and Roger Squires






THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

By 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                   Vol. 26  OCTOBER, 1903
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




I.--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 have done 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withdrawn upon the third of last month.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 wilful 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 had 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 bank-notes
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, it would indeed be a remarkable shot who could with a
revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented
thoroughfare, and 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 water-pipe 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 arm.

“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 am 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 frock-coat 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 co-operation, 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 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. This 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 upwards, 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 Llama. 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 Montpelier, 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 arm-chair 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
forwards 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 our little adventures? 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 recognised 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 recognised 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 upwards.

“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-block. 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 fore
sight. 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 30th 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 preserved 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 air-gun. 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 frock-coat, 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 aright, 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 Bengalore 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                   Vol. 26  NOVEMBER, 1903
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.





II.--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's, 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, to 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, dishevelled, 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
recognise 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 gaol 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 head-lines 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 backwards and
forwards 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 endorsed
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 me the paragraph in
question?”

Underneath the vigorous head-lines 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
amassed 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 finger-tips 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 recognise 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 note-book, 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 senses 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 razor-like 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 clear? 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 all
this not 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 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 frock-coat,
“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 black-guard. 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 a 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 note-book. 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 made 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 Oldacre's 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 discolorations, 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 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 cheques 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 cheques. 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 to-day.”

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 cocksure, 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 gaol 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 attics. 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 new-comer 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 eyelashes.

“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 dare say 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 awaiting 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 cheques to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I
imagine, himself under another name. I have not traced these cheques
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 dare say 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                   Vol. 26  DECEMBER, 1903
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




III.--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 goldfields.”

“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
cheque-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 note-book. The markings were done in pencil, and ran
in this way:--

GRAPHIC

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

“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 Ridling 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 sun-dial 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 look-out, 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 note-book
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 arm-chair. “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 dare say I did
it clumsily, and scared her off 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:--

GRAPHIC

“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”:--

GRAPHIC

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 sun-dial. 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:--

GRAPHIC

“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 dare say 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 to-morrow, 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 sun-dial. He inclosed a
copy of it, which is here reproduced:--

GRAPHIC

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 Ridling 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 Ridling Thorpe Manor,” said he, “but we have heard
nothing of what has passed there.”

“It's a terrible business,” said the station-master. “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 country-side 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
Ridling 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
sun-dial 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 ensure 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 backwards, 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 has 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
hand-bag 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, and 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 ensure 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,
Elrige's 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 gaol.
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 fore-runners 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 recognised, 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 XXX.

“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 XXX
stand respectively for N, V, and 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 to 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 the 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 to 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
forwards 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:--

GRAPHIC

“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 note-book. 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                    Vol. 27  JANUARY, 1904
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




IV.--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 circumstances
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 note-book 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-end, Watson, which is common to both professions? There
is a spirituality about the face, however”--he 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 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 would 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 he
swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr. Carruthers
came in and tore him off 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 towards 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 has 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, as 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 MENAGE 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 few 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
athletic young lady's 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 back-hander 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 inconclusive 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 had 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 country-side 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 had 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 onwards 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 am 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 hellhound 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
note-book. “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 girl, 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 a 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 these 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 recognise
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 we 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 home-made
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 recognised 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 cast padre here. I
found that they had set up house-keeping 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
to you 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 manuscripts 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 and 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                   Vol. 27  FEBRUARY, 1904
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




V.--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 hearthrug.

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
ensure 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
encyclopaedia 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 cheque 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 entrusted their sons to me. But I felt that
my school had reached its zenith when, three weeks ago, the Duke of
Holdernesse sent Mr. James Wilder, his secretary, with the 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 home-sickness 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 note-book 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.

GRAPHIC

“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 country 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 upwards.
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
ramble 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
homewards, 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 tyres. This, as you
perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer cover. Heidegger's
tyres 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 tyre 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 tyre.

“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 tyres 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 tyre 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 tyre 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-tyred, 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 night-shirt 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 tyre, 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
footmarks.”

“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 wit's 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 onwards 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 tyre 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 his 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 bread-crumbs 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 tyre. 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 half 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 to 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 cheque-book upon the table,” said he.
“I should be glad if you would make me out a cheque 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
cheque.”

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 besides your friend know?”

“I have spoken to no one.”

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

“I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to write your
cheque, 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 and complete 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 surprised 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 for ever 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 cheque and placed it carefully in his note-book.
“I am a poor man,” said he, as he patted it affectionately and thrust it
into the depths of his inner pocket.


*****


                     THE STRAND MAGAZINE
                     Vol. 27  MARCH, 1904
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




VI.--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 recognised 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 wit's 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 seal-skin--and he 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 sketch 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 his 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 forwards 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 log-books 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 upwards 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 seal-skin--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 note-book. 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
note-book, 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 note-book 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 log-books
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 Hopkins'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 re-lit, 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 have reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our
amazement. I spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after
many doublings 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
log-books 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 log-books, 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 note-book, 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 very 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 for ever.”

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
note-book 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 anaemic 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 a 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 an 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 a 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 note-book
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 seal-skin 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 for ever. 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                     Vol. 27  APRIL, 1904
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




VII.--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,
            AGENT.              HAMPSTEAD.

“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 or 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 Brackwell, the most beautiful DEBUTANTE 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 astrachan 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,
golden-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 astrachan coat.

Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

“Wait a little,” he said. “You go too fast. We would 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
pocket-book. “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 note-book.”

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 note-book 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 am 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 wide 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 pocket-book--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 beside 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 the 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 FIANCEE--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
PORTIERE 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 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 backwards and forwards,
backwards and forwards, 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've 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 note 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 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 ground 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
glass-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 foot-marks, 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. “Why, it might be a
description of Watson!”

“It's true,” said the inspector, with much amusement. “It might be a
description of Watson.”

“Well, I am 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                     Vol. 27  MAY, 1904
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




VIII.--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 head-quarters. 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 note-book 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 'idee 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 'idee 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 'idee 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
developments 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 snap-shot 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 from 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 he
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 after noon, 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
and 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 have 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 to get 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 and Co., of Stepney,
the source and origin of 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 to 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 dare say he could tell you where he is.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin--not a word, I beg
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 to 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 and Co., of
Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I dare say 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 dare say
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'll 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 gaol--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 and 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 out 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 and 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 and 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                       Vol. 27  JUNE, 1904
                 THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                      By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




IX.--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 to exactly
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 the 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 scrap-books, 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'
ends, 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 recognised 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
recognised 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's 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
mediaeval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with
one of them that he insisted on drawing it on his note-book, 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.
“To-morrow'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 consequence 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 arm-chair 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 shrunk 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                     Vol. 28  JULY, 1904
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE




X.--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 unite 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 kerb. 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 recognising 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 on 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 three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at five, 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, hardworking 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 free 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 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, I studied it
over his shoulder.

GRAPHIC

“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 forwards, 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 are 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, or 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 dare say 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, for 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 also was stained
yellow with nicotine.

“A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he, speaking 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 paralyzing. 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 foundations 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 eye-glasses?”

“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 eye-glasses, 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 arm-chair 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 that 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
recognised 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 overmastering 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
for ever 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
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 papers and was locking the cupboard when the young
man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met me in
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 seriously consider 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 head-quarters, no doubt. I
think, Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy.”


*****


                     THE STRAND MAGAZINE
                     Vol. 28  AUGUST, 1904
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




XI.--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 post-mark 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 dare say, 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, of 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 touch-line. 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 Scot!” 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 naive 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 this 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 working man. 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:--

GRAPHIC

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:--

GRAPHIC

“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 dare say it may have come to your notice that if
you walk into a post-office and demand to see the 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 note-books, 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 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 note-book. “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 post-office 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 turned 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 more 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 DETOUR has been entirely for our benefit, then?” said Holmes. “No
wonder that my inquiries among those villages 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
onwards. 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 we 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 co-operation 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 a 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                   Vol. 28  SEPTEMBER, 1904
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




XII.--The Adventure of the Abbey Grange.


It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning during 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 it 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
text-book 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 Chislehurst 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 was hung 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 the hideous business of last
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--Heaven 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 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-room table. I
was so firmly bound that I could not move, and a handkerchief round my
mouth prevented me from uttering any 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 his shirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn
cudgel in his hand. He rushed at one of the burglars, but another--it
was the elderly man--stooped, picked the poker out of the grate, and
struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell without a groan, and
never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only have
been 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 still 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 farther 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, over-hanging 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 tiger-skin 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 night-shirt, 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 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 recognise the description.”

“Exactly. One would have expected that they would have silenced 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 on 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 own 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 bees-wing. 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 cork-screw.

“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 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 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 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 would have
shown had we approached the case DE NOVO and had no cut-and-dried story
to warp my mind, would 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 Chislehurst 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 it 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 is
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
wine-glasses.”

“What about the wine-glasses?”

“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 bees-wing 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 bees-wing.”

“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 bees-wing. 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 bees-wing 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 Chislehurst train.”

The household of the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our return, but
Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had gone off to report to
head-quarters, 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 formed 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, but all else remained as we had seen it in the morning. Then,
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 awhile, 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 for
ever 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 hat-pin. The sly fiend--Heaven forgive me that I
should speak of him so, now that he is dead, but a fiend 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 which 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 on her way to Australia, somewhere to
the south of the Suez Canal. Her officers were the same as in '95,
with one exception. The first officer, Mr. Jack Croker, 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 re-entered 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 set-back.”

“A set-back?”

“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 Croker. You got my telegram?”

Our visitor sank into an arm-chair 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 Croker, 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 for ever.”

The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his great,
sun-burned 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. Curse 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 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 that I loved. Well,
gentlemen, I was standing with her just inside the window, in all
innocence, as Heaven 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 the 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 a 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 Croker, 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 had 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 Croker, 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 Croker. 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 STRAND MAGAZINE
                   Vol. 28  DECEMBER, 1904
                THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
                    By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.




XIII.--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 I 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 housemaid 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, sir,” 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 head-quarters 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
onwards 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
wide-spread 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 hope 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 manoeuvred 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 wile 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 counsel 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 that
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 re-establishment of her reason. There
is evidence that a woman, who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen
for some hours on 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 underside 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 dare say, 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
type-writing, 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 set-back 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 recognised 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 out-stretched, 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 for ever 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 for ever 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.




