end.”

      Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He
      snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a
      triumphant chuckle of laughter.

      “Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
      forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping
      Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten
      to-morrow morning.—Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The
      other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.
      Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if
      unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal
      case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely
      from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last
      of it forever.”

      Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and
      we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson
      had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his
      success.

      “You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked
      Holmes.

      “I could not imagine a more complete case.”

      “It did not seem to me conclusive.”

      “You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

      “Does your explanation cover every point?”

      “Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
      Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of
      playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get
      out when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee,
      saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him
      with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled
      out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had brought with
      him in order to question Peter Carey about these different
      securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked
      with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those
      which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but the
      others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and
      young Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to
      recover them in order to do the right thing by his father’s
      creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach the hut
      again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do so in
      order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely that is
      all simple and obvious?”

      Holmes smiled and shook his head.

      “It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is
      that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a
      harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really
      pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you
      that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy
      matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow
      was delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon sank
      deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anæmic youth was
      capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed
      in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was
      it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No,
      no, Hopkins, it is another and more formidable person for whom we
      must seek.”

      The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s
      speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him.
      But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

      “You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes.
      The book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to
      satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it.
      Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon _my_ man. As to
      this terrible person of yours, where is he?”

      “I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely.
      “I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver
      where you can reach it.” He rose and laid a written paper upon a
      side-table. “Now we are ready,” said he.

      There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.
      Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring
      for Captain Basil.

      “Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

      “The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with
      ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a
      letter from his pocket.

      “What name?” he asked.

      “James Lancaster.”

      “I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
      sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait
      there for a few minutes.”

      The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
      sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his
      dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

      The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
      bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two
      bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted,
      overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning
      his cap round in his hands.

      “Your name?” asked Holmes.

      “Patrick Cairns.”

      “Harpooner?”

      “Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

      “Dundee, I suppose?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “What wages?”

      “Eight pounds a month.”

      “Could you start at once?”

      “As soon as I get my kit.”

      “Have you your papers?”

      “Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his
      pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

      “You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on
      the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

      The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

      “Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

      Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his
      neck.

      “This will do,” said he.

      I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The
      next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground
      together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with
      the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his
      wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had
      Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when I pressed the
      cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last
      understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with
      cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.

      “I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I fear
      that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the
      rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the
      thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant
      conclusion.”

      Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

      “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last,
      with a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a
      fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I
      should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the
      master. Even now I see what you have done, but I don’t know how
      you did it or what it signifies.”

      “Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by
      experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never
      lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young
      Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the
      true murderer of Peter Carey.”

      The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

      “See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being
      man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
      their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I
      _killed_ Peter Carey, and there’s all the difference. Maybe you
      don’t believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you
      a yarn.”

      “Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”

      “It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I
      knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a
      harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me.
      That’s how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I’d as soon
      die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter’s knife in my
      heart.”

      “How came you there?” asked Holmes.

      “I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so
      as I can speak easy. It was in ’83 that it happened—August of
      that year. Peter Carey was master of the _Sea Unicorn_, and I was
      spare harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way
      home, with head winds and a week’s southerly gale, when we picked
      up a little craft that had been blown north. There was one man on
      her—a landsman. The crew had thought she would founder and had
      made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were all
      drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and he and the
      skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took
      off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man’s name
      was never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if
      he had never been. It was given out that he had either thrown
      himself overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that
      we were having. Only one man knew what had happened to him, and
      that was me, for, with my own eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his
      heels and put him over the rail in the middle watch of a dark
      night, two days before we sighted the Shetland Lights. Well, I
      kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see what would come of
      it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and
      nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it
      was nobody’s business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave
      up the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he
      was. I guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was
      in that tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for
      keeping my mouth shut. I found out where he was through a sailor
      man that had met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him.
      The first night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give
      me what would make me free of the sea for life. We were to fix it
      all two nights later. When I came, I found him three parts drunk
      and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned
      about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look
      on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought
      I might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke out
      at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great
      clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the
      sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell
      he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood
      there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit,
      but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and
      there was the tin box on the shelf. I had as much right to it as
      Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like
      a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.

      “Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had
      hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid
      among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut,
      gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he
      could run until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted
      is more than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a
      train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no one the
      wiser.

      “Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money
      in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I
      had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London
      without a shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these
      advertisements about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to the
      shipping agents, and they sent me here. That’s all I know, and I
      say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should give me
      thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”

      “A very clear statement said Holmes,” rising and lighting his
      pipe. “I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in
      conveying your prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not
      well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too
      large a proportion of our carpet.”

      “Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my
      gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this
      result.”

      “Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
      beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this notebook
      it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I
      heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the
      skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskin
      tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco—all these pointed to a
      seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced that the
      initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not those
      of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in
      his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy
      were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are
      there who would drink rum when they could get these other
      spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”

      “And how did you find him?”

      “My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it
      were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on
      the _Sea Unicorn_. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no
      other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the
      end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the
      _Sea Unicorn_ in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the
      harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the
      man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the
      country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East End,
      devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for
      harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and behold the
      result!”

      “Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”

      “You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
      possible,” said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some
      apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the
      securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There’s
      the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for
      the trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in
      Norway—I’ll send particulars later.”

THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON

      It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and
      yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time,
      even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been
      impossible to make the facts public, but now the principal person
      concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due
      suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no
      one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career
      both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse
      me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might
      trace the actual occurrence.

      We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and
      had returned about six o’clock on a cold, frosty winter’s
      evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card
      on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of
      disgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:

      CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
      Appledore Towers,
      Hampstead.
      _Agent_.

      “Who is he?” I asked.

      “The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and
      stretched his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of
      the card?”

      I turned it over.

      “Will call at 6:30—C.A.M.,” I read.

      “Hum! He’s about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking
      sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo,
      and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their
      deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that’s how
      Milverton impresses me. I’ve had to do with fifty murderers in my
      career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion which I
      have for this fellow. And yet I can’t get out of doing business
      with him—indeed, he is here at my invitation.”

      “But who is he?”

      “I’ll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
      Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and
      reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face
      and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until he has
      drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would
      have made his mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as
      follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay very
      high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth and
      position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous
      valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have
      gained the confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals
      with no niggard hand. I happen to know that he paid seven hundred
      pounds to a footman for a note two lines in length, and that the
      ruin of a noble family was the result. Everything which is in the
      market goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in this great
      city who turn white at his name. No one knows where his grip may
      fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to work from
      hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in order to
      play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning. I
      have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you
      how could one compare the ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his
      mate, with this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures
      the soul and wrings the nerves in order to add to his already
      swollen money-bags?”

      I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of
      feeling.

      “But surely,” said I, “the fellow must be within the grasp of the
      law?”

      “Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit
      a woman, for example, to get him a few months’ imprisonment if
      her own ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit
      back. If ever he blackmailed an innocent person, then indeed we
      should have him, but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no, we
      must find other ways to fight him.”

      “And why is he here?”

      “Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my
      hands. It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful
      _débutante_ of last season. She is to be married in a fortnight
      to the Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent
      letters—imprudent, Watson, nothing worse—which were written to an
      impecunious young squire in the country. They would suffice to
      break off the match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl
      unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commissioned
      to meet him, and—to make the best terms I can.”

      At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street
      below. Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the
      brilliant lamps gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble
      chestnuts. A footman opened the door, and a small, stout man in a
      shaggy astrakhan overcoat descended. A minute later he was in the
      room.

      Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
      intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual
      frozen smile, and two keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from
      behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr.
      Pickwick’s benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the
      insincerity of the fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those
      restless and penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave
      as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand
      extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his first
      visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at him
      with a face of granite. Milverton’s smile broadened, he shrugged
      his shoulders removed his overcoat, folded it with great
      deliberation over the back of a chair, and then took a seat.

      “This gentleman?” said he, with a wave in my direction. “Is it
      discreet? Is it right?”

      “Dr. Watson is my friend and partner.”

      “Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client’s interests
      that I protested. The matter is so very delicate——”

      “Dr. Watson has already heard of it.”

      “Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for
      Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?”

      “What are your terms?”

      “Seven thousand pounds.”

      “And the alternative?”

      “My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the
      money is not paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no
      marriage on the 18th.” His insufferable smile was more complacent
      than ever.

      Holmes thought for a little.

      “You appear to me,” he said, at last, “to be taking matters too
      much for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of
      these letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I
      shall counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and
      to trust to his generosity.”

      Milverton chuckled.

      “You evidently do not know the Earl,” said he.

      From the baffled look upon Holmes’s face, I could see clearly
      that he did.

      “What harm is there in the letters?” he asked.

      “They are sprightly—very sprightly,” Milverton answered. “The
      lady was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the
      Earl of Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since
      you think otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a
      matter of business. If you think that it is in the best interests
      of your client that these letters should be placed in the hands
      of the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay so large a
      sum of money to regain them.” He rose and seized his astrakhan
      coat.

      Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

      “Wait a little,” he said. “You go too fast. We should certainly
      make every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter.”

      Milverton relapsed into his chair.

      “I was sure that you would see it in that light,” he purred.

      “At the same time,” Holmes continued, “Lady Eva is not a wealthy
      woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain
      upon her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond
      her power. I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your demands,
      and that you will return the letters at the price I indicate,
      which is, I assure you, the highest that you can get.”

      Milverton’s smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

      “I am aware that what you say is true about the lady’s
      resources,” said he. “At the same time you must admit that the
      occasion of a lady’s marriage is a very suitable time for her
      friends and relatives to make some little effort upon her behalf.
      They may hesitate as to an acceptable wedding present. Let me
      assure them that this little bundle of letters would give more
      joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London.”

      “It is impossible,” said Holmes.

      “Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!” cried Milverton, taking out
      a bulky pocketbook. “I cannot help thinking that ladies are
      ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!” He held up a
      little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. “That belongs
      to—well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until
      to-morrow morning. But at that time it will be in the hands of
      the lady’s husband. And all because she will not find a beggarly
      sum which she could get by turning her diamonds into paste. It
      _is_ such a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of the
      engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking?
      Only two days before the wedding, there was a paragraph in the
      _Morning Post_ to say that it was all off. And why? It is almost
      incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds would
      have settled the whole question. Is it not pitiful? And here I
      find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms, when your
      client’s future and honour are at stake. You surprise me, Mr.
      Holmes.”

      “What I say is true,” Holmes answered. “The money cannot be
      found. Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum
      which I offer than to ruin this woman’s career, which can profit
      you in no way?”

      “There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit
      me indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten
      similar cases maturing. If it was circulated among them that I
      had made a severe example of the Lady Eva, I should find all of
      them much more open to reason. You see my point?”

      Holmes sprang from his chair.

      “Get behind him, Watson! Don’t let him out! Now, sir, let us see
      the contents of that notebook.”

      Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room
      and stood with his back against the wall.

      “Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” he said, turning the front of his coat
      and exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from
      the inside pocket. “I have been expecting you to do something
      original. This has been done so often, and what good has ever
      come from it? I assure you that I am armed to the teeth, and I am
      perfectly prepared to use my weapons, knowing that the law will
      support me. Besides, your supposition that I would bring the
      letters here in a notebook is entirely mistaken. I would do
      nothing so foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or two little
      interviews this evening, and it is a long drive to Hampstead.” He
      stepped forward, took up his coat, laid his hand on his revolver,
      and turned to the door. I picked up a chair, but Holmes shook his
      head, and I laid it down again. With bow, a smile, and a twinkle,
      Milverton was out of the room, and a few moments after we heard
      the slam of the carriage door and the rattle of the wheels as he
      drove away.

      Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his
      trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed
      upon the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and
      still. Then, with the gesture of a man who has taken his
      decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into his bedroom. A
      little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a
      swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the
      street. “I’ll be back some time, Watson,” said he, and vanished
      into the night. I understood that he had opened his campaign
      against Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed the
      strange shape which that campaign was destined to take.

      For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire,
      but beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and
      that it was not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At
      last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind
      screamed and rattled against the windows, he returned from his
      last expedition, and having removed his disguise he sat before
      the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward fashion.

      “You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”

      “No, indeed!”

      “You’ll be interested to hear that I’m engaged.”

      “My dear fellow! I congrat——”

      “To Milverton’s housemaid.”

      “Good heavens, Holmes!”

      “I wanted information, Watson.”

      “Surely you have gone too far?”

      “It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising
      business, Escott, by name. I have walked out with her each
      evening, and I have talked with her. Good heavens, those talks!
      However, I have got all I wanted. I know Milverton’s house as I
      know the palm of my hand.”

      “But the girl, Holmes?”

      He shrugged his shoulders.

      “You can’t help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as
      best you can when such a stake is on the table. However, I
      rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut
      me out the instant that my back is turned. What a splendid night
      it is!”

      “You like this weather?”

      “It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton’s house
      to-night.”

      I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the
      words, which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated
      resolution. As a flash of lightning in the night shows up in an
      instant every detail of a wild landscape, so at one glance I
      seemed to see every possible result of such an action—the
      detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in irreparable
      failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at the mercy of the
      odious Milverton.

      “For heaven’s sake, Holmes, think what you are doing,” I cried.

      “My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never
      precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and,
      indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were possible. Let us
      look at the matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will
      admit that the action is morally justifiable, though technically
      criminal. To burgle his house is no more than to forcibly take
      his pocketbook—an action in which you were prepared to aid me.”

      I turned it over in my mind.

      “Yes,” I said, “it is morally justifiable so long as our object
      is to take no articles save those which are used for an illegal
      purpose.”

      “Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to
      consider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should
      not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most desperate
      need of his help?”

      “You will be in such a false position.”

      “Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way
      of regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the
      money, and there are none of her people in whom she could
      confide. To-morrow is the last day of grace, and unless we can
      get the letters to-night, this villain will be as good as his
      word and will bring about her ruin. I must, therefore, abandon my
      client to her fate or I must play this last card. Between
      ourselves, Watson, it’s a sporting duel between this fellow
      Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first
      exchanges, but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned to
      fight it to a finish.”

      “Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When
      do we start?”

      “You are not coming.”

      “Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of
      honour—and I never broke it in my life—that I will take a cab
      straight to the police-station and give you away, unless you let
      me share this adventure with you.”

      “You can’t help me.”

      “How do you know that? You can’t tell what may happen. Anyway, my
      resolution is taken. Other people besides you have self-respect,
      and even reputations.”

      Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped
      me on the shoulder.

      “Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this same
      room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by
      sharing the same cell. You know, Watson, I don’t mind confessing
      to you that I have always had an idea that I would have made a
      highly efficient criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in
      that direction. See here!” He took a neat little leather case out
      of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of shining
      instruments. “This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit,
      with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable
      keys, and every modern improvement which the march of
      civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything
      is in order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?”

      “I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.”

      “Excellent! And a mask?”

      “I can make a couple out of black silk.”

      “I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of
      thing. Very good, do you make the masks. We shall have some cold
      supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall
      drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour’s walk
      from there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work before
      midnight. Milverton is a heavy sleeper, and retires punctually at
      ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here by two, with the
      Lady Eva’s letters in my pocket.”

      Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to
      be two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked
      up a hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid
      off our cab, and with our great coats buttoned up, for it was
      bitterly cold, and the wind seemed to blow through us, we walked
      along the edge of the heath.

      “It’s a business that needs delicate treatment,” said Holmes.
      “These documents are contained in a safe in the fellow’s study,
      and the study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other
      hand, like all these stout, little men who do themselves well, he
      is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha—that’s my _fiancée_—says it is a
      joke in the servants’ hall that it’s impossible to wake the
      master. He has a secretary who is devoted to his interests, and
      never budges from the study all day. That’s why we are going at
      night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I met
      Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so
      as to give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its
      own grounds. Through the gate—now to the right among the laurels.
      We might put on our masks here, I think. You see, there is not a
      glimmer of light in any of the windows, and everything is working
      splendidly.”

      With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of
      the most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent,
      gloomy house. A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of
      it, lined by several windows and two doors.

      “That’s his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door opens straight
      into the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well
      as locked, and we should make too much noise getting in. Come
      round here. There’s a greenhouse which opens into the
      drawing-room.”

      The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and
      turned the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had
      closed the door behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes
      of the law. The thick, warm air of the conservatory and the rich,
      choking fragrance of exotic plants took us by the throat. He
      seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past banks of
      shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes had remarkable
      powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still
      holding my hand in one of his, he opened a door, and I was
      vaguely conscious that we had entered a large room in which a
      cigar had been smoked not long before. He felt his way among the
      furniture, opened another door, and closed it behind us. Putting
      out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the wall, and I
      understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it and Holmes
      very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side. Something
      rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I could
      have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was
      burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with
      tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow,
      and then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton’s
      study, and a _portière_ at the farther side showed the entrance
      to his bedroom.

      It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the
      door I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was
      unnecessary, even if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side
      of the fireplace was a heavy curtain which covered the bay window
      we had seen from outside. On the other side was the door which
      communicated with the veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a
      turning-chair of shining red leather. Opposite was a large
      bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In the corner,
      between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall, green
      safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass knobs
      upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then he
      crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting head
      listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had
      struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the
      outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement, it was neither
      locked nor bolted. I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his
      masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was
      evidently as surprised as I.

      “I don’t like it,” he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear.
      “I can’t quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.”

      “Can I do anything?”

      “Yes, stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the
      inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the other
      way, we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide
      behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?”

      I nodded, and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had
      passed away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had
      ever enjoyed when we were the defenders of the law instead of its
      defiers. The high object of our mission, the consciousness that
      it was unselfish and chivalrous, the villainous character of our
      opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the adventure.
      Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our dangers.
      With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case of
      instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific
      accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I knew
      that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I
      understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this
      green and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the
      reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his
      dress-coat—he had placed his overcoat on a chair—Holmes laid out
      two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the
      centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready
      for any emergency, though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague
      as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour,
      Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool,
      picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy
      of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green
      door swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper
      packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out,
      but it was as hard to read by the flickering fire, and he drew
      out his little dark lantern, for it was too dangerous, with
      Milverton in the next room, to switch on the electric light.
      Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and then in an instant
      he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed
      his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window curtain,
      motioning me to do the same.

      It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had
      alarmed his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within
      the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull
      murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps
      rapidly approaching. They were in the passage outside the room.
      They paused at the door. The door opened. There was a sharp snick
      as the electric light was turned on. The door closed once more,
      and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our nostrils.
      Then the footsteps continued backward and forward, backward and
      forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there was a creak from
      a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock,
      and I heard the rustle of papers.

      So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
      division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From
      the pressure of Holmes’s shoulder against mine, I knew that he
      was sharing my observations. Right in front of us, and almost
      within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It
      was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his movements,
      that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been
      sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing
      of the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His broad,
      grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
      immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in
      the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black cigar
      projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military
      smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In
      his hand he held a long, legal document which he was reading in
      an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips
      as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his
      composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.

      I felt Holmes’s hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring
      shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers, and
      that he was easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen
      what was only too obvious from my position, that the door of the
      safe was imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any
      moment observe it. In my own mind I had determined that if I were
      sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye,
      I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over his head,
      pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never
      looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his hand,
      and page after page was turned as he followed the argument of the
      lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the document
      and the cigar he will go to his room, but before he had reached
      the end of either, there came a remarkable development, which
      turned our thoughts into quite another channel.

      Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch,
      and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of
      impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an appointment
      at so strange an hour never occurred to me until a faint sound
      reached my ears from the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his
      papers and sat rigid in his chair. The sound was repeated, and
      then there came a gentle tap at the door. Milverton rose and
      opened it.

      “Well,” said he, curtly, “you are nearly half an hour late.”

      So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the
      nocturnal vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a
      woman’s dress. I had closed the slit between the curtains as
      Milverton’s face had turned in our direction, but now I ventured
      very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat, the
      cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner of
      his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric
      light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her
      face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and
      fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with
      strong emotion.

      “Well,” said Milverton, “you made me lose a good night’s rest, my
      dear. I hope you’ll prove worth it. You couldn’t come any other
      time—eh?”

      The woman shook her head.

      “Well, if you couldn’t you couldn’t. If the Countess is a hard
      mistress, you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless
      the girl, what are you shivering about? That’s right. Pull
      yourself together. Now, let us get down to business.” He took a
      notebook from the drawer of his desk. “You say that you have five
      letters which compromise the Countess d’Albert. You want to sell
      them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix
      a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course. If they
      are really good specimens—Great heavens, is it you?”

      The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the
      mantle from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face
      which confronted Milverton—a face with a curved nose, strong,
      dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight,
      thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.

      “It is I,” she said, “the woman whose life you have ruined.”

      Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. “You were so
      very obstinate,” said he. “Why did you drive me to such
      extremities? I assure you I wouldn’t hurt a fly of my own accord,
      but every man has his business, and what was I to do? I put the
      price well within your means. You would not pay.”

      “So you sent the letters to my husband, and he—the noblest
      gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy
      to lace—he broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that
      last night, when I came through that door, I begged and prayed
      you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as you are trying to
      laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your lips from
      twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here again, but it
      was that night which taught me how I could meet you face to face,
      and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?”

      “Don’t imagine that you can bully me,” said he, rising to his
      feet. “I have only to raise my voice and I could call my servants
      and have you arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural
      anger. Leave the room at once as you came, and I will say no
      more.”

      The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same
      deadly smile on her thin lips.

      “You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You will
      wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of
      a poisonous thing. Take that, you hound—and that!—and that!—and
      that!”

      She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel
      after barrel into Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of
      his shirt front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the
      table, coughing furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he
      staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the
      floor. “You’ve done me,” he cried, and lay still. The woman
      looked at him intently, and ground her heel into his upturned
      face. She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I
      heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room,
      and the avenger was gone.

      No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his
      fate, but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into
      Milverton’s shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt
      Holmes’s cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole
      argument of that firm, restraining grip—that it was no affair of
      ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we had our own
      duties and our own objects, which were not to be lost sight of.
      But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when Holmes, with
      swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He turned the
      key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices in the house
      and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots had roused the
      household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the
      safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured
      them all into the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe
      was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon the outside of
      the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter which had been
      the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled with his
      blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing
      papers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, passed through
      after me, and locked it on the outside. “This way, Watson,” said
      he, “we can scale the garden wall in this direction.”

      I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so
      swiftly. Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The
      front door was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The
      whole garden was alive with people, and one fellow raised a
      view-halloa as we emerged from the veranda and followed hard at
      our heels. Holmes seemed to know the grounds perfectly, and he
      threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small trees, I
      close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting behind us.
      It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang to
      the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man
      behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free and
      scrambled over a grass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among
      some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant, and
      together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead
      Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last
      halted and listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us.
      We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

      We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day
      after the remarkable experience which I have recorded, when Mr.
      Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was
      ushered into our modest sitting-room.

      “Good-morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “good-morning. May I ask if
      you are very busy just now?”

      “Not too busy to listen to you.”

      “I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand,
      you might care to assist us in a most remarkable case, which
      occurred only last night at Hampstead.”

      “Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”

      “A murder—a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen
      you are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour
      if you would step down to Appledore Towers, and give us the
      benefit of your advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our
      eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for some time, and, between
      ourselves, he was a bit of a villain. He is known to have held
      papers which he used for blackmailing purposes. These papers have
      all been burned by the murderers. No article of value was taken,
      as it is probable that the criminals were men of good position,
      whose sole object was to prevent social exposure.”

      “Criminals?” said Holmes. “Plural?”

      “Yes, there were two of them. They were as nearly as possible
      captured red-handed. We have their footmarks, we have their
      description, it’s ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow
      was a bit too active, but the second was caught by the
      under-gardener, and only got away after a struggle. He was a
      middle-sized, strongly built man—square jaw, thick neck,
      moustache, a mask over his eyes.”

      “That’s rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes. “My, it might be a
      description of Watson!”

      “It’s true,” said the inspector, with amusement. “It might be a
      description of Watson.”

      “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “The
      fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him
      one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there
      are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which
      therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no
      use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the
      criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this
      case.”

      Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had
      witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most
      thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant
      eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to
      recall something to his memory. We were in the middle of our
      lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his feet. “By Jove, Watson,
      I’ve got it!” he cried. “Take your hat! Come with me!” He hurried
      at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until
      we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here, on the left hand,
      there stands a shop window filled with photographs of the
      celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes’s eyes fixed
      themselves upon one of them, and following his gaze I saw the
      picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a high
      diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that delicately
      curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and
      the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath as I
      read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman
      whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put
      his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS

      It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,
      to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to
      Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all
      that was going on at the police headquarters. In return for the
      news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to
      listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the
      detective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without any
      active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from
      his own vast knowledge and experience.

      On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather
      and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing
      thoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

      “Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.

      “Oh, no, Mr. Holmes—nothing very particular.”

      “Then tell me about it.”

      Lestrade laughed.

      “Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there _is_
      something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business, that
      I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand, although
      it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have
      a taste for all that is out of the common. But, in my opinion, it
      comes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.”

      “Disease?” said I.

      “Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn’t think
      there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred
      of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that
      he could see.”

      Holmes sank back in his chair.

      “That’s no business of mine,” said he.

      “Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commits
      burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that
      brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman.”

      Holmes sat up again.

      “Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”

      Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory
      from its pages.

      “The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at
      the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of
      pictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had
      left the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and
      hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with
      several other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered into
      fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although several
      passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of the
      shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any means of
      identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless
      acts of hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was
      reported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast
      was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair
      appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation.

      “The second case, however, was more serious, and also more
      singular. It occurred only last night.

      “In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse
      Hudson’s shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner,
      named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon the
      south side of the Thames. His residence and principal
      consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branch
      surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away.
      This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his
      house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French
      Emperor. Some little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two
      duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the
      French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his hall in
      the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece of
      the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came down
      this morning he was astonished to find that his house had been
      burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save
      the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had
      been dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its
      splintered fragments were discovered.”

      Holmes rubbed his hands.

      “This is certainly very novel,” said he.

      “I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end
      yet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and
      you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found
      that the window had been opened in the night and that the broken
      pieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had
      been smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case were there
      any signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or
      lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got
      the facts.”

      “They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I
      ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms were
      the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse
      Hudson’s shop?”

      “They were taken from the same mould.”

      “Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks
      them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering
      how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in
      London, it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a
      promiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin upon three
      specimens of the same bust.”

      “Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand,
      this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of
      London, and these three were the only ones which had been in his
      shop for years. So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds
      of statues in London, it is very probable that these three were
      the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would
      begin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?”

      “There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I
      answered. “There is the condition which the modern French
      psychologists have called the _idée fixe_, which may be trifling
      in character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every other
      way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who had
      possibly received some hereditary family injury through the great
      war, might conceivably form such an _idée fixe_ and under its
      influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”

      “That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head,
      “for no amount of _idée fixe_ would enable your interesting
      monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated.”

      “Well, how do _you_ explain it?”

      “I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a
      certain method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. For
      example, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the
      family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas
      in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was
      smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and
      yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my
      most classic cases have had the least promising commencement. You
      will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty
      family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the
      parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford,
      therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I
      shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any
      fresh development of so singular a chain of events.”

      The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker
      and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I
      was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a
      tap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He
      read it aloud:

      “Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.—LESTRADE.”

      “What is it, then?” I asked.

      “Don’t know—may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of
      the story of the statues. In that case our friend the
      image-breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London.
      There’s coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the
      door.”

      In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little
      backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London
      life. No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable,
      and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the
      railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes
      whistled.

      “By George! It’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will
      hold the London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicated
      in that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’s
      this, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry.
      Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well, there’s Lestrade at the
      front window, and we shall soon know all about it.”

      The official received us with a very grave face and showed us
      into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated
      elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and
      down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house—Mr.
      Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.

      “It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You
      seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps
      you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a
      very much graver turn.”

      “What has it turned to, then?”

      “To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly
      what has occurred?”

      The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most
      melancholy face.

      “It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have
      been collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece of
      news has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I
      can’t put two words together. If I had come in here as a
      journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two columns
      in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving away valuable copy
      by telling my story over and over to a string of different
      people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I’ve heard
      your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll only explain this
      queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the
      story.”

      Holmes sat down and listened.

      “It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I
      bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up
      cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street
      Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night,
      and I often write until the early morning. So it was to-day. I
      was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the
      house, about three o’clock, when I was convinced that I heard
      some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,
      and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about
      five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell—the most
      dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my
      ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or
      two. Then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I entered
      this room I found the window wide open, and I at once observed
      that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any burglar
      should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was only
      a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

      “You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open
      window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride.
      This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and
      opened the door. Stepping out into the dark, I nearly fell over a
      dead man, who was lying there. I ran back for a light and there
      was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole
      place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up,
      and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had
      just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have
      fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman
      standing over me in the hall.”

      “Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

      “There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall
      see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up
      to now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than
      thirty. He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a
      labourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood
      beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or
      whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was no
      name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple,
      some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here it
      is.”

      It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It
      represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick
      eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the
      face, like the muzzle of a baboon.

      “And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful
      study of this picture.

      “We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the
      front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was
      broken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you
      come?”

      “Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the
      carpet and the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or
      was a most active man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no
      mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window.
      Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to
      see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”

      The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a
      writing-table.

      “I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no
      doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out
      already with full details. It’s like my luck! You remember when
      the stand fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in
      the stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of it,
      for I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll be too late with a
      murder done on my own doorstep.”

      As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
      foolscap.

      The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only
      a few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon
      this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such
      frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay
      scattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked up
      several of them and examined them carefully. I was convinced,
      from his intent face and his purposeful manner, that at last he
      was upon a clue.

      “Well?” asked Lestrade.

      Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

      “We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet—and yet—well,
      we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this
      trifling bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strange
      criminal, than a human life. That is one point. Then there is the
      singular fact that he did not break it in the house, or
      immediately outside the house, if to break it was his sole
      object.”

      “He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He
      hardly knew what he was doing.”

      “Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention
      very particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of
      which the bust was destroyed.”

      Lestrade looked about him.

      “It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be
      disturbed in the garden.”

      “Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street
      which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he
      not break it there, since it is evident that every yard that he
      carried it increased the risk of someone meeting him?”

      “I give it up,” said Lestrade.

      Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

      “He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there.
      That was his reason.”

      “By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to
      think of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red
      lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”

      “To remember it—to docket it. We may come on something later
      which will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now,
      Lestrade?”

      “The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
      identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that.
      When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we
      should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt
      Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on
      the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t you think so?”

      “No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should
      approach the case.”

      “What would you do then?”

      “Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that
      you go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes
      afterwards, and each will supplement the other.”

      “Very good,” said Lestrade.

      “If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace
      Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and
      that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with
      Napoleonic delusions, was in his house last night. It will be
      useful for his article.”

      Lestrade stared.

      “You don’t seriously believe that?”

      Holmes smiled.

      “Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will
      interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central
      Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we
      have a long and rather complex day’s work before us. I should be
      glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at
      Baker Street at six o’clock this evening. Until then I should
      like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man’s pocket. It
      is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance
      upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken to-night,
      if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then
      good-bye and good luck!”

      Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where
      we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had
      been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding
      would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a
      newcomer, who could give us no information. Holmes’s face showed
      his disappointment and annoyance.

      “Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,”
      he said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr.
      Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt
      surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in
      order to find if there is not something peculiar which may
      account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse
      Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any light
      upon the problem.”

      A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s
      establishment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and a
      peppery manner.

      “Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates
      and taxes for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and
      break one’s goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his
      two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot—that’s what I make
      it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red
      republicans—that’s what I call ’em. Who did I get the statues
      from? I don’t see what that has to do with it. Well, if you
      really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in Church
      Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade, and
      have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three—two and one
      are three—two of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broad
      daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I
      don’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind of
      Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He
      could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The
      fellow left me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since.
      No, I don’t know where he came from nor where he went to. I had
      nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two days
      before the bust was smashed.”

      “Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,”
      said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as
      a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is
      worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder &
      Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts. I shall be
      surprised if we don’t get some help down there.”

      In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable
      London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London,
      commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to
      a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement
      houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a
      broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City merchants, we
      found the sculpture works for which we searched. Outside was a
      considerable yard full of monumental masonry. Inside was a large
      room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding. The
      manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear
      answer to all Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showed
      that hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of
      Devine’s head of Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent
      to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been half of a batch of
      six, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, of
      Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different
      from any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause
      why anyone should wish to destroy them—in fact, he laughed at the
      idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer
      would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from
      each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of
      Paris were joined together to make the complete bust. The work
      was usually done by Italians, in the room we were in. When
      finished, the busts were put on a table in the passage to dry,
      and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us.

      But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon
      the manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted
      over his blue Teutonic eyes.

      “Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well.
      This has always been a respectable establishment, and the only
      time that we have ever had the police in it was over this very
      fellow. It was more than a year ago now. He knifed another
      Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the
      police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was his
      name—his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a
      man with such a face. But he was a good workman—one of the best.”

      “What did he get?”

      “The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is
      out now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a
      cousin of his here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is.”

      “No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin—not a word, I
      beg of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go
      with it, the more important it seems to grow. When you referred
      in your ledger to the sale of those casts I observed that the
      date was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date when
      Beppo was arrested?”

      “I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered.
      “Yes,” he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was
      paid last on May 20th.”

      “Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon
      your time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution
      that he should say nothing as to our researches, we turned our
      faces westward once more.

      The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a
      hasty luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance
      announced “Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the
      contents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his
      account into print after all. Two columns were occupied with a
      highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident.
      Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he
      ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

      “This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:

      “It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of
      opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most
      experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock
      Holmes, the well-known consulting expert, have each come to the
      conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which have
      ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from
      deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration can cover
      the facts.

      “The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only
      know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will
      hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding
      Brothers has to say on the matter.”

      The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp
      little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a
      ready tongue.

      “Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers.
      Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the
      bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from
      Gelder & Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I
      daresay by consulting our sales book we could very easily tell
      you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr. Harker you see,
      and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale,
      Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading.
      No, I have never seen this face which you show me in the
      photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir, for I’ve
      seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes,
      sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay
      they might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There
      is no particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well,
      well, it’s a very strange business, and I hope that you will let
      me know if anything comes of your inquiries.”

      Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and
      I could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which
      affairs were taking. He made no remark, however, save that,
      unless we hurried, we should be late for our appointment with
      Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the detective
      was already there, and we found him pacing up and down in a fever
      of impatience. His look of importance showed that his day’s work
      had not been in vain.

      “Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”

      “We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my
      friend explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the
      wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from
      the beginning.”

      “The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own
      methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word
      against them, but I think I have done a better day’s work than
      you. I have identified the dead man.”

      “You don’t say so?”

      “And found a cause for the crime.”

      “Splendid!”

      “We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and
      the Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem
      round his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he
      was from the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught
      sight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is
      one of the greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with
      the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society,
      enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the affair
      begins to clear up. The other fellow is probably an Italian also,
      and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the rules in some
      fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the photograph we
      found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knife
      the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house,
      he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own
      death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

      Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

      “Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite
      follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”

      “The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After
      all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It
      is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you
      that I am gathering all the threads into my hands.”

      “And the next stage?”

      “Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian
      Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest
      him on the charge of murder. Will you come with us?”

      “I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I
      can’t say for certain, because it all depends—well, it all
      depends upon a factor which is completely outside our control.
      But I have great hopes—in fact, the betting is exactly two to
      one—that if you will come with us to-night I shall be able to
      help you to lay him by the heels.”

      “In the Italian Quarter?”

      “No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find
      him. If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade,
      I’ll promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and
      no harm will be done by the delay. And now I think that a few
      hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I do not propose to leave
      before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back
      before morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are
      welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the
      meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an
      express messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is
      important that it should go at once.”

      Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old
      daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When
      at last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he
      said nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches.
      For my own part, I had followed step by step the methods by which
      he had traced the various windings of this complex case, and,
      though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I
      understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal
      to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of which, I
      remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our journey
      was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the
      cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the
      evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could
      continue his scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when
      Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with me. He had
      himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which was his
      favourite weapon.

      A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a
      spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was
      directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road
      fringed with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds.
      In the light of a street lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the
      gate-post of one of them. The occupants had evidently retired to
      rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the hall door,
      which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path. The
      wooden fence which separated the grounds from the road threw a
      dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was that we
      crouched.

      “I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may
      thank our stars that it is not raining. I don’t think we can even
      venture to smoke to pass the time. However, it’s a two to one
      chance that we get something to pay us for our trouble.”

      It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as
      Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and
      singular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn
      us of his coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark
      figure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path.
      We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the door and
      disappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a long
      pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very gentle
      creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The
      noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was
      making his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark
      lantern inside the room. What he sought was evidently not there,
      for again we saw the flash through another blind, and then
      through another.

      “Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs
      out,” Lestrade whispered.

      But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he came
      out into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried
      something white under his arm. He looked stealthily all round
      him. The silence of the deserted street reassured him. Turning
      his back upon us he laid down his burden, and the next instant
      there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and
      rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing that he
      never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With the
      bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later
      Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs had
      been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow
      face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I
      knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we had
      secured.

      But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his
      attention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most
      carefully examining that which the man had brought from the
      house. It was a bust of Napoleon, like the one which we had seen
      that morning, and it had been broken into similar fragments.
      Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in no
      way did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He
      had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew up,
      the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund
      figure in shirt and trousers, presented himself.

      “Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.

      “Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the
      note which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly
      what you told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited
      developments. Well, I’m very glad to see that you have got the
      rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and have some
      refreshment.”

      However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters,
      so within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all
      four upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say,
      but he glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once,
      when my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a
      hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the police-station to learn
      that a search of his clothing revealed nothing save a few
      shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of which bore
      copious traces of recent blood.

      “That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all
      these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that my
      theory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I’m sure I am
      exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way
      in which you laid hands upon him. I don’t quite understand it all
      yet.”

      “I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said
      Holmes. “Besides, there are one or two details which are not
      finished off, and it is one of those cases which are worth
      working out to the very end. If you will come round once more to
      my rooms at six o’clock to-morrow, I think I shall be able to
      show you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning of
      this business, which presents some features which make it
      absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you
      to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee
      that you will enliven your pages by an account of the singular
      adventure of the Napoleonic busts.”

      When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much
      information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was
      Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-well
      among the Italian colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and
      had earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses and
      had twice already been in jail—once for a petty theft, and once,
      as we had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He
      could talk English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the
      busts were still unknown, and he refused to answer any questions
      upon the subject, but the police had discovered that these same
      busts might very well have been made by his own hands, since he
      was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of Gelder
      & Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew,
      Holmes listened with polite attention, but I, who knew him so
      well, could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I
      detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath
      that mask which he was wont to assume. At last he started in his
      chair, and his eyes brightened. There had been a ring at the
      bell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an
      elderly red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in.
      In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which
      he placed upon the table.

      “Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”

      My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I
      suppose?” said he.

      “Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were
      awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”

      “Exactly.”

      “I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy
      of Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for
      the one which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”

      “Certainly.”

      “I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not
      imagine how you knew that I owned such a thing.”

      “Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is
      very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had
      sold you their last copy, and he gave me your address.”

      “Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”

      “No, he did not.”

      “Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only
      gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to
      know that before I take ten pounds from you.

      “I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have
      named that price, so I intend to stick to it.”

      “Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust
      up with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his
      bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen
      of that bust which we had already seen more than once in
      fragments.

      Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note
      upon the table.

      “You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence
      of these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every
      possible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a
      methodical man, you see, and you never know what turn events
      might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your
      money, and I wish you a very good evening.”

      When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes’s movements
      were such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean
      white cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he
      placed his newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth.
      Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a
      sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke into
      fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains.
      Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one
      splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in
      a pudding.

      “Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black
      pearl of the Borgias.”

      Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a
      spontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the
      well-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang to
      Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master
      dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was at such
      moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine,
      and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same
      singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with
      disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its
      depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

      “Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now
      existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a
      connected chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the
      Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was
      lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of
      Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You
      will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
      disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the
      London police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the
      case, but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell
      upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it was
      proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to trace
      any connection between them. The maid’s name was Lucretia
      Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who
      was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking
      up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
      disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest
      of Beppo, for some crime of violence—an event which took place in
      the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts
      were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events,
      though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way
      in which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in
      his possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have
      been Pietro’s confederate, he may have been the go-between of
      Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the
      correct solution.

      “The main fact is that he _had_ the pearl, and at that moment,
      when it was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made
      for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only
      a few minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize,
      which would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six
      plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them
      was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a
      small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a
      few touches covered over the aperture once more. It was an
      admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo
      was condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his
      six busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which
      contained his treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even
      shaking would tell him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was
      probable that the pearl would adhere to it—as, in fact, it has
      done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his search with
      considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin who
      works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had bought
      the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and
      in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.
      Then, with the help of some Italian employee, he succeeded in
      finding out where the other three busts had gone. The first was
      at Harker’s. There he was dogged by his confederate, who held
      Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him
      in the scuffle which followed.”

      “If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?”
      I asked.

      “As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him
      from any third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after
      the murder I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather
      than delay his movements. He would fear that the police would
      read his secret, and so he hastened on before they should get
      ahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not found
      the pearl in Harker’s bust. I had not even concluded for certain
      that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that he was
      looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other
      houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp
      overlooking it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three, the chances
      were exactly as I told you—two to one against the pearl being
      inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he
      would go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of the
      house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down, with
      the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain
      that it was the Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the
      murdered man linked the one event with the other. There only
      remained a single bust—the Reading one—and the pearl must be
      there. I bought it in your presence from the owner—and there it
      lies.”

      We sat in silence for a moment.

      “Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases,
      Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike
      one than that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No,
      sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow,
      there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest
      constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.”

      “Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, it
      seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
      emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold
      and practical thinker once more. “Put the pearl in the safe,
      Watson,” said he, “and get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton
      forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes
      your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two
      as to its solution.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS

      It was in the year ’95 that a combination of events, into which I
      need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend
      some weeks in one of our great university towns, and it was
      during this time that the small but instructive adventure which I
      am about to relate befell us. It will be obvious that any details
      which would help the reader exactly to identify the college or
      the criminal would be injudicious and offensive. So painful a
      scandal may well be allowed to die out. With due discretion the
      incident itself may, however, be described, since it serves to
      illustrate some of those qualities for which my friend was
      remarkable. I will endeavour, in my statement, to avoid such
      terms as would serve to limit the events to any particular place,
      or give a clue as to the people concerned.

      We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a
      library where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious
      researches in early English charters—researches which led to
      results so striking that they may be the subject of one of my
      future narratives. Here it was that one evening we received a
      visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor and lecturer
      at the College of St. Luke’s. Mr. Soames was a tall, spare man,
      of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always known him to
      be restless in his manner, but on this particular occasion he was
      in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it was clear
      something very unusual had occurred.

      “I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your
      valuable time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke’s,
      and really, but for the happy chance of your being in town, I
      should have been at a loss what to do.”

      “I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions,” my
      friend answered. “I should much prefer that you called in the aid
      of the police.”

      “No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When
      once the law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is
      just one of those cases where, for the credit of the college, it
      is most essential to avoid scandal. Your discretion is as
      well-known as your powers, and you are the one man in the world
      who can help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can.”

      My friend’s temper had not improved since he had been deprived of
      the congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his
      scrapbooks, his chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an
      uncomfortable man. He shrugged his shoulders in ungracious
      acquiescence, while our visitor in hurried words and with much
      excitable gesticulation poured forth his story.

      “I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first
      day of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of
      the examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers
      consists of a large passage of Greek translation which the
      candidate has not seen. This passage is printed on the
      examination paper, and it would naturally be an immense advantage
      if the candidate could prepare it in advance. For this reason,
      great care is taken to keep the paper secret.

      “To-day, about three o’clock, the proofs of this paper arrived
      from the printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of
      Thucydides. I had to read it over carefully, as the text must be
      absolutely correct. At four-thirty my task was not yet completed.
      I had, however, promised to take tea in a friend’s rooms, so I
      left the proof upon my desk. I was absent rather more than an
      hour.

      “You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double—a
      green baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I
      approached my outer door, I was amazed to see a key in it. For an
      instant I imagined that I had left my own there, but on feeling
      in my pocket I found that it was all right. The only duplicate
      which existed, so far as I knew, was that which belonged to my
      servant, Bannister—a man who has looked after my room for ten
      years, and whose honesty is absolutely above suspicion. I found
      that the key was indeed his, that he had entered my room to know
      if I wanted tea, and that he had very carelessly left the key in
      the door when he came out. His visit to my room must have been
      within a very few minutes of my leaving it. His forgetfulness
      about the key would have mattered little upon any other occasion,
      but on this one day it has produced the most deplorable
      consequences.

      “The moment I looked at my table, I was aware that someone had
      rummaged among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I
      had left them all together. Now, I found that one of them was
      lying on the floor, one was on the side table near the window,
      and the third was where I had left it.”

      Holmes stirred for the first time.

      “The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third
      where you left it,” said he.

      “Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know
      that?”

      “Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

      “For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the
      unpardonable liberty of examining my papers. He denied it,
      however, with the utmost earnestness, and I am convinced that he
      was speaking the truth. The alternative was that someone passing
      had observed the key in the door, had known that I was out, and
      had entered to look at the papers. A large sum of money is at
      stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one, and an
      unscrupulous man might very well run a risk in order to gain an
      advantage over his fellows.

      “Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly
      fainted when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been
      tampered with. I gave him a little brandy and left him collapsed
      in a chair, while I made a most careful examination of the room.
      I soon saw that the intruder had left other traces of his
      presence besides the rumpled papers. On the table in the window
      were several shreds from a pencil which had been sharpened. A
      broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the rascal had
      copied the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil, and had
      been compelled to put a fresh point to it.”

      “Excellent!” said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as
      his attention became more engrossed by the case. “Fortune has
      been your friend.”

      “This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface
      of red leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that
      it was smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about
      three inches long—not a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not
      only this, but on the table I found a small ball of black dough
      or clay, with specks of something which looks like sawdust in it.
      I am convinced that these marks were left by the man who rifled
      the papers. There were no footmarks and no other evidence as to
      his identity. I was at my wits’ end, when suddenly the happy
      thought occurred to me that you were in the town, and I came
      straight round to put the matter into your hands. Do help me, Mr.
      Holmes. You see my dilemma. Either I must find the man or else
      the examination must be postponed until fresh papers are
      prepared, and since this cannot be done without explanation,
      there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a cloud not
      only on the college, but on the university. Above all things, I
      desire to settle the matter quietly and discreetly.”

      “I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as
      I can,” said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. “The
      case is not entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you
      in your room after the papers came to you?”

      “Yes, young Daulat Ras, an Indian student, who lives on the same
      stair, came in to ask me some particulars about the examination.”

      “For which he was entered?”

      “Yes.”

      “And the papers were on your table?”

      “To the best of my belief, they were rolled up.”

      “But might be recognized as proofs?”

      “Possibly.”

      “No one else in your room?”

      “No.”

      “Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?”

      “No one save the printer.”

      “Did this man Bannister know?”

      “No, certainly not. No one knew.”

      “Where is Bannister now?”

      “He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair.
      I was in such a hurry to come to you.”

      “You left your door open?”

      “I locked up the papers first.”

      “Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames: that, unless the Indian
      student recognized the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered
      with them came upon them accidentally without knowing that they
      were there.”

      “So it seems to me.”

      Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

      “Well,” said he, “let us go round. Not one of your cases,
      Watson—mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now,
      Mr. Soames—at your disposal!”

      The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed
      window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college.
      A Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground
      floor was the tutor’s room. Above were three students, one on
      each story. It was already twilight when we reached the scene of
      our problem. Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the window.
      Then he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe with his neck
      craned, he looked into the room.

      “He must have entered through the door. There is no opening
      except the one pane,” said our learned guide.

      “Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he
      glanced at our companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be
      learned here, we had best go inside.”

      The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his
      room. We stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination
      of the carpet.

      “I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly
      hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite
      recovered. You left him in a chair, you say. Which chair?”

      “By the window there.”

      “I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have
      finished with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of
      course, what has happened is very clear. The man entered and took
      the papers, sheet by sheet, from the central table. He carried
      them over to the window table, because from there he could see if
      you came across the courtyard, and so could effect an escape.”

      “As a matter of fact, he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered
      by the side door.”

      “Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see
      the three strips. No finger impressions—no! Well, he carried over
      this one first, and he copied it. How long would it take him to
      do that, using every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour,
      not less. Then he tossed it down and seized the next. He was in
      the midst of that when your return caused him to make a very
      hurried retreat—_very_ hurried, since he had not time to replace
      the papers which would tell you that he had been there. You were
      not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as you entered the
      outer door?”

      “No, I can’t say I was.”

      “Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had,
      as you observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson.
      The pencil was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size,
      with a soft lead, the outer colour was dark blue, the maker’s
      name was printed in silver lettering, and the piece remaining is
      only about an inch and a half long. Look for such a pencil, Mr.
      Soames, and you have got your man. When I add that he possesses a
      large and very blunt knife, you have an additional aid.”

      Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information.
      “I can follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this
      matter of the length——”

      Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of
      clear wood after them.

      “You see?”

      “No, I fear that even now——”

      “Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others.
      What could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware
      that Johann Faber is the most common maker’s name. Is it not
      clear that there is just as much of the pencil left as usually
      follows the Johann?” He held the small table sideways to the
      electric light. “I was hoping that if the paper on which he wrote
      was thin, some trace of it might come through upon this polished
      surface. No, I see nothing. I don’t think there is anything more
      to be learned here. Now for the central table. This small pellet
      is, I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke of. Roughly
      pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say,
      there appear to be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this is very
      interesting. And the cut—a positive tear, I see. It began with a
      thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am much indebted to
      you for directing my attention to this case, Mr. Soames. Where
      does that door lead to?”

      “To my bedroom.”

      “Have you been in it since your adventure?”

      “No, I came straight away for you.”

      “I should like to have a glance round. What a charming,
      old-fashioned room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute, until
      I have examined the floor. No, I see nothing. What about this
      curtain? You hang your clothes behind it. If anyone were forced
      to conceal himself in this room he must do it there, since the
      bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No one there, I
      suppose?”

      As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity
      and alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an
      emergency. As a matter of fact, the drawn curtain disclosed
      nothing but three or four suits of clothes hanging from a line of
      pegs. Holmes turned away, and stooped suddenly to the floor.

      “Halloa! What’s this?” said he.

      It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like
      the one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his
      open palm in the glare of the electric light.

      “Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well
      as in your sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”

      “What could he have wanted there?”

      “I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way,
      and so he had no warning until you were at the very door. What
      could he do? He caught up everything which would betray him, and
      he rushed into your bedroom to conceal himself.”

      “Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that, all the
      time I was talking to Bannister in this room, we had the man
      prisoner if we had only known it?”

      “So I read it.”

      “Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know
      whether you observed my bedroom window?”

      “Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one
      swinging on hinge, and large enough to admit a man.”

      “Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to
      be partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance
      there, left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and finally,
      finding the door open, have escaped that way.”

      Holmes shook his head impatiently.

      “Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that
      there are three students who use this stair, and are in the habit
      of passing your door?”

      “Yes, there are.”

      “And they are all in for this examination?”

      “Yes.”

      “Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the
      others?”

      Soames hesitated.

      “It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to
      throw suspicion where there are no proofs.”

      “Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”

      “I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three
      men who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist,
      a fine scholar and athlete, plays in the Rugby team and the
      cricket team for the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles
      and the long jump. He is a fine, manly fellow. His father was the
      notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf. My
      scholar has been left very poor, but he is hard-working and
      industrious. He will do well.

      “The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a
      quiet, inscrutable fellow; as most of those Indians are. He is
      well up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is
      steady and methodical.

      “The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow
      when he chooses to work—one of the brightest intellects of the
      university; but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He
      was nearly expelled over a card scandal in his first year. He has
      been idling all this term, and he must look forward with dread to
      the examination.”

      “Then it is he whom you suspect?”

      “I dare not go so far as that. But, of the three, he is perhaps
      the least unlikely.”

      “Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
      Bannister.”

      He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow
      of fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of
      the quiet routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with
      his nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.

      “We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his
      master.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the
      door?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the
      very day when there were these papers inside?”

      “It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the
      same thing at other times.”

      “When did you enter the room?”

      “It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames’ tea time.”

      “How long did you stay?”

      “When I saw that he was absent, I withdrew at once.”

      “Did you look at these papers on the table?”

      “No, sir—certainly not.”

      “How came you to leave the key in the door?”

      “I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for
      the key. Then I forgot.”

      “Has the outer door a spring lock?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Then it was open all the time?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Anyone in the room could get out?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
      disturbed?”

      “Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years
      that I have been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”

      “So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”

      “Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”

      “That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder
      near the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”

      “I don’t know, sir, it didn’t matter to me where I sat.”

      “I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was
      looking very bad—quite ghastly.”

      “You stayed here when your master left?”

      “Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my
      room.”

      “Whom do you suspect?”

      “Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don’t believe there is
      any gentleman in this university who is capable of profiting by
      such an action. No, sir, I’ll not believe it.”

      “Thank you, that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You
      have not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend
      that anything is amiss?”

      “No, sir—not a word.”

      “You haven’t seen any of them?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the
      quadrangle, if you please.”

      Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering
      gloom.

      “Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking
      up. “Halloa! What’s that? One of them seems restless enough.”

      It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon
      his blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

      “I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is
      it possible?”

      “No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms
      is quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for
      visitors to go over them. Come along, and I will personally
      conduct you.”

      “No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist’s
      door. A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and
      made us welcome when he understood our errand. There were some
      really curious pieces of mediæval domestic architecture within.
      Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted on
      drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one
      from our host and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own.
      The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the
      Indian—a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance,
      and was obviously glad when Holmes’s architectural studies had
      come to an end. I could not see that in either case Holmes had
      come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the third
      did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would not open to
      our knock, and nothing more substantial than a torrent of bad
      language came from behind it. “I don’t care who you are. You can
      go to blazes!” roared the angry voice. “Tomorrow’s the exam, and
      I won’t be drawn by anyone.”

      “A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we
      withdrew down the stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it
      was I who was knocking, but none the less his conduct was very
      uncourteous, and, indeed, under the circumstances rather
      suspicious.”

      Holmes’s response was a curious one.

      “Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.

      “Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than
      the Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six
      would be about it.”

      “That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I
      wish you good-night.”

      Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good
      gracious, Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in
      this abrupt fashion! You don’t seem to realize the position.
      To-morrow is the examination. I must take some definite action
      to-night. I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of the
      papers has been tampered with. The situation must be faced.”

      “You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow
      morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in
      a position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile, you
      change nothing—nothing at all.”

      “Very good, Mr. Holmes.”

      “You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find
      some way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay
      with me, also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”

      When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again
      looked up at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The
      others were invisible.

      “Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked, as we came
      out into the main street. “Quite a little parlour game—sort of
      three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be
      one of them. You take your choice. Which is yours?”

      “The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst
      record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he
      be pacing his room all the time?”

      “There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to
      learn anything by heart.”

      “He looked at us in a queer way.”

      “So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when you
      were preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was
      of value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives—all
      was satisfactory. But that fellow _does_ puzzle me.”

      “Who?”

      “Why, Bannister, the servant. What’s his game in the matter?”

      “He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”

      “So he did me. That’s the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
      honest man—well, well, here’s a large stationer’s. We shall begin
      our researches here.”

      There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town,
      and at each Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid high for a
      duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it
      was not a usual size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in
      stock. My friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure,
      but shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

      “No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has
      run to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can
      build up a sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow,
      it is nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at
      seven-thirty. What with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your
      irregularity at meals, I expect that you will get notice to quit,
      and that I shall share your downfall—not, however, before we have
      solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the careless servant,
      and the three enterprising students.”

      Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he
      sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At
      eight in the morning, he came into my room just as I finished my
      toilet.

      “Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke’s.
      Can you do without breakfast?”

      “Certainly.”

      “Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell
      him something positive.”

      “Have you anything positive to tell him?”

      “I think so.”

      “You have formed a conclusion?”

      “Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery.”

      “But what fresh evidence could you have got?”

      “Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed
      at the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours’ hard work
      and covered at least five miles, with something to show for it.
      Look at that!”

      He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of
      black, doughy clay.

      “Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday.”

      “And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever
      No. 3 came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson?
      Well, come along and put friend Soames out of his pain.”

      The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable
      agitation when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the
      examination would commence, and he was still in the dilemma
      between making the facts public and allowing the culprit to
      compete for the valuable scholarship. He could hardly stand still
      so great was his mental agitation, and he ran towards Holmes with
      two eager hands outstretched.

      “Thank heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it
      up in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?”

      “Yes, let it proceed, by all means.”

      “But this rascal?”

      “He shall not compete.”

      “You know him?”

      “I think so. If this matter is not to become public, we must give
      ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small
      private court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson
      you here! I’ll take the armchair in the middle. I think that we
      are now sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty
      breast. Kindly ring the bell!”

      Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear
      at our judicial appearance.

      “You will kindly close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Bannister,
      will you please tell us the truth about yesterday’s incident?”

      The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

      “I have told you everything, sir.”

      “Nothing to add?”

      “Nothing at all, sir.”

      “Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat
      down on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal
      some object which would have shown who had been in the room?”

      Bannister’s face was ghastly.

      “No, sir, certainly not.”

      “It is only a suggestion,” said Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit
      that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since
      the moment that Mr. Soames’s back was turned, you released the
      man who was hiding in that bedroom.”

      Bannister licked his dry lips.

      “There was no man, sir.”

      “Ah, that’s a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the
      truth, but now I know that you have lied.”

      The man’s face set in sullen defiance.

      “There was no man, sir.”

      “Come, come, Bannister!”

      “No, sir, there was no one.”

      “In that case, you can give us no further information. Would you
      please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom
      door. Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great
      kindness to go up to the room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him
      to step down into yours.”

      An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the
      student. He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile,
      with a springy step and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue
      eyes glanced at each of us, and finally rested with an expression
      of blank dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner.

      “Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are
      all quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what
      passes between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We
      want to know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever
      came to commit such an action as that of yesterday?”

      The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look full of
      horror and reproach at Bannister.

      “No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word—never one word!”
      cried the servant.

      “No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now, sir, you must see that
      after Bannister’s words your position is hopeless, and that your
      only chance lies in a frank confession.”

      For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
      writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees
      beside the table, and burying his face in his hands, he had burst
      into a storm of passionate sobbing.

      “Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly, “it is human to err, and at
      least no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps
      it would be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what
      occurred, and you can check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so?
      Well, well, don’t trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I do
      you no injustice.

      “From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one,
      not even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your
      room, the case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The
      printer one could, of course, dismiss. He could examine the
      papers in his own office. The Indian I also thought nothing of.
      If the proofs were in a roll, he could not possibly know what
      they were. On the other hand, it seemed an unthinkable
      coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room, and that by
      chance on that very day the papers were on the table. I dismissed
      that. The man who entered knew that the papers were there. How
      did he know?

      “When I approached your room, I examined the window. You amused
      me by supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of
      someone having in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these
      opposite rooms, forced himself through it. Such an idea was
      absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would need to be in order
      to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central table. I am
      six feet high, and I could do it with an effort. No one less than
      that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason to think
      that, if one of your three students was a man of unusual height,
      he was the most worth watching of the three.

      “I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the
      suggestions of the side table. Of the centre table I could make
      nothing, until in your description of Gilchrist you mentioned
      that he was a long-distance jumper. Then the whole thing came to
      me in an instant, and I only needed certain corroborative proofs,
      which I speedily obtained.

      “What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his
      afternoon at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising
      the jump. He returned carrying his jumping-shoes, which are
      provided, as you are aware, with several sharp spikes. As he
      passed your window he saw, by means of his great height, these
      proofs upon your table, and conjectured what they were. No harm
      would have been done had it not been that, as he passed your
      door, he perceived the key which had been left by the
      carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to
      enter, and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a
      dangerous exploit for he could always pretend that he had simply
      looked in to ask a question.

      “Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then
      that he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table.
      What was it you put on that chair near the window?”

      “Gloves,” said the young man.

      Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put his gloves on
      the chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them.
      He thought the tutor must return by the main gate and that he
      would see him. As we know, he came back by the side gate.
      Suddenly he heard him at the very door. There was no possible
      escape. He forgot his gloves but he caught up his shoes and
      darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch on that
      table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the
      bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe
      had been drawn in that direction, and that the culprit had taken
      refuge there. The earth round the spike had been left on the
      table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in the bedroom.
      I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this morning,
      saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-pit and
      carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the fine tan
      or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from
      slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?”

      The student had drawn himself erect.

      “Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.

      “Good heavens! have you nothing to add?” cried Soames.

      “Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
      bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to
      you early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was
      before I knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You
      will see that I have said, ‘I have determined not to go in for
      the examination. I have been offered a commission in the
      Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to South Africa at once.’”

      “I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by
      your unfair advantage,” said Soames. “But why did you change your
      purpose?”

      Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

      “There is the man who set me in the right path,” said he.

      “Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It will be clear to you,
      from what I have said, that only you could have let this young
      man out, since you were left in the room, and must have locked
      the door when you went out. As to his escaping by that window, it
      was incredible. Can you not clear up the last point in this
      mystery, and tell us the reasons for your action?”

      “It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known, but, with all
      your cleverness, it was impossible that you could know. Time was,
      sir, when I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young
      gentleman’s father. When he was ruined I came to the college as
      servant, but I never forgot my old employer because he was down
      in the world. I watched his son all I could for the sake of the
      old days. Well, sir, when I came into this room yesterday, when
      the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was Mr.
      Gilchrist’s tan gloves a-lying in that chair. I knew those gloves
      well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them, the
      game was up. I flopped down into that chair, and nothing would
      budge me until Mr. Soames he went for you. Then out came my poor
      young master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and confessed it all
      to me. Wasn’t it natural, sir, that I should save him, and wasn’t
      it natural also that I should try to speak to him as his dead
      father would have done, and make him understand that he could not
      profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?”

      “No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet.
      “Well, Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up,
      and our breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you,
      sir, I trust that a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For
      once you have fallen low. Let us see, in the future, how high you
      can rise.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ

      When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain
      our work for the year 1894, I confess that it is very difficult
      for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases
      which are most interesting in themselves, and at the same time
      most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my
      friend was famous. As I turn over the pages, I see my notes upon
      the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible death of
      Crosby, the banker. Here also I find an account of the Addleton
      tragedy, and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow.
      The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this
      period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the
      Boulevard assassin—an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph
      letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of the
      Legion of Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on
      the whole I am of opinion that none of them unites so many
      singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place,
      which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby
      Smith, but also those subsequent developments which threw so
      curious a light upon the causes of the crime.

      It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November.
      Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged
      with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original
      inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon
      surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the
      rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in
      the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man’s handiwork on
      every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be
      conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no
      more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the
      window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional
      lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement.
      A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

      “Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to turn out to-night,”
      said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest.
      “I’ve done enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the
      eyes. So far as I can make out, it is nothing more exciting than
      an Abbey’s accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth
      century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What’s this?”

      Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a
      horse’s hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against
      the curb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

      “What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

      “Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
      cravats and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to
      fight the weather. Wait a bit, though! There’s the cab off again!
      There’s hope yet. He’d have kept it if he had wanted us to come.
      Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous
      folk have been long in bed.”

      When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor, I
      had no difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley
      Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had
      several times shown a very practical interest.

      “Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.

      “Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from above. “I hope
      you have no designs upon us such a night as this.”

      The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his
      shining waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes knocked
      a blaze out of the logs in the grate.

      “Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he.
      “Here’s a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot
      water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a night like this.
      It must be something important which has brought you out in such
      a gale.”

      “It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had a bustling afternoon, I
      promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the
      latest editions?”

      “I’ve seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day.”

      “Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you
      have not missed anything. I haven’t let the grass grow under my
      feet. It’s down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from
      the railway line. I was wired for at 3:15, reached Yoxley Old
      Place at 5, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing Cross
      by the last train, and straight to you by cab.”

      “Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your
      case?”

      “It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as
      I can see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled,
      and yet at first it seemed so simple that one couldn’t go wrong.
      There’s no motive, Mr. Holmes. That’s what bothers me—I can’t put
      my hand on a motive. Here’s a man dead—there’s no denying
      that—but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone
      should wish him harm.”

      Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

      “Let us hear about it,” said he.

      “I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I
      want now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I
      can make it out, is like this. Some years ago this country house,
      Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave the name
      of Professor Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the
      time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a stick or
      being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a Bath chair.
      He was well liked by the few neighbours who called upon him, and
      he has the reputation down there of being a very learned man. His
      household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker,
      and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with him since
      his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character.
      The professor is writing a learned book, and he found it
      necessary, about a year ago, to engage a secretary. The first two
      that he tried were not successes, but the third, Mr. Willoughby
      Smith, a very young man straight from the university, seems to
      have been just what his employer wanted. His work consisted in
      writing all the morning to the professor’s dictation, and he
      usually spent the evening in hunting up references and passages
      which bore upon the next day’s work. This Willoughby Smith has
      nothing against him, either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young
      man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the
      first he was a decent, quiet, hard-working fellow, with no weak
      spot in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death
      this morning in the professor’s study under circumstances which
      can point only to murder.”

      The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew
      closer to the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point by
      point developed his singular narrative.

      “If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don’t suppose
      you could find a household more self-contained or freer from
      outside influences. Whole weeks would pass, and not one of them
      go past the garden gate. The professor was buried in his work and
      existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the
      neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did. The two
      women had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer, the
      gardener, who wheels the Bath chair, is an army pensioner—an old
      Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live in the
      house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the
      garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the
      grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the
      garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road.
      It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone
      from walking in.

      “Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the
      only person who can say anything positive about the matter. It
      was in the forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged
      at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs front
      bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed, for when the weather
      is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper was busied
      with some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had
      been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room, but the
      maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend
      to the study immediately below her. She did not see him, but she
      says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread. She
      did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there
      was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse
      scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either
      from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy
      thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The
      maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her
      courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was shut and she
      opened it. Inside, young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon
      the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she tried to
      raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of
      his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound,
      which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which
      the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It
      was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on
      old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff
      blade. It was part of the fittings of the professor’s own desk.

      “At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but
      on pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened
      his eyes for an instant. ‘The professor,’ he murmured—‘it was
      she.’ The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact
      words. He tried desperately to say something else, and he held
      his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead.

      “In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene,
      but she was just too late to catch the young man’s dying words.
      Leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the professor’s room.
      He was sitting up in bed, horribly agitated, for he had heard
      enough to convince him that something terrible had occurred. Mrs.
      Marker is prepared to swear that the professor was still in his
      night-clothes, and indeed it was impossible for him to dress
      without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve
      o’clock. The professor declares that he heard the distant cry,
      but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation of the
      young man’s last words, ‘The professor—it was she,’ but imagines
      that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that
      Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no
      reason for the crime. His first action was to send Mortimer, the
      gardener, for the local police. A little later the chief
      constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there, and
      strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths
      leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your
      theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was really
      nothing wanting.”

      “Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat
      bitter smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of a job did
      you make of it?”

      “I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan,
      which will give you a general idea of the position of the
      professor’s study and the various points of the case. It will
      help you in following my investigation.”

      He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid
      it across Holmes’s knee. I rose and, standing behind Holmes,
      studied it over his shoulder.

      Professor's-Study

      “It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points
      which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later
      for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin
      entered the house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the
      garden path and the back door, from which there is direct access
      to the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly
      complicated. The escape must have also been made along that line,
      for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked by Susan
      as she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to the
      professor’s bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to
      the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain, and would
      certainly show any footmarks.

      “My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and
      expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There
      could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the
      grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in
      order to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in the
      nature of a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down,
      and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the
      murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had been
      there that morning, and the rain had only begun during the
      night.”

      “One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”

      “To the road.”

      “How long is it?”

      “A hundred yards or so.”

      “At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could
      surely pick up the tracks?”

      “Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”

      “Well, on the road itself?”

      “No, it was all trodden into mire.”

      “Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they
      coming or going?”

      “It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”

      “A large foot or a small?”

      “You could not distinguish.”

      Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

      “It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,”
      said he. “It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest.
      Well, well, it can’t be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after
      you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?”

      “I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that
      someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next
      examined the corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had
      taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the study
      itself. It is a scantily furnished room. The main article is a
      large writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of
      a double column of drawers, with a central small cupboard between
      them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it
      seems, were always open, and nothing of value was kept in them.
      There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there
      were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the professor
      assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no
      robbery has been committed.

      “I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the
      bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart.
      The stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind
      forward, so that it is almost impossible that it could have been
      self-inflicted.”

      “Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.

      “Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some
      feet away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of
      course, there are the man’s own dying words. And, finally, there
      was this very important piece of evidence which was found clasped
      in the dead man’s right hand.”

      From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He
      unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken
      ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it. “Willoughby
      Smith had excellent sight,” he added. “There can be no question
      that this was snatched from the face or the person of the
      assassin.”

      Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined them
      with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose,
      endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared
      up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full
      light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at
      the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he
      tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

      “That’s the best I can do for you,” said he. “It may prove to be
      of some use.”

      The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

      “Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
      remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either
      side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression,
      and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she
      has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last
      few months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength, and as
      opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficulty in
      tracing her.”

      Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have
      been reflected upon my features. “Surely my deductions are
      simplicity itself,” said he. “It would be difficult to name any
      articles which afford a finer field for inference than a pair of
      glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these. That they
      belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and also, of
      course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her being a
      person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive,
      handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that
      anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other
      respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your
      nose, showing that the lady’s nose was very broad at the base.
      This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there is
      a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from being
      dogmatic or from insisting upon this point in my description. My
      own face is a narrow one, and yet I find that I cannot get my
      eyes into the centre, nor near the centre, of these glasses.
      Therefore, the lady’s eyes are set very near to the sides of the
      nose. You will perceive, Watson, that the glasses are concave and
      of unusual strength. A lady whose vision has been so extremely
      contracted all her life is sure to have the physical
      characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the forehead,
      the eyelids, and the shoulders.”

      “Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of your arguments. I confess,
      however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the
      double visit to the optician.”

      Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

      “You will perceive,” he said, “that the clips are lined with tiny
      bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these
      is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is
      new. Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should
      judge that the older of them has not been there more than a few
      months. They exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went
      back to the same establishment for the second.”

      “By George, it’s marvellous!” cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
      admiration. “To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and
      never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the
      London opticians.”

      “Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell
      us about the case?”

      “Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
      now—probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger
      seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We have
      heard of none. What beats me is the utter want of all object in
      the crime. Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest.”

      “Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you
      want us to come out to-morrow?”

      “If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There’s a train from
      Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be
      at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine.”

      “Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of
      great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well,
      it’s nearly one, and we had best get a few hours’ sleep. I
      daresay you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the
      fire. I’ll light my spirit lamp, and give you a cup of coffee
      before we start.”

      The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter
      morning when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter
      sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long,
      sullen reaches of the river, which I shall ever associate with
      our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our
      career. After a long and weary journey, we alighted at a small
      station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was being put into
      a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast, and so
      we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley
      Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.

      “Well, Wilson, any news?”

      “No, sir—nothing.”

      “No reports of any stranger seen?”

      “No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
      either came or went yesterday.”

      “Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?”

      “Yes, sir: there is no one that we cannot account for.”

      “Well, it’s only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay
      there or take a train without being observed. This is the garden
      path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I’ll pledge my word there was
      no mark on it yesterday.”

      “On which side were the marks on the grass?”

      “This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and
      the flower-bed. I can’t see the traces now, but they were clear
      to me then.”

      “Yes, yes: someone has passed along,” said Holmes, stooping over
      the grass border. “Our lady must have picked her steps carefully,
      must she not, since on the one side she would leave a track on
      the path, and on the other an even clearer one on the soft bed?”

      “Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.”

      I saw an intent look pass over Holmes’s face.

      “You say that she must have come back this way?”

      “Yes, sir, there is no other.”

      “On this strip of grass?”

      “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Hum! It was a very remarkable performance—very remarkable. Well,
      I think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This
      garden door is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor
      had nothing to do but to walk in. The idea of murder was not in
      her mind, or she would have provided herself with some sort of
      weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the
      writing-table. She advanced along this corridor, leaving no
      traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in this
      study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging.”

      “Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
      Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long
      before—about a quarter of an hour, she says.”

      “Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and what
      does she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not
      for anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her
      taking, it would surely have been locked up. No, it was for
      something in that wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch
      upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why did you not
      tell me of this, Hopkins?”

      The mark which he was examining began upon the brass-work on the
      right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four
      inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

      “I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you’ll always find scratches round
      a keyhole.”

      “This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it
      is cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface.
      Look at it through my lens. There’s the varnish, too, like earth
      on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?”

      A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

      “Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Did you notice this scratch?”

      “No, sir, I did not.”

      “I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these
      shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?”

      “The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.”

      “Is it a simple key?”

      “No, sir, it is a Chubb’s key.”

      “Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
      progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and
      either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged,
      young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw
      the key, she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and
      she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this
      knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The
      blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or
      without the object for which she has come. Is Susan, the maid,
      there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the
      time that you heard the cry, Susan?”

      “No, sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I’d have
      seen anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, or I
      would have heard it.”

      “That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way
      she came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the
      professor’s room. There is no exit that way?”

      “No, sir.”

      “We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor.
      Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed.
      The professor’s corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.”

      “Well, sir, what of that?”

      “Don’t you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well. I don’t
      insist upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be
      suggestive. Come with me and introduce me.”

      We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that
      which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps
      ending in a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the
      professor’s bedroom.

      It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes,
      which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the
      corners, or were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The
      bed was in the centre of the room, and in it, propped up with
      pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more
      remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt, aquiline face which
      was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes, which lurked in
      deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His hair and beard
      were white, save that the latter was curiously stained with
      yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of
      white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco
      smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived that it was
      also stained with yellow nicotine.

      “A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking in well-chosen English,
      with a curious little mincing accent. “Pray take a cigarette. And
      you, sir? I can recommend them, for I have them especially
      prepared by Ionides, of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a
      time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange for a fresh
      supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad, but an old man has
      few pleasures. Tobacco and my work—that is all that is left to
      me.”

      Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting little darting
      glances all over the room.

      “Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco,” the old man
      exclaimed. “Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have
      foreseen such a terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I
      assure you that, after a few months’ training, he was an
      admirable assistant. What do you think of the matter, Mr.
      Holmes?”

      “I have not yet made up my mind.”

      “I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where
      all is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself
      such a blow is paralysing. I seem to have lost the faculty of
      thought. But you are a man of action—you are a man of affairs. It
      is part of the everyday routine of your life. You can preserve
      your balance in every emergency. We are fortunate, indeed, in
      having you at our side.”

      Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
      professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with
      extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host’s
      liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.

      “Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old man. “That is my
      _magnum opus_—the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is
      my analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of
      Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very
      foundation of revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do
      not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it, now that my
      assistant has been taken from me. Dear me! Mr. Holmes, why, you
      are even a quicker smoker than I am myself.”

      Holmes smiled.

      “I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another cigarette from the
      box—his fourth—and lighting it from the stub of that which he had
      finished. “I will not trouble you with any lengthy
      cross-examination, Professor Coram, since I gather that you were
      in bed at the time of the crime, and could know nothing about it.
      I would only ask this: What do you imagine that this poor fellow
      meant by his last words: ‘The professor—it was she’?”

      The professor shook his head.

      “Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and you know the incredible
      stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured
      some incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into
      this meaningless message.”

      “I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?”

      “Possibly an accident, possibly—I only breathe it among
      ourselves—a suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles—some
      affair of the heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is a
      more probable supposition than murder.”

      “But the eyeglasses?”

      “Ah! I am only a student—a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
      practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend,
      that love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take
      another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them
      so. A fan, a glove, glasses—who knows what article may be carried
      as a token or treasured when a man puts an end to his life? This
      gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass, but, after all, it is
      easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the knife, it might
      well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as he fell. It is
      possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that
      Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand.”

      Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he
      continued to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and
      consuming cigarette after cigarette.

      “Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last, “what is in that
      cupboard in the bureau?”

      “Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my
      poor wife, diplomas of universities which have done me honour.
      Here is the key. You can look for yourself.”

      Holmes picked up the key, and looked at it for an instant, then
      he handed it back.

      “No, I hardly think that it would help me,” said he. “I should
      prefer to go quietly down to your garden, and turn the whole
      matter over in my head. There is something to be said for the
      theory of suicide which you have put forward. We must apologize
      for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise that
      we won’t disturb you until after lunch. At two o’clock we will
      come again, and report to you anything which may have happened in
      the interval.”

      Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the
      garden path for some time in silence.

      “Have you a clue?” I asked, at last.

      “It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked,” said he. “It is
      possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show
      me.”

      “My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth——”

      “Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there’s no harm
      done. Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back
      upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the
      good Mrs. Marker! Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive
      conversation with her.”

      I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a
      peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily
      established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which
      he had named, he had captured the housekeeper’s goodwill and was
      chatting with her as if he had known her for years.

      “Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
      terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I’ve seen that
      room of a morning—well, sir, you’d have thought it was a London
      fog. Poor young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad
      as the professor. His health—well, I don’t know that it’s better
      nor worse for the smoking.”

      “Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.”

      “Well, I don’t know about that, sir.”

      “I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?”

      “Well, he is variable. I’ll say that for him.”

      “I’ll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won’t face his
      lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume.”

      “Well, you’re out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a
      remarkable big breakfast this morning. I don’t know when I’ve
      known him make a better one, and he’s ordered a good dish of
      cutlets for his lunch. I’m surprised myself, for since I came
      into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on
      the floor, I couldn’t bear to look at food. Well, it takes all
      sorts to make a world, and the professor hasn’t let it take his
      appetite away.”

      We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had
      gone down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange
      woman who had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the
      previous morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to
      have deserted him. I had never known him handle a case in such a
      half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that
      he had found the children, and that they had undoubtedly seen a
      woman exactly corresponding with Holmes’s description, and
      wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed to rouse any sign
      of keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who waited
      upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed
      Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he
      had only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I
      could not myself see the bearing of this incident, but I clearly
      perceived that Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme
      which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he sprang from his
      chair and glanced at his watch. “Two o’clock, gentlemen,” said
      he. “We must go up and have it out with our friend, the
      professor.”

      The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty
      dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his
      housekeeper had credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as
      he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The
      eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed
      and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

      “Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?” He shoved
      the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him
      towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same
      moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a
      minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving stray
      cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again, I observed
      Holmes’s eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with colour.
      Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.

      “Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.”

      Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer
      quivered over the gaunt features of the old professor.

      “Indeed! In the garden?”

      “No, here.”

      “Here! When?”

      “This instant.”

      “You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to
      tell you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such
      a fashion.”

      “I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor
      Coram, and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are, or
      what exact part you play in this strange business, I am not yet
      able to say. In a few minutes I shall probably hear it from your
      own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is past for your
      benefit, so that you may know the information which I still
      require.

      “A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention
      of possessing herself of certain documents which were in your
      bureau. She had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of
      examining yours, and I do not find that slight discolouration
      which the scratch made upon the varnish would have produced. You
      were not an accessory, therefore, and she came, so far as I can
      read the evidence, without your knowledge to rob you.”

      The professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most
      interesting and instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add?
      Surely, having traced this lady so far, you can also say what has
      become of her.”

      “I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by
      your secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This
      catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I
      am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so
      grievous an injury. An assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified
      by what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the scene of
      the tragedy. Unfortunately for her, she had lost her glasses in
      the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she was
      really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she
      imagined to be that by which she had come—both were lined with
      cocoanut matting—and it was only when it was too late that she
      understood that she had taken the wrong passage, and that her
      retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She could not
      go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go on. She
      went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found
      herself in your room.”

      The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at Holmes.
      Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features.
      Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into
      insincere laughter.

      “All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But there is one little
      flaw in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I
      never left it during the day.”

      “I am aware of that, Professor Coram.”

      “And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be
      aware that a woman had entered my room?”

      “I never said so. You _were_ aware of it. You spoke with her. You
      recognized her. You aided her to escape.”

      Again the professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen
      to his feet, and his eyes glowed like embers.

      “You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking insanely. I helped her
      to escape? Where is she now?”

      “She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in
      the corner of the room.

      I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed
      over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same
      instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a
      hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. “You are right!” she
      cried, in a strange foreign voice. “You are right! I am here.”

      She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had
      come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was
      streaked with grime, and at the best she could never have been
      handsome, for she had the exact physical characteristics which
      Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin.
      What with her natural blindness, and what with the change from
      dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking about her to see
      where and who we were. And yet, in spite of all these
      disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman’s
      bearing—a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head,
      which compelled something of respect and admiration.

      Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as
      his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an
      over-mastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay
      back in his chair with a twitching face, and stared at her with
      brooding eyes.

      “Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said. “From where I stood I
      could hear everything, and I know that you have learned the
      truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But
      you are right—you who say it was an accident. I did not even know
      that it was a knife which I held in my hand, for in my despair I
      snatched anything from the table and struck at him to make him
      let me go. It is the truth that I tell.”

      “Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear
      that you are far from well.”

      She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
      dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the
      bed; then she resumed.

      “I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you
      to know the whole truth. I am this man’s wife. He is not an
      Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”

      For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he
      cried. “God bless you!”

      She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why
      should you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours,
      Sergius?” said she. “It has done harm to many and good to
      none—not even to yourself. However, it is not for me to cause the
      frail thread to be snapped before God’s time. I have enough
      already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this cursed
      house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.

      “I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man’s wife. He was fifty
      and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city
      of Russia, a university—I will not name the place.”

      “God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.

      “We were reformers—revolutionists—Nihilists, you understand. He
      and I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police
      officer was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and
      in order to save his own life and to earn a great reward, my
      husband betrayed his own wife and his companions. Yes, we were
      all arrested upon his confession. Some of us found our way to the
      gallows, and some to Siberia. I was among these last, but my term
      was not for life. My husband came to England with his ill-gotten
      gains and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing well that if the
      Brotherhood knew where he was not a week would pass before
      justice would be done.”

      The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
      cigarette. “I am in your hands, Anna,” said he. “You were always
      good to me.”

      “I have not yet told you the height of his villainy,” said she.
      “Among our comrades of the Order, there was one who was the
      friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving—all that my
      husband was not. He hated violence. We were all guilty—if that is
      guilt—but he was not. He wrote forever dissuading us from such a
      course. These letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in
      which, from day to day, I had entered both my feelings towards
      him and the view which each of us had taken. My husband found and
      kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to
      swear away the young man’s life. In this he failed, but Alexis
      was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he
      works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you
      villain!—now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a man whose name
      you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a slave, and
      yet I have your life in my hands, and I let you go.”

      “You were always a noble woman, Anna,” said the old man, puffing
      at his cigarette.

      She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

      “I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to
      get the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian
      government, would procure my friend’s release. I knew that my
      husband had come to England. After months of searching I
      discovered where he was. I knew that he still had the diary, for
      when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once, reproaching
      me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was sure that,
      with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me of his
      own free-will. I must get it for myself. With this object I
      engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my
      husband’s house as a secretary—it was your second secretary,
      Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that papers
      were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key.
      He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the
      house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always
      empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took
      my courage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for
      myself. I succeeded; but at what a cost!

      “I had just taken the paper; and was locking the cupboard, when
      the young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He
      had met me on the road, and I had asked him to tell me where
      Professor Coram lived, not knowing that he was in his employ.”

      “Exactly! Exactly!” said Holmes. “The secretary came back, and
      told his employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last
      breath, he tried to send a message that it was she—the she whom
      he had just discussed with him.”

      “You must let me speak,” said the woman, in an imperative voice,
      and her face contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen I
      rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in
      my husband’s room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if
      he did so, his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the law, I
      could give him to the Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to
      live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to accomplish my
      purpose. He knew that I would do what I said—that his own fate
      was involved in mine. For that reason, and for no other, he
      shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place—a relic of
      old days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own
      room, and so was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed
      that when the police left the house I should slip away by night
      and come back no more. But in some way you have read our plans.”
      She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet. “These are
      my last words,” said she; “here is the packet which will save
      Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice.
      Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now, I have
      done my duty, and——”

      “Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
      wrenched a small phial from her hand.

      “Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took
      the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am
      going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”

      “A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one,”
      Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from
      the outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of
      the dying man having seized these, I am not sure that we could
      ever have reached our solution. It was clear to me, from the
      strength of the glasses, that the wearer must have been very
      blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked me to
      believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without
      once making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember, that
      it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an
      impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a
      second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to consider
      seriously the hypothesis that she had remained within the house.
      On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it became
      clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and,
      in that case, it was evident that she must have entered the
      professor’s room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for
      whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined the room
      narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet
      seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a
      trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As you
      are aware, such devices are common in old libraries. I observed
      that books were piled on the floor at all other points, but that
      one bookcase was left clear. This, then, might be the door. I
      could see no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun
      colour, which lends itself very well to examination. I therefore
      smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I
      dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected
      bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I
      then went downstairs, and I ascertained, in your presence,
      Watson, without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that
      Professor Coram’s consumption of food had increased—as one would
      expect when he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to
      the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained
      a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite
      clearly, from the traces upon the cigarette ash, that the
      prisoner had in our absence come out from her retreat. Well,
      Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on
      having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You are
      going to headquarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will
      drive together to the Russian Embassy.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER

      We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker
      Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which reached
      us on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight years ago,
      and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was
      addressed to him, and ran thus:

      Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter
      missing, indispensable to-morrow. OVERTON.

      “Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six,” said Holmes,
      reading it over and over. “Mr. Overton was evidently considerably
      excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.
      Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time I have looked
      through _The Times_, and then we shall know all about it. Even
      the most insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant
      days.”

      Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to
      dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
      companion’s brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous
      to leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had
      gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened
      once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under
      ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial
      stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but
      sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one and the
      waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn
      look upon Holmes’s ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set
      and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton
      whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic message
      to break that dangerous calm which brought more peril to my
      friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.

      As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender,
      and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College, Cambridge,
      announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of
      solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad
      shoulders, and looked from one of us to the other with a comely
      face which was haggard with anxiety.

      “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

      My companion bowed.

      “I’ve been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector
      Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case,
      so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of the
      regular police.”

      “Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.”

      “It’s awful, Mr. Holmes—simply awful I wonder my hair isn’t grey.
      Godfrey Staunton—you’ve heard of him, of course? He’s simply the
      hinge that the whole team turns on. I’d rather spare two from the
      pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it’s
      passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there’s no one to touch him,
      and then, he’s got the head, and can hold us all together. What
      am I to do? That’s what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There’s Moorhouse,
      first reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges
      right in on to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touchline.
      He’s a fine place-kick, it’s true, but then he has no judgment,
      and he can’t sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford
      fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he
      couldn’t drop from the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who
      can’t either punt or drop isn’t worth a place for pace alone. No,
      Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to find Godfrey
      Staunton.”

      My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
      which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness,
      every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand
      upon the speaker’s knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes
      stretched out his hand and took down letter “S” of his
      commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of
      varied information.

      “There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he,
      “and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey
      Staunton is a new name to me.”

      It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised.

      “Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things,” said he. “I
      suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you
      don’t know Cyril Overton either?”

      Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

      “Great Scott!” cried the athlete. “Why, I was first reserve for
      England against Wales, and I’ve skippered the ’Varsity all this
      year. But that’s nothing! I didn’t think there was a soul in
      England who didn’t know Godfrey Staunton, the crack
      three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals.
      Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where _have_ you lived?”

      Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naïve astonishment.

      “You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton—a sweeter and
      healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
      society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which
      is the best and soundest thing in England. However, your
      unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world of
      fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. So now,
      my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly and
      quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire
      that I should help you.”

      Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look of the man who is
      more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by
      degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit
      from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

      “It’s this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of
      the Rugger team of Cambridge ’Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my
      best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up, and
      we settled at Bentley’s private hotel. At ten o’clock I went
      round and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I
      believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team
      fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He
      seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the
      matter. He said he was all right—just a touch of headache. I bade
      him good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter tells
      me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for
      Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to his
      room. Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had been
      pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch
      me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled
      himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few words to
      the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off
      together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost
      running down the street in the direction of the Strand. This
      morning Godfrey’s room was empty, his bed had never been slept
      in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the night
      before. He had gone off at a moment’s notice with this stranger,
      and no word has come from him since. I don’t believe he will ever
      come back. He was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow,
      and he wouldn’t have stopped his training and let in his skipper
      if it were not for some cause that was too strong for him. No: I
      feel as if he were gone for good, and we should never see him
      again.”

      Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this
      singular narrative.

      “What did you do?” he asked.

      “I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him
      there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him.”

      “Could he have got back to Cambridge?”

      “Yes, there is a late train—quarter-past eleven.”

      “But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?”

      “No, he has not been seen.”

      “What did you do next?”

      “I wired to Lord Mount-James.”

      “Why to Lord Mount-James?”

      “Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
      relative—his uncle, I believe.”

      “Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James
      is one of the richest men in England.”

      “So I’ve heard Godfrey say.”

      “And your friend was closely related?”

      “Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty—cram full
      of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his
      knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he
      is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”

      “Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?”

      “No.”

      “What motive could your friend have in going to Lord
      Mount-James?”

      “Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was
      to do with money it is possible that he would make for his
      nearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I have
      heard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was
      not fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it.”

      “Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to
      his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the
      visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the
      agitation that was caused by his coming.”

      Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. “I can make nothing
      of it,” said he.

      “Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look
      into the matter,” said Holmes. “I should strongly recommend you
      to make your preparations for your match without reference to
      this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an
      overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion, and
      the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step round
      together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any fresh
      light upon the matter.”

      Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
      witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey
      Staunton’s abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter
      had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman,
      neither was he a workingman. He was simply what the porter
      described as a “medium-looking chap,” a man of fifty, beard
      grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be
      agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he had
      held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note into his
      pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in the hall.
      They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter had only
      distinguished the one word “time.” Then they had hurried off in
      the manner described. It was just half-past ten by the hall
      clock.

      “Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton’s bed.
      “You are the day porter, are you not?”

      “Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven.”

      “The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”

      “No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else.”

      “Were you on duty all day yesterday?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”

      “Yes, sir, one telegram.”

      “Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”

      “About six.”

      “Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”

      “Here in his room.”

      “Were you present when he opened it?”

      “Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer.”

      “Well, was there?”

      “Yes, sir, he wrote an answer.”

      “Did you take it?”

      “No, he took it himself.”

      “But he wrote it in your presence.”

      “Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back
      turned at that table. When he had written it, he said: ‘All
      right, porter, I will take this myself.’”

      “What did he write it with?”

      “A pen, sir.”

      “Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”

      “Yes, sir, it was the top one.”

      Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window
      and carefully examined that which was uppermost.

      “It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them
      down again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt
      frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes
      through—a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage.
      However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to
      perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can
      hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
      blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”

      He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us
      the following hieroglyphic:

      hieroglyphic

      Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.

      “That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and the
      reverse will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over,
      and we read:

      the reverse

      “So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
      dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at
      least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
      remains—‘Stand by us for God’s sake!’—proves that this young man
      saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which
      someone else could protect him. ‘_Us_,’ mark you! Another person
      was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man,
      who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the
      connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And what
      is the third source from which each of them sought for help
      against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to
      that.”

      “We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I
      suggested.

      “Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had
      already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to your
      notice that, counterfoil of another man’s message, there may be
      some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you.
      There is so much red tape in these matters. However, I have no
      doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be
      attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton,
      to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”

      There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which
      Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and
      darting, penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By
      the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow—nothing
      amiss with him?”

      “Sound as a bell.”

      “Have you ever known him ill?”

      “Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped
      his knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

      “Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he
      may have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will put
      one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear
      upon our future inquiry.”

      “One moment—one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked
      up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the
      doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-brimmed
      top-hat and a loose white necktie—the whole effect being that of
      a very rustic parson or of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in spite of
      his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp
      crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which commanded
      attention.

      “Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
      gentleman’s papers?” he asked.

      “I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
      disappearance.”

      “Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”

      “This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend, was referred to me by
      Scotland Yard.”

      “Who are you, sir?”

      “I am Cyril Overton.”

      “Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord
      Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would
      bring me. So you have instructed a detective?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

      “I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him,
      will be prepared to do that.”

      “But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”

      “In that case, no doubt his family——”

      “Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don’t look
      to me for a penny—not a penny! You understand that, Mr.
      Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I
      tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it
      is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not
      propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which you
      are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be
      anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly to
      account for what you do with them.”

      “Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask, in the
      meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for
      this young man’s disappearance?”

      “No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look
      after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I
      entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”

      “I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a
      mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don’t quite
      understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor
      man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for
      anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth has
      gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a
      gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from
      him some information as to your house, your habits, and your
      treasure.”

      The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
      neckcloth.

      “Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy!
      What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine
      lad—a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle
      away. I’ll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In
      the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no
      stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to money, well, so
      far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can always look to me.”

      Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give
      us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the
      private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated
      telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to
      find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord
      Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
      members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.

      There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel.
      We halted outside it.

      “It’s worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with a
      warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not
      reached that stage yet. I don’t suppose they remember faces in so
      busy a place. Let us venture it.”

      “I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to
      the young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake
      about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I
      very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the
      end. Could you tell me if this was so?”

      The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

      “What o’clock was it?” she asked.

      “A little after six.”

      “Whom was it to?”

      Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last
      words in it were ‘For God’s sake,’” he whispered, confidentially;
      “I am very anxious at getting no answer.”

      The young woman separated one of the forms.

      “This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon
      the counter.

      “Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said
      Holmes. “Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure!
      Good-morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind.”
      He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the
      street once more.

      “Well?” I asked.

      “We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different
      schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could
      hardly hope to succeed the very first time.”

      “And what have you gained?”

      “A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab.
      “King’s Cross Station,” said he.

      “We have a journey, then?”

      “Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the
      indications seem to me to point in that direction.”

      “Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray’s Inn Road, “have you
      any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don’t
      think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives
      are more obscure. Surely you don’t really imagine that he may be
      kidnapped in order to give information against his wealthy
      uncle?”

      “I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a
      very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the
      one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant
      old person.”

      “It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?”

      “I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and
      suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
      important match, and should involve the only man whose presence
      seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course, be
      a coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from
      betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the
      public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone’s while
      to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a
      race-horse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one
      is that this young man really is the heir of a great property,
      however modest his means may at present be, and it is not
      impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be
      concocted.”

      “These theories take no account of the telegram.”

      “Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid
      thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our
      attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the
      purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to
      Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure,
      but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
      cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it.”

      It was already dark when we reached the old university city.
      Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to
      the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had
      stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were
      shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the
      consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his
      table.

      It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession
      that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am
      aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school
      of the university, but a thinker of European reputation in more
      than one branch of science. Yet even without knowing his
      brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere
      glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes
      under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
      inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert
      mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I read Dr.
      Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend’s card in his hand, and he
      looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.

      “I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of
      your profession—one of which I by no means approve.”

      “In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
      criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

      “So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
      crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member
      of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official
      machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling
      is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets of
      private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are
      better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men
      who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment, for
      example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing
      with you.”

      “No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more
      important than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we
      are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we
      are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of
      private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case
      is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look upon
      me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the
      regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr.
      Godfrey Staunton.”

      “What about him?”

      “You know him, do you not?”

      “He is an intimate friend of mine.”

      “You are aware that he has disappeared?”

      “Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged
      features of the doctor.

      “He left his hotel last night—he has not been heard of.”

      “No doubt he will return.”

      “To-morrow is the ’Varsity football match.”

      “I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man’s
      fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The
      football match does not come within my horizon at all.”

      “I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr.
      Staunton’s fate. Do you know where he is?”

      “Certainly not.”

      “You have not seen him since yesterday?”

      “No, I have not.”

      “Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

      “Absolutely.”

      “Did you ever know him ill?”

      “Never.”

      Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor’s eyes. “Then
      perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen
      guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie
      Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers
      upon his desk.”

      The doctor flushed with anger.

      “I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
      explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”

      Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. “If you prefer a public
      explanation, it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have
      already told you that I can hush up that which others will be
      bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into
      your complete confidence.”

      “I know nothing about it.”

      “Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

      “Certainly not.”

      “Dear me, dear me—the postoffice again!” Holmes sighed, wearily.
      “A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by
      Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening—a telegram
      which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance—and yet
      you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go
      down to the office here and register a complaint.”

      Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark
      face was crimson with fury.

      “I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You
      can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to
      have anything to do either with him or with his agents. No,
      sir—not another word!” He rang the bell furiously. “John, show
      these gentlemen out!” A pompous butler ushered us severely to the
      door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out
      laughing.

      “Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
      character,” said he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turns his
      talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the
      illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are,
      stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we
      cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just
      opposite Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to our needs. If
      you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for
      the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”

      These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy
      proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the
      inn until nearly nine o’clock. He was pale and dejected, stained
      with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper
      was ready upon the table, and when his needs were satisfied and
      his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic and wholly
      philosophic view which was natural to him when his affairs were
      going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and
      glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys, under the
      glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor’s door.

      “It’s been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past
      six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or
      twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”

      “No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”

      “But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a
      lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general
      practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then,
      does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly
      irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”

      “His coachman——”

      “My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
      applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate
      depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude
      enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of
      my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were
      strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question.
      All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard
      of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor’s habits and
      of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his
      words, the carriage came round to the door.”

      “Could you not follow it?”

      “Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea
      did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle
      shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and
      was able to get started before the carriage was quite out of
      sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet
      distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights until we
      were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country road,
      when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage
      stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had
      also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that he
      feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did
      not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been
      more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once rode past
      the carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for a few
      miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the
      carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it
      became evident that it had turned down one of several side roads
      which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the
      carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of
      course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect these
      journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only
      inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that
      everything which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest
      to us, but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon
      anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears
      more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made
      the matter clear.”

      “We can follow him to-morrow.”

      “Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not
      familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend
      itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over
      to-night is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the
      man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly showed
      to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London
      developments at this address, and in the meantime we can only
      concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the
      obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon the
      counterfoil of Staunton’s urgent message. He knows where the
      young man is—to that I’ll swear, and if he knows, then it must be
      our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it
      must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as
      you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in
      that condition.”

      And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
      mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes
      passed across to me with a smile.

      SIR [it ran],—I can assure you that you are wasting your time in
      dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a
      window at the back of my brougham, and if you desire a
      twenty-mile ride which will lead you to the spot from which you
      started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you
      that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton,
      and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that
      gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to your
      employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge
      will certainly be wasted.

      Yours faithfully,
      LESLIE ARMSTRONG.

      “An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,” said Holmes.
      “Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know
      before I leave him.”

      “His carriage is at his door now,” said I. “There he is stepping
      into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose
      I try my luck upon the bicycle?”

      “No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural
      acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy
      doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some
      independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must leave
      you to your own devices, as the appearance of _two_ inquiring
      strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip than
      I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you in
      this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more favourable
      report to you before evening.”

      Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He
      came back at night weary and unsuccessful.

      “I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor’s general
      direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that
      side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other
      local news agencies. I have covered some ground. Chesterton,
      Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been explored, and
      have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance of a
      brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in such
      Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once more. Is there a
      telegram for me?”

      “Yes, I opened it. Here it is:

      “Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.”

      “I don’t understand it.”

      “Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in
      answer to a question from me. I’ll just send round a note to Mr.
      Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.
      By the way, is there any news of the match?”

      “Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its
      last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last
      sentences of the description say:

      “‘The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the
      unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton,
      whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack of
      combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in
      attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy
      and hard-working pack.’”

      “Then our friend Overton’s forebodings have been justified,” said
      Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and
      football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night,
      Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.”

      I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for
      he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I
      associated that instrument with the single weakness of his
      nature, and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his
      hand. He laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the
      table.

      “No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not
      upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather
      prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this
      syringe I base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small
      scouting expedition, and everything is favourable. Eat a good
      breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong’s
      trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food
      until I run him to his burrow.”

      “In that case,” said I, “we had best carry our breakfast with us,
      for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door.”

      “Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where
      I cannot follow him. When you have finished, come downstairs with
      me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent
      specialist in the work that lies before us.”

      When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where
      he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
      white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

      “Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey is the pride
      of the local draghounds—no very great flier, as his build will
      show, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not
      be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of
      middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of
      fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come
      along, and show what you can do.” He led him across to the
      doctor’s door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then
      with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
      tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an
      hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country
      road.

      “What have you done, Holmes?” I asked.

      “A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I
      walked into the doctor’s yard this morning, and shot my syringe
      full of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow
      aniseed from here to John o’Groat’s, and our friend, Armstrong,
      would have to drive through the Cam before he would shake Pompey
      off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This is how he gave me the
      slip the other night.”

      The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a
      grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another
      broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the
      direction of the town, which we had just quitted. The road took a
      sweep to the south of the town, and continued in the opposite
      direction to that in which we started.

      “This _détour_ has been entirely for our benefit, then?” said
      Holmes. “No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers led to
      nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it is
      worth, and one would like to know the reason for such elaborate
      deception. This should be the village of Trumpington to the right
      of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming round the
      corner. Quick, Watson—quick, or we are done!”

      He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant
      Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the
      hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr.
      Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his
      hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my companion’s
      graver face that he also had seen.

      “I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,” said he. “It
      cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the
      cottage in the field!”

      There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our
      journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate,
      where the marks of the brougham’s wheels were still to be seen. A
      footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to
      the hedge, and we hastened onward. My friend knocked at the
      little rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yet
      the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our ears—a
      kind of drone of misery and despair which was indescribably
      melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced back at
      the road which he had just traversed. A brougham was coming down
      it, and there could be no mistaking those grey horses.

      “By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried Holmes. “That settles
      it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes.”

      He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall. The droning
      sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep
      wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up, and I
      followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door, and we both
      stood appalled at the sight before us.

      A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her
      calm pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward
      from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed,
      half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was
      a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was
      he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until Holmes’s
      hand was on his shoulder.

      “Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?”

      “Yes, yes, I am—but you are too late. She is dead.”

      The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that
      we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance.
      Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation and
      to explain the alarm which had been caused to his friends by his
      sudden disappearance when there was a step upon the stairs, and
      there was the heavy, stern, questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at
      the door.

      “So, gentlemen,” said he, “you have attained your end and have
      certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your
      intrusion. I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can
      assure you that if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct
      would not pass with impunity.”

      “Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at
      cross-purposes,” said my friend, with dignity. “If you could step
      downstairs with us, we may each be able to give some light to the
      other upon this miserable affair.”

      A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the
      sitting-room below.

      “Well, sir?” said he.

      “I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not
      employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this
      matter are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it
      is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter
      ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there is nothing
      criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals than
      to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach of
      the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my
      discretion and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the
      papers.”

      Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the
      hand.

      “You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged you. I thank
      heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in
      this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make
      your acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the situation is
      very easily explained. A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in
      London for a time and became passionately attached to his
      landlady’s daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she was
      beautiful and as intelligent as she was good. No man need be
      ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed
      old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his
      marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew the
      lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I did
      all I could to help him to keep things straight. We did our very
      best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such a
      whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard it.
      Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has
      up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one save to me
      and to one excellent servant, who has at present gone for
      assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a terrible blow
      in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption
      of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with
      grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for he
      could not get out of it without explanations which would expose
      his secret. I tried to cheer him up by wire, and he sent me one
      in reply, imploring me to do all I could. This was the telegram
      which you appear in some inexplicable way to have seen. I did not
      tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew that he could do
      no good here, but I sent the truth to the girl’s father, and he
      very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey. The result was
      that he came straight away in a state bordering on frenzy, and
      has remained in the same state, kneeling at the end of her bed,
      until this morning death put an end to her sufferings. That is
      all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely upon your
      discretion and that of your friend.”

      Holmes grasped the doctor’s hand.

      “Come, Watson,” said he, and we passed from that house of grief
      into the pale sunlight of the winter day.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE

      It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of
      the winter of ’97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my
      shoulder. It was Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his
      eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was
      amiss.

      “Come, Watson, come!” he cried. “The game is afoot. Not a word!
      Into your clothes and come!”

      Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the
      silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first
      faint winter’s dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly
      see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us,
      blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes
      nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the
      same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken
      our fast.

      It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and
      taken our places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently
      thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his
      pocket, and read aloud:

      Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent, 3:30 A.M.
      MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:

      I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what
      promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in
      your line. Except for releasing the lady I will see that
      everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not
      to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace
      there.

      Yours faithfully,
      STANLEY HOPKINS.

      “Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his
      summons has been entirely justified,” said Holmes. “I fancy that
      every one of his cases has found its way into your collection,
      and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection,
      which atones for much which I deplore in your narratives. Your
      fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of a
      story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what might
      have been an instructive and even classical series of
      demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and
      delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may
      excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”

      “Why do you not write them yourself?” I said, with some
      bitterness.

      “I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know,
      fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the
      composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of
      detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a
      case of murder.”

      “You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

      “I should say so. Hopkins’s writing shows considerable agitation,
      and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been
      violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. A mere
      suicide would not have caused him to send for me. As to the
      release of the lady, it would appear that she has been locked in
      her room during the tragedy. We are moving in high life, Watson,
      crackling paper, ‘E.B.’ monogram, coat-of-arms, picturesque
      address. I think that friend Hopkins will live up to his
      reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. The
      crime was committed before twelve last night.”

      “How can you possibly tell?”

      “By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time. The
      local police had to be called in, they had to communicate with
      Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send
      for me. All that makes a fair night’s work. Well, here we are at
      Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest.”

      A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought
      us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old
      lodge-keeper, whose haggard face bore the reflection of some
      great disaster. The avenue ran through a noble park, between
      lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house,
      pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The central part
      was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the large
      windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one
      wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful
      figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins
      confronted us in the open doorway.

      “I’m very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, Dr.
      Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not
      have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself, she
      has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not
      much left for us to do. You remember that Lewisham gang of
      burglars?”

      “What, the three Randalls?”

      “Exactly; the father and two sons. It’s their work. I have not a
      doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were
      seen and described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so
      near, but it is they, beyond all doubt. It’s a hanging matter
      this time.”

      “Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

      “Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker.”

      “Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.”

      “Exactly—one of the richest men in Kent—Lady Brackenstall is in
      the morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful
      experience. She seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think
      you had best see her and hear her account of the facts. Then we
      will examine the dining-room together.”

      Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so
      graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a
      face. She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no
      doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such
      colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and
      haggard. Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for over
      one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a
      tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with vinegar and
      water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her quick,
      observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expression
      of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her
      courage had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was
      enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a
      black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her.

      “I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said,
      wearily. “Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it
      necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they
      been in the dining-room yet?”

      “I thought they had better hear your ladyship’s story first.”

      “I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to
      me to think of him still lying there.” She shuddered and buried
      her face in her hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back
      from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation.

      “You have other injuries, madam! What is this?” Two vivid red
      spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily
      covered it.

      “It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business
      to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you
      all I can.

      “I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married
      about a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to
      conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that
      all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to attempt
      to deny it. Perhaps the fault may be partly mine. I was brought
      up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia,
      and this English life, with its proprieties and its primness, is
      not congenial to me. But the main reason lies in the one fact,
      which is notorious to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was
      a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an hour is
      unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive and
      high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a
      sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is
      binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a
      curse upon the land—God will not let such wickedness endure.” For
      an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing
      from under the terrible mark upon her brow. Then the strong,
      soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down on to the
      cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate sobbing. At
      last she continued:

      “I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that
      in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This
      central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen
      behind and our bedroom above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my
      room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who
      are in the farther wing. This must have been well-known to the
      robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.

      “Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had
      already gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had
      remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed her
      services. I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a
      book. Then I walked round to see that all was right before I went
      upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I have
      explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be trusted. I went into
      the kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the gun-room, the
      billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As
      I approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I
      suddenly felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was
      open. I flung the curtain aside and found myself face to face
      with a broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped into
      the room. The window is a long French one, which really forms a
      door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit in my
      hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two others,
      who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the fellow
      was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then
      by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a
      savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the
      ground. I must have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when
      I came to myself, I found that they had torn down the bell-rope,
      and had secured me tightly to the oaken chair which stands at the
      head of the dining-table. I was so firmly bound that I could not
      move, and a handkerchief round my mouth prevented me from
      uttering a sound. It was at this instant that my unfortunate
      husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some suspicious
      sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found. He was
      dressed in nightshirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn
      cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the burglars, but another—it was
      an elderly man—stooped, picked the poker out of the grate and
      struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell with a groan and
      never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only
      have been for a very few minutes during which I was insensible.
      When I opened my eyes I found that they had collected the silver
      from the sideboard, and they had drawn a bottle of wine which
      stood there. Each of them had a glass in his hand. I have already
      told you, have I not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the
      others young, hairless lads. They might have been a father with
      his two sons. They talked together in whispers. Then they came
      over and made sure that I was securely bound. Finally they
      withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a quarter
      of an hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams
      brought the maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon
      alarmed, and we sent for the local police, who instantly
      communicated with London. That is really all that I can tell you,
      gentlemen, and I trust that it will not be necessary for me to go
      over so painful a story again.”

      “Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.

      “I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall’s
      patience and time,” said Holmes. “Before I go into the
      dining-room, I should like to hear your experience.” He looked at
      the maid.

      “I saw the men before ever they came into the house,” said she.
      “As I sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight
      down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the
      time. It was more than an hour after that I heard my mistress
      scream, and down I ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as she says,
      and him on the floor, with his blood and brains over the room. It
      was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied there, and her
      very dress spotted with him, but she never wanted courage, did
      Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall of Abbey
      Grange hasn’t learned new ways. You’ve questioned her long
      enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room,
      just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.”

      With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
      mistress and led her from the room.

      “She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins. “Nursed her
      as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left
      Australia, eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and
      the kind of maid you don’t pick up nowadays. This way, Mr.
      Holmes, if you please!”

      The keen interest had passed out of Holmes’s expressive face, and
      I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had
      departed. There still remained an arrest to be effected, but what
      were these commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands with
      them? An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he has
      been called in for a case of measles would experience something
      of the annoyance which I read in my friend’s eyes. Yet the scene
      in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was sufficiently strange
      to arrest his attention and to recall his waning interest.

      It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling,
      oaken panelling, and a fine array of deer’s heads and ancient
      weapons around the walls. At the further end from the door was
      the high French window of which we had heard. Three smaller
      windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold
      winter sunshine. On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with a
      massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace was a
      heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the bottom. In and
      out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord, which was
      secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the
      lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which
      it had been secured still remained. These details only struck our
      attention afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by
      the terrible object which lay upon the tigerskin hearthrug in
      front of the fire.

      It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of
      age. He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white
      teeth grinning through his short, black beard. His two clenched
      hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick
      lay across them. His dark, handsome, aquiline features were
      convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his
      dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He had evidently
      been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a
      foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected from
      his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room
      bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck
      him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by
      the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the indescribable
      wreck which it had wrought.

      “He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall,” he remarked.

      “Yes,” said Hopkins. “I have some record of the fellow, and he is
      a rough customer.”

      “You should have no difficulty in getting him.”

      “Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and
      there was some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we
      know that the gang are here, I don’t see how they can escape. We
      have the news at every seaport already, and a reward will be
      offered before evening. What beats me is how they could have done
      so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could describe them and
      that we could not fail to recognize the description.”

      “Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence Lady
      Brackenstall as well.”

      “They may not have realized,” I suggested, “that she had
      recovered from her faint.”

      “That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they would
      not take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem
      to have heard some queer stories about him.”

      “He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend
      when he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he
      seldom really went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him
      at such times, and he was capable of anything. From what I hear,
      in spite of all his wealth and his title, he very nearly came our
      way once or twice. There was a scandal about his drenching a dog
      with petroleum and setting it on fire—her ladyship’s dog, to make
      the matter worse—and that was only hushed up with difficulty.
      Then he threw a decanter at that maid, Theresa Wright—there was
      trouble about that. On the whole, and between ourselves, it will
      be a brighter house without him. What are you looking at now?”

      Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the
      knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured.
      Then he carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it
      had snapped off when the burglar had dragged it down.

      “When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have
      rung loudly,” he remarked.

      “No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of
      the house.”

      “How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull
      at a bell-rope in that reckless fashion?”

      “Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I
      have asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that
      this fellow must have known the house and its habits. He must
      have perfectly understood that the servants would all be in bed
      at that comparatively early hour, and that no one could possibly
      hear a bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore, he must have been in
      close league with one of the servants. Surely that is evident.
      But there are eight servants, and all of good character.”

      “Other things being equal,” said Holmes, “one would suspect the
      one at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would
      involve treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems
      devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when you have
      Randall you will probably find no difficulty in securing his
      accomplice. The lady’s story certainly seems to be corroborated,
      if it needed corroboration, by every detail which we see before
      us.” He walked to the French window and threw it open. “There are
      no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and one would not
      expect them. I see that these candles in the mantelpiece have
      been lighted.”

      “Yes, it was by their light and that of the lady’s bedroom
      candle, that the burglars saw their way about.”

      “And what did they take?”

      “Well, they did not take much—only half a dozen articles of plate
      off the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were
      themselves so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did
      not ransack the house, as they would otherwise have done.”

      “No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I
      understand.”

      “To steady their nerves.”

      “Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been
      untouched, I suppose?”

      “Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it.”

      “Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?”

      The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with
      wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing. The
      bottle stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a
      long, deeply stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the
      bottle showed that it was no common vintage which the murderers
      had enjoyed.

      A change had come over Holmes’s manner. He had lost his listless
      expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his
      keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

      “How did they draw it?” he asked.

      Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table
      linen and a large corkscrew.

      “Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?”

      “No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the
      bottle was opened.”

      “Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was _not_ used. This
      bottle was opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a
      knife, and not more than an inch and a half long. If you will
      examine the top of the cork, you will observe that the screw was
      driven in three times before the cork was extracted. It has never
      been transfixed. This long screw would have transfixed it and
      drawn it up with a single pull. When you catch this fellow, you
      will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his
      possession.”

      “Excellent!” said Hopkins.

      “But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall
      actually _saw_ the three men drinking, did she not?”

      “Yes; she was clear about that.”

      “Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet,
      you must admit, that the three glasses are very remarkable,
      Hopkins. What? You see nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it
      pass. Perhaps, when a man has special knowledge and special
      powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex
      explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of course, it must be
      a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning, Hopkins. I
      don’t see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear to have
      your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is
      arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust
      that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful
      conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves
      more profitably at home.”

      During our return journey, I could see by Holmes’s face that he
      was much puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now
      and then, by an effort, he would throw off the impression, and
      talk as if the matter were clear, but then his doubts would
      settle down upon him again, and his knitted brows and abstracted
      eyes would show that his thoughts had gone back once more to the
      great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in which this midnight
      tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a sudden impulse, just as
      our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on to
      the platform and pulled me out after him.

      “Excuse me, my dear fellow,” said he, as we watched the rear
      carriages of our train disappearing round a curve, “I am sorry to
      make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life,
      Watson, I simply _can’t_ leave that case in this condition. Every
      instinct that I possess cries out against it. It’s wrong—it’s all
      wrong—I’ll swear that it’s wrong. And yet the lady’s story was
      complete, the maid’s corroboration was sufficient, the detail was
      fairly exact. What have I to put up against that? Three
      wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken things for
      granted, if I had examined everything with the care which I
      should have shown had we approached the case _de novo_ and had no
      cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have found
      something more definite to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down
      on this bench, Watson, until a train for Chiselhurst arrives, and
      allow me to lay the evidence before you, imploring you in the
      first instance to dismiss from your mind the idea that anything
      which the maid or her mistress may have said must necessarily be
      true. The lady’s charming personality must not be permitted to
      warp our judgment.

      “Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in
      cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a
      considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of
      them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would
      naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which
      imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact,
      burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as a rule,
      only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without
      embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual
      for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for
      burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one
      would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream, it is
      unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are
      sufficient to overpower one man, it is unusual for them to be
      content with a limited plunder when there was much more within
      their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual
      for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these
      unusuals strike you, Watson?”

      “Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each
      of them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of
      all, as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the
      chair.”

      “Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident
      that they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way
      that she could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at
      any rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain
      element of improbability about the lady’s story? And now, on the
      top of this, comes the incident of the wineglasses.”

      “What about the wineglasses?”

      “Can you see them in your mind’s eye?”

      “I see them clearly.”

      “We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you
      as likely?”

      “Why not? There was wine in each glass.”

      “Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must have
      noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”

      “The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing.”

      “Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable
      that the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily
      charged with it. There are two possible explanations, and only
      two. One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle was
      violently agitated, and so the third glass received the beeswing.
      That does not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that I am
      right.”

      “What, then, do you suppose?”

      “That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were
      poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression
      that three people had been here. In that way all the beeswing
      would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced
      that this is so. But if I have hit upon the true explanation of
      this one small phenomenon, then in an instant the case rises from
      the commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable, for it can only
      mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have deliberately lied
      to us, that not one word of their story is to be believed, that
      they have some very strong reason for covering the real criminal,
      and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any
      help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and
      here, Watson, is the Sydenham train.”

      The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our
      return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had
      gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the
      dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted himself
      for two hours to one of those minute and laborious investigations
      which form the solid basis on which his brilliant edifices of
      deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an interested
      student who observes the demonstration of his professor, I
      followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the
      curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope—each in turn was
      minutely examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate
      baronet had been removed, and all else remained as we had seen it
      in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on
      to the massive mantelpiece. Far above his head hung the few
      inches of red cord which were still attached to the wire. For a
      long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt to get
      nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on the
      wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end
      of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself
      which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he sprang down
      with an ejaculation of satisfaction.

      “It’s all right, Watson,” said he. “We have got our case—one of
      the most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how
      slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the
      blunder of my lifetime! Now, I think that, with a few missing
      links, my chain is almost complete.”

      “You have got your men?”

      “Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong
      as a lion—witness the blow that bent that poker! Six foot three
      in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers,
      finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story
      is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the
      handiwork of a very remarkable individual. And yet, in that
      bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have left us a
      doubt.”

      “Where was the clue?”

      “Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would
      you expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached
      to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the top, as
      this one has done?”

      “Because it is frayed there?”

      “Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was
      cunning enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is
      not frayed. You could not observe that from here, but if you were
      on the mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off without
      any mark of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what occurred.
      The man needed the rope. He would not tear it down for fear of
      giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang
      up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his knee on
      the bracket—you will see the impression in the dust—and so got
      his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by
      at least three inches—from which I infer that he is at least
      three inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat
      of the oaken chair! What is it?”

      “Blood.”

      “Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady’s story out of
      court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done,
      how comes that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair _after_
      the death of her husband. I’ll wager that the black dress shows a
      corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met our Waterloo,
      Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in defeat and ends
      in victory. I should like now to have a few words with the nurse,
      Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if we are to get the
      information which we want.”

      She was an interesting person, this stern Australian
      nurse—taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before
      Holmes’s pleasant manner and frank acceptance of all that she
      said thawed her into a corresponding amiability. She did not
      attempt to conceal her hatred for her late employer.

      “Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard
      him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not
      dare to speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that
      he threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had but
      left my bonny bird alone. He was forever ill-treating her, and
      she too proud to complain. She will not even tell me all that he
      has done to her. She never told me of those marks on her arm that
      you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come from a
      stab with a hatpin. The sly devil—God forgive me that I should
      speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, if ever
      one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him—only
      eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen
      years. She had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first
      voyage—she had never been from home before. He won her with his
      title and his money and his false London ways. If she made a
      mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did. What month did
      we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after we arrived. We
      arrived in June, and it was July. They were married in January of
      last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room again, and I have
      no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too much of her,
      for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will stand.”

      Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked
      brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began
      once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress’s brow.

      “I hope,” said the lady, “that you have not come to cross-examine
      me again?”

      “No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, “I will not cause
      you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole
      desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced that
      you are a much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend and
      trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust.”

      “What do you want me to do?”

      “To tell me the truth.”

      “Mr. Holmes!”

      “No, no, Lady Brackenstall—it is no use. You may have heard of
      any little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the
      fact that your story is an absolute fabrication.”

      Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and
      frightened eyes.

      “You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do you mean to say
      that my mistress has told a lie?”

      Holmes rose from his chair.

      “Have you nothing to tell me?”

      “I have told you everything.”

      “Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be
      frank?”

      For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then
      some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

      “I have told you all I know.”

      Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he
      said, and without another word we left the room and the house.
      There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way.
      It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the
      convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then
      passed on to the lodge gate. There he scribbled a short note for
      Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper.

      “It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do
      something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,”
      said he. “I will not quite take him into my confidence yet. I
      think our next scene of operations must be the shipping office of
      the Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end of Pall
      Mall, if I remember right. There is a second line of steamers
      which connect South Australia with England, but we will draw the
      larger cover first.”

      Holmes’s card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention,
      and he was not long in acquiring all the information he needed.
      In June of ’95, only one of their line had reached a home port.
      It was the _Rock of Gibraltar_, their largest and best boat. A
      reference to the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser, of
      Adelaide, with her maid had made the voyage in her. The boat was
      now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on her way to Australia.
      Her officers were the same as in ’95, with one exception. The
      first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain and was
      to take charge of their new ship, the _Bass Rock_, sailing in two
      days’ time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was
      likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to
      wait for him.

      No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to
      know more about his record and character.

      His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet
      to touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a
      wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his ship—hot-headed,
      excitable, but loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith
      of the information with which Holmes left the office of the
      Adelaide-Southampton company. Thence he drove to Scotland Yard,
      but, instead of entering, he sat in his cab with his brows drawn
      down, lost in profound thought. Finally he drove round to the
      Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message, and then, at
      last, we made for Baker Street once more.

      “No, I couldn’t do it, Watson,” said he, as we reentered our
      room. “Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would
      save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more
      real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done
      by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather play
      tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience. Let
      us know a little more before we act.”

      Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins.
      Things were not going very well with him.

      “I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do
      sometimes think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how
      on earth could you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom
      of that pond?”

      “I didn’t know it.”

      “But you told me to examine it.”

      “You got it, then?”

      “Yes, I got it.”

      “I am very glad if I have helped you.”

      “But you haven’t helped me. You have made the affair far more
      difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and
      then throw it into the nearest pond?”

      “It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going
      on the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did
      not want it—who merely took it for a blind, as it were—then they
      would naturally be anxious to get rid of it.”

      “But why should such an idea cross your mind?”

      “Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the
      French window, there was the pond with one tempting little hole
      in the ice, right in front of their noses. Could there be a
      better hiding-place?”

      “Ah, a hiding-place—that is better!” cried Stanley Hopkins. “Yes,
      yes, I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the
      roads, they were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they
      sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the coast
      was clear. Excellent, Mr. Holmes—that is better than your idea of
      a blind.”

      “Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that
      my own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have
      ended in discovering the silver.”

      “Yes, sir—yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad
      setback.”

      “A setback?”

      “Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this
      morning.”

      “Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory
      that they committed a murder in Kent last night.”

      “It is fatal, Mr. Holmes—absolutely fatal. Still, there are other
      gangs of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang
      of which the police have never heard.”

      “Quite so, it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?”

      “Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to the
      bottom of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?”

      “I have given you one.”

      “Which?”

      “Well, I suggested a blind.”

      “But why, Mr. Holmes, why?”

      “Ah, that’s the question, of course. But I commend the idea to
      your mind. You might possibly find that there was something in
      it. You won’t stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know
      how you get on.”

      Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to
      the matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet
      to the cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his
      watch.

      “I expect developments, Watson.”

      “When?”

      “Now—within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather
      badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?”

      “I trust your judgment.”

      “A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way:
      what I know is unofficial, what he knows is official. I have the
      right to private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all,
      or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not
      put him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my information
      until my own mind is clear upon the matter.”

      “But when will that be?”

      “The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of
      a remarkable little drama.”

      There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to
      admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He
      was a very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a
      skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy step,
      which showed that the huge frame was as active as it was strong.
      He closed the door behind him, and then he stood with clenched
      hands and heaving breast, choking down some overmastering
      emotion.

      “Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?”

      Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the
      other of us with questioning eyes.

      “I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard
      that you had been down to the office. There was no getting away
      from you. Let’s hear the worst. What are you going to do with me?
      Arrest me? Speak out, man! You can’t sit there and play with me
      like a cat with a mouse.”

      “Give him a cigar,” said Holmes. “Bite on that, Captain Crocker,
      and don’t let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit
      here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common
      criminal, you may be sure of that. Be frank with me and we may do
      some good. Play tricks with me, and I’ll crush you.”

      “What do you wish me to do?”

      “To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey
      Grange last night—a _true_ account, mind you, with nothing added
      and nothing taken off. I know so much already that if you go one
      inch off the straight, I’ll blow this police whistle from my
      window and the affair goes out of my hands forever.”

      The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his
      great sunburned hand.

      “I’ll chance it,” he cried. “I believe you are a man of your
      word, and a white man, and I’ll tell you the whole story. But one
      thing I will say first. So far as I am concerned, I regret
      nothing and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be
      proud of the job. Damn the beast, if he had as many lives as a
      cat, he would owe them all to me! But it’s the lady, Mary—Mary
      Fraser—for never will I call her by that accursed name. When I
      think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life just
      to bring one smile to her dear face, it’s that that turns my soul
      into water. And yet—and yet—what less could I do? I’ll tell you
      my story, gentlemen, and then I’ll ask you, as man to man, what
      less could I do?

      “I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect
      that you know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was
      first officer of the _Rock of Gibraltar_. From the first day I
      met her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage I
      loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the
      darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship
      because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never engaged
      to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I
      have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all
      good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a
      free woman, but I could never again be a free man.

      “Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage. Well,
      why shouldn’t she marry whom she liked? Title and money—who could
      carry them better than she? She was born for all that is
      beautiful and dainty. I didn’t grieve over her marriage. I was
      not such a selfish hound as that. I just rejoiced that good luck
      had come her way, and that she had not thrown herself away on a
      penniless sailor. That’s how I loved Mary Fraser.

      “Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was
      promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait
      for a couple of months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in
      a country lane I met Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me
      all about her, about him, about everything. I tell you,
      gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken hound, that he
      should dare to raise his hand to her, whose boots he was not
      worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary herself—and
      met her again. Then she would meet me no more. But the other day
      I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage within a week,
      and I determined that I would see her once before I left. Theresa
      was always my friend, for she loved Mary and hated this villain
      almost as much as I did. From her I learned the ways of the
      house. Mary used to sit up reading in her own little room
      downstairs. I crept round there last night and scratched at the
      window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I
      know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the
      frosty night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front
      window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me into the
      dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips things that made my
      blood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the
      woman I loved. Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just
      inside the window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when he
      rushed like a madman into the room, called her the vilest name
      that a man could use to a woman, and welted her across the face
      with the stick he had in his hand. I had sprung for the poker,
      and it was a fair fight between us. See here, on my arm, where
      his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went through him
      as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was sorry? Not
      I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it was his
      life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this
      madman? That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what
      would either of you gentlemen have done, if you had been in my
      position?

      “She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old
      Theresa down from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on
      the sideboard, and I opened it and poured a little between Mary’s
      lips, for she was half dead with shock. Then I took a drop
      myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, and it was her plot as much
      as mine. We must make it appear that burglars had done the thing.
      Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress, while I
      swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed her in her
      chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it look
      natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar could
      have got up there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates and
      pots of silver, to carry out the idea of the robbery, and there I
      left them, with orders to give the alarm when I had a quarter of
      an hour’s start. I dropped the silver into the pond, and made off
      for Sydenham, feeling that for once in my life I had done a real
      good night’s work. And that’s the truth and the whole truth, Mr.
      Holmes, if it costs me my neck.”

      Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the room,
      and shook our visitor by the hand.

      “That’s what I think,” said he. “I know that every word is true,
      for you have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but
      an acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from
      the bracket, and no one but a sailor could have made the knots
      with which the cord was fastened to the chair. Only once had this
      lady been brought into contact with sailors, and that was on her
      voyage, and it was someone of her own class of life, since she
      was trying hard to shield him, and so showing that she loved him.
      You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon you when once
      I had started upon the right trail.”

      “I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge.”

      “And the police haven’t, nor will they, to the best of my belief.
      Now, look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious matter,
      though I am willing to admit that you acted under the most
      extreme provocation to which any man could be subjected. I am not
      sure that in defence of your own life your action will not be
      pronounced legitimate. However, that is for a British jury to
      decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you that, if you
      choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I will promise
      you that no one will hinder you.”

      “And then it will all come out?”

      “Certainly it will come out.”

      The sailor flushed with anger.

      “What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of
      law to understand that Mary would be held as accomplice. Do you
      think I would leave her alone to face the music while I slunk
      away? No, sir, let them do their worst upon me, but for heaven’s
      sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way of keeping my poor Mary out of
      the courts.”

      Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

      “I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it
      is a great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have
      given Hopkins an excellent hint and if he can’t avail himself of
      it I can do no more. See here, Captain Crocker, we’ll do this in
      due form of law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British
      jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently fitted to
      represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman of the jury, you
      have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner guilty or not
      guilty?”

      “Not guilty, my lord,” said I.

      “_Vox populi, vox Dei_. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So
      long as the law does not find some other victim you are safe from
      me. Come back to this lady in a year, and may her future and
      yours justify us in the judgment which we have pronounced this
      night!”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN

      I had intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” to be the last
      of those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I
      should ever communicate to the public. This resolution of mine
      was not due to any lack of material, since I have notes of many
      hundreds of cases to which I have never alluded, nor was it
      caused by any waning interest on the part of my readers in the
      singular personality and unique methods of this remarkable man.
      The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes has shown
      to the continued publication of his experiences. So long as he
      was in actual professional practice the records of his successes
      were of some practical value to him, but since he has definitely
      retired from London and betaken himself to study and bee-farming
      on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him, and he
      has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should
      be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him
      that I had given a promise that “The Adventure of the Second
      Stain” should be published when the times were ripe, and pointing
      out to him that it is only appropriate that this long series of
      episodes should culminate in the most important international
      case which he has ever been called upon to handle, that I at last
      succeeded in obtaining his consent that a carefully guarded
      account of the incident should at last be laid before the public.
      If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in certain
      details, the public will readily understand that there is an
      excellent reason for my reticence.

      It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be
      nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two
      visitors of European fame within the walls of our humble room in
      Baker Street. The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and
      dominant, was none other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger,
      twice Premier of Britain. The other, dark, clear-cut, and
      elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with every beauty
      of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope,
      Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in
      the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered
      settee, and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces
      that it was business of the most pressing importance which had
      brought them. The Premier’s thin, blue-veined hands were clasped
      tightly over the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt,
      ascetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The European
      Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with the
      seals of his watch-chain.

      “When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight
      o’clock this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It
      was at his suggestion that we have both come to you.”

      “Have you informed the police?”

      “No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive
      manner for which he was famous. “We have not done so, nor is it
      possible that we should do so. To inform the police must, in the
      long run, mean to inform the public. This is what we particularly
      desire to avoid.”

      “And why, sir?”

      “Because the document in question is of such immense importance
      that its publication might very easily—I might almost say
      probably—lead to European complications of the utmost moment. It
      is not too much to say that peace or war may hang upon the issue.
      Unless its recovery can be attended with the utmost secrecy, then
      it may as well not be recovered at all, for all that is aimed at
      by those who have taken it is that its contents should be
      generally known.”

      “I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged
      if you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this
      document disappeared.”

      “That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter—for
      it was a letter from a foreign potentate—was received six days
      ago. It was of such importance that I have never left it in my
      safe, but have taken it across each evening to my house in
      Whitehall Terrace, and kept it in my bedroom in a locked
      despatch-box. It was there last night. Of that I am certain. I
      actually opened the box while I was dressing for dinner and saw
      the document inside. This morning it was gone. The despatch-box
      had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all night. I am
      a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to swear
      that no one could have entered the room during the night. And yet
      I repeat that the paper is gone.”

      “What time did you dine?”

      “Half-past seven.”

      “How long was it before you went to bed?”

      “My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was
      half-past eleven before we went to our room.”

      “Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?”

      “No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid
      in the morning, and my valet, or my wife’s maid, during the rest
      of the day. They are both trusty servants who have been with us
      for some time. Besides, neither of them could possibly have known
      that there was anything more valuable than the ordinary
      departmental papers in my despatch-box.”

      “Who did know of the existence of that letter?”

      “No one in the house.”

      “Surely your wife knew?”

      “No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper
      this morning.”

      The Premier nodded approvingly.

      “I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,”
      said he. “I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this
      importance it would rise superior to the most intimate domestic
      ties.”

      The European Secretary bowed.

      “You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have
      never breathed one word to my wife upon this matter.”

      “Could she have guessed?”

      “No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed—nor could anyone have
      guessed.”

      “Have you lost any documents before?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this
      letter?”

      “Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but the
      pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was
      increased by the solemn warning which was given by the Prime
      Minister. Good heavens, to think that within a few hours I should
      myself have lost it!” His handsome face was distorted with a
      spasm of despair, and his hands tore at his hair. For a moment we
      caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive, ardent, keenly
      sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was replaced, and the
      gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members of the Cabinet
      there are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who know
      of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”

      “But abroad?”

      “I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote
      it. I am well convinced that his Ministers—that the usual
      official channels have not been employed.”

      Holmes considered for some little time.

      “Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document
      is, and why its disappearance should have such momentous
      consequences?”

      The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier’s
      shaggy eyebrows gathered in a frown.

      “Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue
      colour. There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion.
      It is addressed in large, bold handwriting to——”

      “I fear, sir,” said Holmes, “that, interesting and indeed
      essential as these details are, my inquiries must go more to the
      root of things. What _was_ the letter?”

      “That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that
      I cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the
      aid of the powers which you are said to possess you can find such
      an envelope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have
      deserved well of your country, and earned any reward which it
      lies in our power to bestow.”

      Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

      “You are two of the most busy men in the country,” said he, “and
      in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I
      regret exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any
      continuation of this interview would be a waste of time.”

      The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of
      his deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. “I am not
      accustomed, sir,” he began, but mastered his anger and resumed
      his seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the
      old statesman shrugged his shoulders.

      “We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right,
      and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give
      you our entire confidence.”

      “I agree with you,” said the younger statesman.

      “Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that
      of your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism
      also, for I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the
      country than that this affair should come out.”

      “You may safely trust us.”

      “The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has
      been ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this
      country. It has been written hurriedly and upon his own
      responsibility entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers
      know nothing of the matter. At the same time it is couched in so
      unfortunate a manner, and certain phrases in it are of so
      provocative a character, that its publication would undoubtedly
      lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this country. There
      would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that
      within a week of the publication of that letter this country
      would be involved in a great war.”

      Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the
      Premier.

      “Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter—this letter which may
      well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of
      a hundred thousand men—which has become lost in this
      unaccountable fashion.”

      “Have you informed the sender?”

      “Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched.”

      “Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter.”

      “No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
      understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed
      manner. It would be a greater blow to him and to his country than
      to us if this letter were to come out.”

      “If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come
      out? Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?”

      “There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high
      international politics. But if you consider the European
      situation you will have no difficulty in perceiving the motive.
      The whole of Europe is an armed camp. There is a double league
      which makes a fair balance of military power. Great Britain holds
      the scales. If Britain were driven into war with one confederacy,
      it would assure the supremacy of the other confederacy, whether
      they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?”

      “Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this
      potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a
      breach between his country and ours?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the
      hands of an enemy?”

      “To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably
      speeding on its way thither at the present instant as fast as
      steam can take it.”

      Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned
      aloud. The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

      “It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you.
      There is no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes,
      you are in full possession of the facts. What course do you
      recommend?”

      Holmes shook his head mournfully.

      “You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there
      will be war?”

      “I think it is very probable.”

      “Then, sir, prepare for war.”

      “That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken
      after eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope
      and his wife were both in the room from that hour until the loss
      was found out. It was taken, then, yesterday evening between
      seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour,
      since whoever took it evidently knew that it was there and would
      naturally secure it as early as possible. Now, sir, if a document
      of this importance were taken at that hour, where can it be now?
      No one has any reason to retain it. It has been passed rapidly on
      to those who need it. What chance have we now to overtake or even
      to trace it? It is beyond our reach.”

      The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

      “What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the
      matter is indeed out of our hands.”

      “Let us presume, for argument’s sake, that the document was taken
      by the maid or by the valet——”

      “They are both old and tried servants.”

      “I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor,
      that there is no entrance from without, and that from within no
      one could go up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the
      house who has taken it. To whom would the thief take it? To one
      of several international spies and secret agents, whose names are
      tolerably familiar to me. There are three who may be said to be
      the heads of their profession. I will begin my research by going
      round and finding if each of them is at his post. If one is
      missing—especially if he has disappeared since last night—we will
      have some indication as to where the document has gone.”

      “Why should he be missing?” asked the European Secretary. “He
      would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not.”

      “I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their
      relations with the Embassies are often strained.”

      The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

      “I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a
      prize to headquarters with his own hands. I think that your
      course of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot
      neglect all our other duties on account of this one misfortune.
      Should there be any fresh developments during the day we shall
      communicate with you, and you will no doubt let us know the
      results of your own inquiries.”

      The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

      When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
      silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had
      opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime
      which had occurred in London the night before, when my friend
      gave an exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down
      upon the mantelpiece.

      “Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. The
      situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could
      be sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it
      has not yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question
      of money with these fellows, and I have the British treasury
      behind me. If it’s on the market I’ll buy it—if it means another
      penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable that the fellow might
      hold it back to see what bids come from this side before he tries
      his luck on the other. There are only those three capable of
      playing so bold a game—there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and
      Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.”

      I glanced at my morning paper.

      “Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?”

      “Yes.”

      “You will not see him.”

      “Why not?”

      “He was murdered in his house last night.”

      My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our
      adventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized
      how completely I had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and
      then snatched the paper from my hands. This was the paragraph
      which I had been engaged in reading when he rose from his chair:

      MURDER IN WESTMINSTER

      A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16,
      Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
      eighteenth century houses which lie between the river and the
      Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of
      Parliament. This small but select mansion has been inhabited for
      some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well-known in society circles
      both on account of his charming personality and because he has
      the well-deserved reputation of being one of the best amateur
      tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four
      years of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an
      elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former retires
      early and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet was out for
      the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o’clock
      onward Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during
      that time has not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve
      Police-constable Barrett, passing along Godolphin Street observed
      that the door of No. 16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no
      answer. Perceiving a light in the front room, he advanced into
      the passage and again knocked, but without reply. He then pushed
      open the door and entered. The room was in a state of wild
      disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side, and one
      chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and
      still grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the
      house. He had been stabbed to the heart and must have died
      instantly. The knife with which the crime had been committed was
      a curved Indian dagger, plucked down from a trophy of Oriental
      arms which adorned one of the walls. Robbery does not appear to
      have been the motive of the crime, for there had been no attempt
      to remove the valuable contents of the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas
      was so well-known and popular that his violent and mysterious
      fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a
      widespread circle of friends.

      “Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” asked Holmes, after a
      long pause.

      “It is an amazing coincidence.”

      “A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
      possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death
      during the very hours when we know that that drama was being
      enacted. The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No
      figures could express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events
      are connected—_must_ be connected. It is for us to find the
      connection.”

      “But now the official police must know all.”

      “Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
      know—and shall know—nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only _we_ know
      of both events, and can trace the relation between them. There is
      one obvious point which would, in any case, have turned my
      suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only
      a few minutes’ walk from Whitehall Terrace. The other secret
      agents whom I have named live in the extreme West End. It was
      easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establish a
      connection or receive a message from the European Secretary’s
      household—a small thing, and yet where events are compressed into
      a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?”

      Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady’s card upon her salver.
      Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to
      me.

      “Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step
      up,” said he.

      A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished
      that morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most
      lovely woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the
      youngest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description
      of it, and no contemplation of colourless photographs, had
      prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful
      colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that
      autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the first
      thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was
      paled with emotion, the eyes were bright but it was the
      brightness of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in
      an effort after self-command. Terror—not beauty—was what sprang
      first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an instant
      in the open door.

      “Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?”

      “Yes, madam, he has been here.”

      “Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here.”
      Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

      “Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that
      you will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that I
      cannot make any unconditional promise.”

      She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
      window. It was a queenly presence—tall, graceful, and intensely
      womanly. “Mr. Holmes,” she said—and her white-gloved hands
      clasped and unclasped as she spoke—“I will speak frankly to you
      in the hopes that it may induce you to speak frankly in return.
      There is complete confidence between my husband and me on all
      matters save one. That one is politics. On this his lips are
      sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was a
      most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know that a
      paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my
      husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it
      is essential—essential, I say—that I should thoroughly understand
      it. You are the only other person, save only these politicians,
      who knows the true facts. I beg you then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me
      exactly what has happened and what it will lead to. Tell me all,
      Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client’s interests keep you
      silent, for I assure you that his interests, if he would only see
      it, would be best served by taking me into his complete
      confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?”

      “Madam, what you ask me is really impossible.”

      She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

      “You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit
      to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has
      only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional
      secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it.
      It is him whom you must ask.”

      “I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without
      your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great
      service if you would enlighten me on one point.”

      “What is it, madam?”

      “Is my husband’s political career likely to suffer through this
      incident?”

      “Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
      unfortunate effect.”

      “Ah!” She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are
      resolved.

      “One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my
      husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood
      that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of
      this document.”

      “If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it.”

      “Of what nature are they?”

      “Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly
      answer.”

      “Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you,
      Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on
      your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I
      desire, even against his will, to share my husband’s anxieties.
      Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my visit.”

      She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression
      of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn
      mouth. Then she was gone.

      “Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with
      a smile, when the dwindling _frou-frou_ of skirts had ended in
      the slam of the front door. “What was the fair lady’s game? What
      did she really want?”

      “Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural.”

      “Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson—her manner, her suppressed
      excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions.
      Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show
      emotion.”

      “She was certainly much moved.”

      “Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us
      that it was best for her husband that she should know all. What
      did she mean by that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she
      manœuvred to have the light at her back. She did not wish us to
      read her expression.”

      “Yes, she chose the one chair in the room.”

      “And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember
      the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No
      powder on her nose—that proved to be the correct solution. How
      can you build on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may
      mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon
      a hairpin or a curling tongs. Good-morning, Watson.”

      “You are off?”

      “Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
      friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the
      solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an
      inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake to
      theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good
      Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I’ll join you at lunch if
      I am able.”

      All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which
      his friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out
      and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin,
      sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and
      hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him. It was
      evident to me that things were not going well with him or his
      quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the
      papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the
      arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of
      the deceased. The coroner’s jury brought in the obvious Wilful
      Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive
      was suggested. The room was full of articles of value, but none
      had been taken. The dead man’s papers had not been tampered with.
      They were carefully examined, and showed that he was a keen
      student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a
      remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer. He had been
      on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several
      countries. But nothing sensational was discovered among the
      documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
      women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He
      had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one
      whom he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive.
      His death was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.

      As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of
      despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could
      be sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith
      that night. The _alibi_ was complete. It is true that he started
      home at an hour which should have brought him to Westminster
      before the time when the crime was discovered, but his own
      explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed probable
      enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had actually
      arrived at twelve o’clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the
      unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his
      master. Several of the dead man’s possessions—notably a small
      case of razors—had been found in the valet’s boxes, but he
      explained that they had been presents from the deceased, and the
      housekeeper was able to corroborate the story. Mitton had been in
      Lucas’s employment for three years. It was noticeable that Lucas
      did not take Mitton on the Continent with him. Sometimes he
      visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was left in
      charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper, she
      had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a
      visitor he had himself admitted him.

      So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could
      follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own
      counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him
      into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close
      touch with every development. Upon the fourth day there appeared
      a long telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the whole
      question.

      A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police (said the
      _Daily Telegraph_) which raises the veil which hung round the
      tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence
      last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers
      will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in
      his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but that
      the case broke down on an _alibi_. Yesterday a lady, who has been
      known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in the Rue
      Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as
      being insane. An examination showed she had indeed developed
      mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On inquiry, the police
      have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only returned from a
      journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is evidence to
      connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison of
      photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and
      Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the
      deceased had for some reason lived a double life in London and
      Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely
      excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of
      jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it
      was in one of these that she committed the terrible crime which
      has caused such a sensation in London. Her movements upon the
      Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a
      woman answering to her description attracted much attention at
      Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her
      appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
      therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or
      that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of
      her mind. At present she is unable to give any coherent account
      of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the
      reestablishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,
      who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours upon
      Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

      “What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the account aloud
      to him, while he finished his breakfast.

      “My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and paced up
      and down the room, “You are most long-suffering, but if I have
      told you nothing in the last three days, it is because there is
      nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris does not help us
      much.”

      “Surely it is final as regards the man’s death.”

      “The man’s death is a mere incident—a trivial episode—in
      comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document
      and save a European catastrophe. Only one important thing has
      happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has
      happened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, and it
      is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.
      Now, if this letter were loose—no, it _can’t_ be loose—but if it
      isn’t loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it held back?
      That’s the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it,
      indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the
      night when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him?
      If so, why is it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his
      carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How
      could I search for it without the French police having their
      suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law
      is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every man’s hand is
      against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. Should I
      bring it to a successful conclusion, it will certainly represent
      the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the
      front!” He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed
      in. “Halloa! Lestrade seems to have observed something of
      interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down
      together to Westminster.”

      It was my first visit to the scene of the crime—a high, dingy,
      narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century
      which gave it birth. Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at us
      from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big
      constable had opened the door and let us in. The room into which
      we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but
      no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain upon
      the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in the centre
      of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,
      old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished.
      Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of
      which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a
      sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the
      pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste
      which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

      “Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.

      Holmes nodded.

      “Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No
      doubt it’s just as they say. She knocked at the door—surprise
      visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight
      compartments—he let her in, couldn’t keep her in the street. She
      told him how she had traced him, reproached him. One thing led to
      another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It
      wasn’t all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all
      swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried
      to hold her off with it. We’ve got it all clear as if we had seen
      it.”

      Holmes raised his eyebrows.

      “And yet you have sent for me?”

      “Ah, yes, that’s another matter—a mere trifle, but the sort of
      thing you take an interest in—queer, you know, and what you might
      call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact—can’t
      have, on the face of it.”

      “What is it, then?”

      “Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful
      to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer
      in charge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried
      and the investigation over—so far as this room is concerned—we
      thought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not
      fastened down, only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it.
      We found——”

      “Yes? You found——”

      Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.

      “Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we
      did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal
      must have soaked through, must it not?”

      “Undoubtedly it must.”

      “Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on
      the white woodwork to correspond.”

      “No stain! But there must——”

      “Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn’t.”

      He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it
      over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

      “But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have left
      a mark.”

      Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous
      expert.

      “Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There _is_ a second stain,
      but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As
      he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there,
      sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white
      facing of the old-fashioned floor. “What do you make of that, Mr.
      Holmes?”

      “Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the
      carpet has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it
      was easily done.”

      “The official police don’t need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them
      that the carpet must have been turned round. That’s clear enough,
      for the stains lie above each other—if you lay it over this way.
      But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?”

      I could see from Holmes’s rigid face that he was vibrating with
      inward excitement.

      “Look here, Lestrade,” said he, “has that constable in the
      passage been in charge of the place all the time?”

      “Yes, he has.”

      “Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don’t do it before
      us. We’ll wait here. You take him into the back room. You’ll be
      more likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he
      dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don’t
      ask him if he has done it. Take it for granted. Tell him you
      _know_ someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full
      confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I
      tell you!”

      “By George, if he knows I’ll have it out of him!” cried Lestrade.
      He darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying
      voice sounded from the back room.

      “Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All the
      demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner
      burst out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the
      floor, and in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing
      at each of the squares of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as
      he dug his nails into the edge of it. It hinged back like the lid
      of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath it. Holmes plunged
      his eager hand into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl of
      anger and disappointment. It was empty.

      “Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!” The wooden lid was
      replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
      Lestrade’s voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes
      leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient,
      endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

      “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes, I can see that you are
      bored to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all
      right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your
      most inexcusable conduct.”

      The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

      “I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure. The young woman came to the door
      last evening—mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking.
      It’s lonesome, when you’re on duty here all day.”

      “Well, what happened then?”

      “She wanted to see where the crime was done—had read about it in
      the papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken
      young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep.
      When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the
      floor, and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the back and got
      some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I went round the
      corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had
      brought it back the young woman had recovered and was off—ashamed
      of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me.”

      “How about moving that drugget?”

      “Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back.
      You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with
      nothing to keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards.”

      “It’s a lesson to you that you can’t deceive me, Constable
      MacPherson,” said Lestrade, with dignity. “No doubt you thought
      that your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a
      mere glance at that drugget was enough to convince me that
      someone had been admitted to the room. It’s lucky for you, my
      man, that nothing is missing, or you would find yourself in Queer
      Street. I’m sorry to have called you down over such a petty
      business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain
      not corresponding with the first would interest you.”

      “Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been
      here once, constable?”

      “Yes, sir, only once.”

      “Who was she?”

      “Don’t know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
      typewriting and came to the wrong number—very pleasant, genteel
      young woman, sir.”

      “Tall? Handsome?”

      “Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might
      say she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very
      handsome. ‘Oh, officer, do let me have a peep!’ says she. She had
      pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought there was
      no harm in letting her just put her head through the door.”

      “How was she dressed?”

      “Quiet, sir—a long mantle down to her feet.”

      “What time was it?”

      “It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the
      lamps as I came back with the brandy.”

      “Very good,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, I think that we have
      more important work elsewhere.”

      As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while
      the repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes
      turned on the step and held up something in his hand. The
      constable stared intently.

      “Good Lord, sir!” he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes
      put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast
      pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street.
      “Excellent!” said he. “Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up
      for the last act. You will be relieved to hear that there will be
      no war, that the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no
      setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet Sovereign
      will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that the Prime
      Minister will have no European complication to deal with, and
      that with a little tact and management upon our part nobody will
      be a penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly
      incident.”

      My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

      “You have solved it!” I cried.

      “Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as
      ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we
      cannot get the rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and
      bring the matter to a head.”

      When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was
      for Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We
      were shown into the morning-room.

      “Mr. Holmes!” said the lady, and her face was pink with her
      indignation. “This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your
      part. I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a
      secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding into
      his affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and so
      showing that there are business relations between us.”

      “Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
      commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must
      therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my
      hands.”

      The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an
      instant from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed—she tottered—I
      thought that she would faint. Then with a grand effort she
      rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment and
      indignation chased every other expression from her features.

      “You—you insult me, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter.”

      She darted to the bell.

      “The butler shall show you out.”

      “Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts
      to avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all
      will be set right. If you will work with me I can arrange
      everything. If you work against me I must expose you.”

      She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon
      his as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell,
      but she had forborne to ring it.

      “You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.
      Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know
      something. What is it that you know?”

      “Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall.
      I will not speak until you sit down. Thank you.”

      “I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes.”

      “One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo
      Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious return
      to the room last night, and of the manner in which you took the
      letter from the hiding-place under the carpet.”

      She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she
      could speak.

      “You are mad, Mr. Holmes—you are mad!” she cried, at last.

      He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the
      face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

      “I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said
      he. “The policeman has recognized it.”

      She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

      “Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be
      adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends
      when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my
      advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance.”

      Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.

      “I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd
      illusion.”

      Holmes rose from his chair.

      “I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I
      can see that it is all in vain.”

      He rang the bell. The butler entered.

      “Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”

      “He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.”

      Holmes glanced at his watch.

      “Still a quarter of an hour,” said he. “Very good, I shall wait.”

      The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda
      was down on her knees at Holmes’s feet, her hands outstretched,
      her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

      “Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of
      supplication. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell him! I love him so!
      I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would
      break his noble heart.”

      Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful, madam, that you have come
      to your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant
      to lose. Where is the letter?”

      She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a
      long blue envelope.

      “Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen it!”

      “How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick, quick, we must
      think of some way! Where is the despatch-box?”

      “Still in his bedroom.”

      “What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!” A moment
      later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

      “How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of
      course you have. Open it!”

      From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box
      flew open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue
      envelope deep down into the heart of them, between the leaves of
      some other document. The box was shut, locked, and returned to
      the bedroom.

      “Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes. “We have still ten
      minutes. I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you
      will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of
      this extraordinary affair.”

      “Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried the lady. “Oh,
      Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a
      moment of sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her
      husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted—how I have
      been compelled to act—he would never forgive me. For his own
      honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse
      in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness, his happiness, our
      very lives are at stake!”

      “Quick, madam, the time grows short!”

      “It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter
      written before my marriage—a foolish letter, a letter of an
      impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have
      thought it criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence would
      have been forever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had
      thought that the whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard
      from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands, and that
      he would lay it before my husband. I implored his mercy. He said
      that he would return my letter if I would bring him a certain
      document which he described in my husband’s despatch-box. He had
      some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He
      assured me that no harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in
      my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to do?”

      “Take your husband into your confidence.”

      “I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed
      certain ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my
      husband’s paper, still in a matter of politics I could not
      understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust
      they were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an
      impression of his key. This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate. I
      opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and conveyed it to
      Godolphin Street.”

      “What happened there, madam?”

      “I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him
      into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared
      to be alone with the man. I remember that there was a woman
      outside as I entered. Our business was soon done. He had my
      letter on his desk, I handed him the document. He gave me the
      letter. At this instant there was a sound at the door. There were
      steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned back the drugget,
      thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and covered it
      over.

      “What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a
      vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman’s voice, which
      screamed in French, ‘My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last
      I have found you with her!’ There was a savage struggle. I saw
      him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed
      from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next
      morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That night
      I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the
      future would bring.

      “It was the next morning that I realized that I had only
      exchanged one trouble for another. My husband’s anguish at the
      loss of his paper went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself
      from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling him
      what I had done. But that again would mean a confession of the
      past. I came to you that morning in order to understand the full
      enormity of my offence. From the instant that I grasped it my
      whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my
      husband’s paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for
      it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If
      it had not been for her coming, I should not have known where his
      hiding-place was. How was I to get into the room? For two days I
      watched the place, but the door was never left open. Last night I
      made a last attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you have
      already learned. I brought the paper back with me, and thought of
      destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it without
      confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step upon
      the stair!”

      The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. “Any news,
      Mr. Holmes, any news?” he cried.

      “I have some hopes.”

      “Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant. “The Prime Minister
      is lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of
      steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this
      terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come
      up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics. We
      will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room.”

      The Prime Minister’s manner was subdued, but I could see by the
      gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he
      shared the excitement of his young colleague.

      “I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?”

      “Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I have inquired at
      every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no
      danger to be apprehended.”

      “But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on
      such a volcano. We must have something definite.”

      “I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I
      think of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has
      never left this house.”

      “Mr. Holmes!”

      “If it had it would certainly have been public by now.”

      “But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?”

      “I am not convinced that anyone did take it.”

      “Then how could it leave the despatch-box?”

      “I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box.”

      “Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance
      that it left the box.”

      “Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?”

      “No. It was not necessary.”

      “You may conceivably have overlooked it.”

      “Impossible, I say.”

      “But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to
      happen. I presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have
      got mixed with them.”

      “It was on the top.”

      “Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it.”

      “No, no, I had everything out.”

      “Surely it is easily decided, Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us
      have the despatch-box brought in.”

      The Secretary rang the bell.

      “Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of
      time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be
      done. Thank you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the key
      on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord
      Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade,
      note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note
      from Lord Flowers——Good heavens! what is this? Lord Bellinger!
      Lord Bellinger!”

      The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

      “Yes, it is it—and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate
      you.”

      “Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
      inconceivable—impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a
      sorcerer! How did you know it was there?”

      “Because I knew it was nowhere else.”

      “I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to the door. “Where is
      my wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!” we
      heard his voice on the stairs.

      The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

      “Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this than meets the eye.
      How came the letter back in the box?”

      Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those
      wonderful eyes.

      “We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he and, picking up
      his hat, he turned to the door.

      THE END
    





